Saturday, May 2, 2009

Invasion Of The Irish Fiddlers.


Natalie's having one of her occasional Irish Fiddle weekends. She's brought a really good player/instructor (and family friend) over from Melbourne, and invited...umm... a lot of fiddle players for the event.

Normally I'm pretty good with this sort of thing. Unfortunately, I'm coming off a long and annoying cold I inherited from Younger Son, and a week of rather shoddy sleep, and dammit, I'm a little tired. So. Today I've done the shopping, run the pump, laundered, wrangled kids (there's my three. And the fiddle instructor's son. And several others of whose ownership I'm uncertain), prepped lunches... I've made twelve litres or so of spicy pumpkin soup complete with sour cream, chopped chives and coriander, and bacon bits. I've also made two full-size loaves of cheese and onion bread to go with the soup, and I've got a stand-by plan of cous-cous with prawns and coriander if they're still hungry later. Oh, and custard and fruit if need be, yep.

I've also prepped for a massive bonfire, to burn off the huge heap of old timber, dead furnishings, tree-cuttings and stuff that's piled up over the last year. And of course, I wrangled kids even more.

Now there's something like a dozen fiddlers outside my study. And there are kids who need to be prepped for bed, including the whole bath, toothbrush, pyjama thing. And it seems that the Mau-Mau will be sleeping upstairs with us tonight because an entire family of fiddlers will occupy her room. A couple more will apparently be on the lounge room floor. I think the Cinema Shed will hold a half-dozen or so... there's plenty of mattress space there, anyhow. Mr Fiddle Instructor has already been here two nights in the guest room, with his son, so that space is full up.

I do like a good evening of Irish music with drinks and the rest... but I'm definitely running out of energy here. Still, I suppose I can post something for the occasion...

What follows is a set of lyrics. I've got a melody for it, but I'm damned if I can be bothered trying to transcribe it for Blog, so you can make up your own if you like. Anyway, the song is called "Paddy's Day At Dooley's" and it's written in honour of that long succession of St Patrick's Day near-riots I attended at Dooley's Pub in Brisbane through the nineties. Happy days!

Paddy's Day At Dooley's

A world away from Dublin there’s a land of dust and sun
From all the corners of the earth its wild people come
It’s a land with little history, where people can be free
Their wars and grief behind them, once they come across the sea
But there is one certain thing that all of them hold dear
A special day for everyone that comes but once a year
It’s a mighty celebration, and this I tell you truly:
That everybody’s Irish, on Paddy’s day at Dooley’s!

It’s a little green pub in a big dry town
With booze and girls and music and lots of tasty grub
It brings the plastic Paddies for a hundred miles around
Because everybody’s Irish at Dooley’s Pub!

Well I met with Paddy Johnson and we stepped up to the bar
While the band struck up a chorus of “Whiskey In The Jar”
We may have had a Guinness, or maybe we had ten
And when we’d drunk the glasses dry they lined them up again!
Then Paddy Schwarzenegger went to show ‘em how to dance
With his hands down by his sides he did the Michael Flatley prance
And when the barmaid laughed at him, he said to her quite coolly:
“Eff-ree buttee’s Irish, un Patty’s dey ut Tooley’s”

There was Paddy Shostakovich playing fiddle in rare form
And Paddy Van Den Hoogenbande was singing up a storm
They were making such a racket that the band put down their gear
And started drinking Guinness, and whiskey shots and beer.
Paddy Hideyoshi, he could play the spoons right well
And Paddy Ramasita joined right in with a yell
Paddy Krasnic cried “Begorra” though he didn’t really fool me —
Still, everybody’s Irish, on Paddy’s day at Dooley’s!

The party picked up steam when Paddy Strauss came in
Picked up a wooden table, and walloped Paddy Chin
So Paddy Depardieu stepped up and kicked him in the balls
Then Paddy Jones grabbed Paddy Smith and tossed him through a wall
The fun had barely started when I heard somebody shout
"Paddy Wagon is outside and the cops are getting out!"
“I’m sure they’ll understand,” says I, “For though we’ve been unruly,
Sure everybody’s Irish on Paddy’s day at Dooley’s!”

The battle raged down Brunswick Street into the Valley Mall
Then about a million cops arrived to arrest us one and all
They took us to the watch-house but we filled up all the cells
So they stuck us in the courthouse and the city hall as well.
Then the coppers took the stand and called us a bunch of louts
But the judge banged down his gavel, and he threw the charges out
“They’re innocent,” said he, “For under section thirty-four a, paragraph 12, clause eight of Finkelstein versus O’Donaghue in a judgement handed down by the Right Honourable William de Bleriot with regard to matters of affray and other infringements on public order while under the influence of intoxicants and participating in completely unwarranted celebrations relevant to a culture which has little or no connection to that of the defendant, the law says quite truly:
That everybody’s Irish on Paddy’s Day at Dooleys!

Now... does anybody know the number of a pest control firm specialising in Irish fiddlers?


  1. OH boy. st patricks day at dooleys I thought i recognized you from somewhere :-). all i rememember about st patricks day at dooleys is... a blurry haze. a blurry haze consisting of people with green facepaint. I know i was there several times. I can't remember ever getting there or leaving. I think 1 year i had an issue with a portaloo.

  2. Rule 303 may apply but you may break the noise ordinance.

  3. Hey, Uamada -- that's a freakishly accurate description of a true Dooley's Paddy-Day Debauch. We probably did meet. You weren't the lass who taught me to vomit in Gaelic, were you?

  4. Sig, winchester, Browning, lanber or my fav..Remington and not the bloody shaver.

    Mate with ya..the colds a fucker and lingers and shit does not get done by itself. Best O Luck...

  5. Damn ... you get the husband of the decade award. How the hell do you do these things?

    P.S. Sounds like a really cool time.

  6. Automatic weapons. Preferably belt fed. Fucken.

  7. Damn crazy Irish Fiddlers. I'm prolly related to 'em.

  8. 22 SAS regiment, motto "Irish are our speciality'

  9. Hmmm. I have a nasty thought of a traditional Irish hangover with a dozen fiddles being fiddled. No, surely they wouldn't do that.
    That song would have a ripping film clip.