Mick O'Toole and Alec O'Leary last week came in looking for publicity for the current Dublin Guitar Festival, the largest in the world.
"Good day, gentlemen," I carolled heartily. "Take a seat, take a seat. Now, first things first," I continued, reaching for my goose-quill and inkpot.
"The heart and soul of all good journalism is names. Names first, names middle and names last, and the key to the names business is getting the spelling right.
"Fortunately, I know one of you well, so, Nick, we don't need to worry too much about your name." "It's not Nick," he said. "It's Mick." "Mick? Not Nick? Are you sure? You see, I've already written your name down. Look - there it is: Nick! No matter. It's a simple matter to change it from Nick to Mick. There! Easy as pie. Now Mick O'Flynn, why did you start this guitar festival?" An icy pause followed. "It's not Mick O'Flynn. It's Mick O'Toole. As in Micheál Ó Tuathail, Michael of the mighty people. Which is quite different from Micheál Ó Floinn, Michael of the ruddiness. Quite different." My quill was burning holes in the parchment taking all this down.
"Excellent!" I cried as I finished scribbling my note-taking. "So. You are Mick Ruddy, is that right?" Michael shook his head, and inhaled deeply a couple of times. "Look. Forget the Irish. I'm sorry I confused you by mentioning the Irish. I know it's not your strong point. Just forget it all, all right?" "Absolutely!" I agreed enthusiastically. "We'll ditch the Irish. So, confining ourselves to you for the moment, you are Michael O'Flaherty, first and original begetter of the Dublin Film Festival." He stifled a small sob, and shook his head. "No, no, no. Guitar, not Film.
"Look. How many years have you known me - what, 10 or so? Isn't that right? Or even more? You've written about me before. And my wife, Dawn Kenny, the singer. We were at your wedding. You remember that?" "Certainly I do! Eve Kelly. A fine girl. How is she? Is she well? Still singing, I hope." A strange haunted look came into Michael's face, and he visibly doubled in age before my eyes. He rose, shook his head, and said: "I'm going for some air. I may be some time." "As you please," I replied cheerfully. "Now Alan, tell me how you and Rick began the largest guitar festival in the world." The fellow I was talking to - it wasn't Nick because he'd gone for some hair - at this point shed a tear. "Can I ask you something, please? Please? And if I do, will you listen? Will you? I mean, listen properly.
"We've John Williams and Richard Harvey playing, and Tommy Emmanuel on steel guitar." "Gotcha! Richard Williams and John Emmanuel - and what, Tommy Steele as well? Still playing, is he? Phew. He goes back a bit: he must be getting on by this time. Well, that's showbiz for you: keeps you young. Now. Anyone else come to mind, Andy?" He uttered a small sob, and then smiled bravely through the tears. "It's not Alan or Andrew or Arthur or Aylward or Acton or Abraham or Ahab. It is Alec. A L E C. Alec. Say that please. You see last week you called me Eric.
"Repeatedly. Now I want you to give me my proper name. Alec." "Very well," I said pleasantly. "Eric." There was a long silence, and a sort of strangled choking noise appeared to be escaping from abaft the other fellow's tonsils. "Alec," he spluttered at last, with a curious noise rather resembling a death-rattle. "Alec. Say it. Alec." "Anything to oblige. Aleck." Flames flickered from his nostrils, and his hands began to twitch, rather ominously, I thought. "No," he said. "No K. Please, please please, it's terribly simple. Just drop the phuqqing K."
"Very well," I said, in my customary smiling way, instantly sensitive to their differing feelings over the eleventh letter of the alphabet. "No K it is. So, Mic O'Leary, what made you start the Dublin Guitar Festival, which is now the largest in the world?"
I would have said that he rose with a firm-set face, but that would be paltering with the truth.
In reality, though for the most part his face did indeed have a certain grey, rigid quality to it, his left eyebrow seemed to have developed an alarming tic - but hold on: with these chaps' sensitivities, should that be tick? - as if caught on a fly-fisherman's hook. I was about to comment on it, but just then his companion returned.
"Ah Dic O'Celly, as I live and breathe!" I cried welcomingly.
I hope this explains why I spent the other night in Tallaght Hospital getting a guitar surgically removed.
Wide things, guitars. I mean, wider than you'd think. In the right place, they can bring a full and plenteous tear to the eye.
So other hands will be holding the fort till next week, as Aleck O'Leary and Mic O'Toole's Guitar Festival continues to hold the capital in thrall.