Bungling bodhránists and a chronic outbreak of spoons
I have declared a vendetta against spoons. It's either them or me. Yesterday was the last day of the Munster Fleadh Cheoil here in Listowel. The finest of Irish traditional music would wear the soles of your shoes from the tapping and the dancing. For the most part.
But if one more lad comes into the pub and takes up a seat for himself, and another one for his giant rucksack, and he doesn't buy a drink and he plays the spoons like a stuck CD track, with his eyes closed, I'll sell the frigging place. I will.
There was this spoonist who was in several times over the weekend and he asked me for the loan of a pair of spoons. We haven't a soup spoon or a dessert spoon left after them. I'd say there are lads going around the place pretending to be spoons players and they are really scrap metal merchants. I'll bet they have a big lorry parked outside towns like Milltown Malbay for Willie Week. That's the Willie Clancy Summer School. Which reminds us of the story of the man who tried to pay a compliment to a woman fiddler playing at the famous West Clare festival.