DRIVING TO Kilkenny, I listen gloomily to Tina Weymouth's band murder the backing vocals to Lou Reed's 'Femme Fatale'. Being Americans they favour "Fem fay tal" over "Fam fat al". "I guess they must've played for Noter Daym," sneers my driver. All along the route those big green posters of Bertie frowning real hard as he letters out his pesky name, flap in the summer wind, drip in the summer rain. For someone the temptation to superimpose a protruding tongue and beads of perspiration flying from his brow has happily proved insuperable. Now Kilkenny hoves into view.
* * * * *
Step one: acquire pass for Festival late drinking in hotel. This is easy, as it turns out I know the girl giving them out. They're purple plastic adjustable wristbands. Once snapped on they are non-removable and therefore unloseable. I snap mine shut before putting it on and so lose it almost at once. But I get in anyway, forming one unit of the assembled journalists, photographers, stand-ups and losers milling around the bar ordering Guinness and suddenly remembering it's a Murphy's gig. I tell a comedian how much I admire his routine. He says good, because he'll be doing it on Sunday.
* * * * *
Sunday it rains. At eleven in the morning I shiver in the near deserted main street, staring from a doorway at animals painted on the butcher's shop opposite. A pig's disembodied gaze meets mine, the pastel nimbus enhaloeing its martyr's smile, suggestive of the school of Grunewald. Vivian Stanshall's timeless insight "A stuffed pig makes a handsome lampshade" drifts across the stout-shattered consciousness. (I said "Gonzo journalism" not "Bonzo", Ed.)
Items listed for sale - "PORK, LAMB, BEEF, BACON" - reform in the blurred mind's eye. A Kafka nightmare begins unfolding. KROP and BLAM, clearly authority figures in some future dystopia, set up the loser FEEB who tries vainly to elude them, but can find NO CAB when he needs one. Hell's teeth, do I need a dare of the hog?
* * * * *
"Get up owa tha', ye gummy fuck." The speaker was a freckle-faced youngster from our nation's capital holidaying with 14 of his chums, occupying the long seat behind my barstool in the otherwise civilised drinking spot I had selected for my cure. As I leafed through a lively demolition of Lennon's boys, my companions kept up an equally lively discussion of the famous girls in their tabloids of choice. "Kate Moss - top ride," observed one. "She'd be my last choice of a supermodel. She's no tits," ventured a second. While a third opined: "Give me Kylie. Or the sister." Pausing only to absorb a pint of cider (through his nose if the sound effect was anything to go by) he added, "Dey're gettin' better all de time. Like a fine wine."
"Any hamburger shots?" enquired a fourth, snatching the virgin issue of Irish Penthouse from a companion.
"I think," I murmured, "therefore I leave."
* * * * *
In the pound shop I resist the fridge magnets for the CD rack. I buy Benny Hill's greatest hits. Hill is so young on the cover he looks like Paul Merton (whose shows are all booked out). I remember I have to get Paul to sign my copy of his autobiography.
The sun has come out. Buskers busk, pub bands blare, hippies sell velvet toppers and nose rings, naff puppets are produced, everyone swills pints, motor traffic effectively ceases. In the sixth bar, a 20-minute version of Mrs. Rotten's little lad's greatest hit cures my hangover and sends me, head reeling from feedback, into the sun again.
Hours later the club is in full swing. Mrs. Doyle and I discuss ways of getting shite out of carpets. A man with a "Guns And Shamrocks" tee-shirt asks me am I Luka Bloom or wha? "Wha?" I shoot back. "He's what I'd call a early ejaculator," a girl nearby shouts. "Hands up anyone that slept under a tree last night." I catch my reflection in Mark Lamarr's shades. The barman spills a pint on me.
Paul Merton appears. "There you are," I say, swaying somewhat. "I'm afraid I left the book in the car. And I seem to have lost the driver."
"What book?" he shoots back. And of course this is not a bad comeback, considering he's never seen me before in his life.
Later I meet the tall comedian and say how much I enjoyed his gig, which surprises my driver who has turned up and wishes to know how I could have, as I was asleep all through it.
And so the long night wore on.
* * * * *
It is 5am. "Who am I?" I ask. Then I know that I am FEEB. I must be. For I can find NO CAB. n