An evening in The Golden Eagle ...

Spike, the master of vinyl, donned his illuminated pickelhaube just before midnight - he darted back and forth around his decks, flourishing iconic 45s - 

Richard and I made our way to the bar, easing our way past tipsy bravos, grave gaffers, loud boys and edgy sirens - we were served our pints of Okells by the imperturbable youth -

I survived a visit to the gents - the skills honed in Glengariff were put to good use - 

Won't get fooled again pealed joyously from the pulsing speakers - we danced imperceptibly -

To my chargrin, Spike did not ignite an aerosol can - 

Later, Richard read me the best poem he'd ever written -