As with every edition of The Irish Lad and Ballbag thus far, it takes the occurrence of a particular event or occasion to spur the literary cogs into reporting upon said occurrence. In the past, it has been tremendous trips to London, or incident-filled camping escapades, or lad-heavy treks to major European festivals that have provided the inspiration. The events which have led to this publication can, at most generous, be described as odd. Read on, but I warn you, what follows is an account of unfairness and narrow-minded blindness that may shock even the more soulfully rich amongst you.

According to the advertisements in local rag The Nationalist, and numerous posters and flyers distributed around the town, gym slip.... (or "Jim's Slip", "Jym Slip", or "Gymslip", depending on whose illiteracy you chose to mock) were due to perform at The Castle Inn – formerly Alcock's – on Saturday, November 27th. With Tri-Kaya, Sugar Fix and elusive d.j. def ME in support. Being well versed in the knowledge of just how easily things can go wrong in these situations, gym slip... behaved in a most preparatory manner, remaining in contact with Soundwaves Promotions, the people responsible for booking them, and also paying a visit to the venue on the Tuesday before the gig. Some communication breakdown between venue and promoter led to a misunderstanding regarding the number of bands due to play, which was rectified by both Johnny and Murt. When asked what type of music all 3 bands played, Murt forwarded the information "punk, rock and a bit of funk". (Not the best descriptions in the world, but hey, it was like trying to explain the value of a comb to a bald man). This conversation never actually happened, according to the barman some five days later. When pushed, Johnny managed to confirm that he was under the impression that it had taken place. There are many possible explanations for this anomaly – perhaps Johnny and Murt had the same dream at the same time? Regardless, five days before the gig was due to take place, the manager of the establishment was all smiles & welcoming arms. All was just super.

As gig day dawned, all three bands began their descent upon the venue. A p.a. was hired from Mr. Michael Foley, and the £35 fee paid upfront. The equipment was assembled, and backdrops and posters were draped over amps. gym slip... ambled on stage to soundcheck, and ran through ace new tune "Fudge". Tri-Kaya then took over, but were cut short by a visit from the not-smiling-now manager, who declared that there would be no gig that night. gym slip... were too loud : just like Manowar. To mass bemusement, he alleged that gym slip... were reportedly a country and western band. MOR bands were all that he was interested in. (With a Robbie Williams tribute band, and a four-date Battle Of The Bands booked for the following weeks – not too many fucking MOR acts in that lot). What followed was a glorious display of downright unreasonable rigidness. In his role as calm negotiator, Murt attempted to navigate the rapids, attempting one failed attack plan after another. Soundwaves Promotions were contacted, and were sympathetic, but unable to stem the tide of hostility. gym slip... were labelled a ska band, and informed that it was not music that they were pedalling. So that's where they've been going wrong all along. Not to be outdone, the manager's son labelled them death metal. Ahem. The next time Spithead and Brujeria are in town, we'll introduce them to the Castle Inn. Further brilliant lies followed – gym slip... were supposedly a young, covers band. (If it's covers you want, here's "Troops Of Doom"...). Soundwaves confirmed that not once had "gym slip..." and "country and western" been passed in the same sentence. Finally, the band were informed once more by the charming staff that they didn't play music, and were, in fact, shite. Which, happily, is merely the opinion of two individuals. We could offer a couple of our own damning opinions at this point, but we're bigger than that. This, however, came as a huge shock to gym slip..., who were hoping to sell some demos and t-shirts to the manager and his son. The bands were also refused the opportunity to move the gig away from the precious pub, into the gloomy surrounds of the downstairs storeroom – the traditional venue of years gone by – damn, the old owners were so much nicer. Another valued statement concerned gym slip... and their "shite" music, and the alleged fact that no pub in Carlow, or indeed Ireland, would let them perform. Evidently Cisco's, Ιigse, Ennis's, Fibber's, Eamon Doran's, O'Dwyer's, the Hurling Club, Maynooth S.U., Metroland, Charlie's, Anderson's, The Cave et al fail to exist in Cuckoo fucking Land. Having established that the gig would not be taking place – and it was hard to avoid this fact, repeated as it was every five fucking seconds, interrupting whichever one of the lads was attempting to reason at the time (the phrase "pissing in the wind" springs to mind...) – the summit moved on the subject of cash. Already out of pocket thanks to the p.a. which would not be used, not to mention the loss of revenue from the door, and the expense incurred by Tri-Kaya in travelling from the 'Rothery, the band's accountancy problems spiralled. Rough quote : "I don't care about a p.a., I don't care about Dublin, I don't care about your money, it's not my problem". This happy dance continued for quite some time – more wind pissing games. The manager alleged that there was no contract, a point disputed by Dave. "Sue me". You know, that's not such a bad idea.

The fact that the lads remained in calm control until the very end of this long ring of bullshit is a glowing tribute. To their ability to function in the very face of ignorance. Certain points cannot be argued – gym slip... are an acquired taste (what was it again – country and western, ska, death metal, shite – I've lost track), but did that ever stop Saint Robbie Archbold from giving bands a chance? Yet the very idea of refusing to even negotiate properly with three bands who have worked their asses off getting shit off the ground, refusing to even consider refunding their expenses, refusing to recognise even the slightest possibility of there being a contract in place when bookings have been made and advertisements placed continues to astound. At a very basic level, what kind of a fucking moron books a band without obtaining a reasonable idea of their repertoire? The parting shot offered by Dave was that the Castle Inn had not heard the end of it. Kinda dramatic, but damn, it sounded good at the time!!

Needless to say, the evening did not end there. Unfazed and reluctant to let go the vibe that had been growing all day, the ever-gracious Johnny Burroughs took it upon himself to invite the two bands (Sugar Fix having already departed) to his humble abode, to perform in front of a select few. Embracing the idea, the crews pulled their equipment from the "stage", and transported it to chez Wog. Floody was sent to Foley's with the p.a., attempting to negotiate refunds for the unused gear. Savage was in his usual element as champion transport manager, hauling boys and equipment all over the shop to the accompaniment of Genesis. Murt snr arrived to assist in the haulage, whilst the crew as one relocated to Tully's for scoops. After suffering the stupidity of more inept fast food employees (how fucking hard is it to understand CHICKEN FUCKING BURGER WITH JUST FUCKING KETCHUP?????), Mr. Webb led the posse into Finegan's. With the word "bowld" visible on his aura, he coated himself with sherry, wine and beer. Dave fulfilled his longtime fantasy, grabbing a fine Amstel mini-keg. Back at the makeshift venue, Johnny paid visits to neighbours, obtaining their permission and best wishes. For their soundness above and beyond the call of duty, we salute and thank them. The equipment was rapidly reassembled, and Tri-Kaya took themselves onto the kitchen floor. Dave kicked into Anton Corbijn mode, snapping with great gusto. Juice led the calls for "Full Circle", which duly appeared, and was hailed as the classic it is. "Keep your haaaaands on the wheel...." Murt joined the trio for "Kaiowas", complete with much dancing and Xavante hollering. "Fear" rounded off the set, its false ending lulling the small crowd into a false sense of security. Mere minutes after the 'Rothery posse laid down their weapons, gym slip... took over. Jimmy, as threatened, in full gold body paint and braces, Johnny with barbed wire motif on his neck, Floody destroyed in eye-liner, and Murt in boiler suit. Opting to skip the original opener "Pain & Celibacy",the boys crawled into "Epic", running it into "Pigz", with crowd participation on the middle breakdown a pleasant addition. Next up was "Fudge", buffered with Biohazard's "Punishment" intro. At this point, Babar and Juice led the crew in the bouncing stakes, working themselves slowly into a heaving, crowd-surfing mash. "Floody's Song" – now that's more like fucking ska, shithead – was most appreciated by the Lucan contingent. "Logo" slowed it down a little, and "Madden, John" found the more vocal of the onlookers repeating the "green and blue!!" refrain in true hardcore style. "Murt's Song" was next, its stop-start riffing easily picked up and recreated by the posse, followed by "Limp". New tune "Den : I Know" introduced itself, before giving way to "Tom (Extension)" and a breakneck run through "No Rules (Just Alcohol)". The crowd demanded one more, so the four-piece returned to "Pain & Celibacy", with Johnny spitting the rather bitter lyrics as all four spent the last of their energy reserves. Then, despite the calls for more, and the intentions of Webb, who collapsed in a corner with a feedbacking guitar and an announcement that he was taking requests, it was over. Time to drink.

By this stage, Savage, Baz, Johnboy and Pauline had joined the two bands and the Balrothery faithful. The former was wafting about with a dictaphone, recording the opinions of all in his guise as X_ual. "Sometimes, I can smell your c**t. Other times, I am X_ual". Dave was boundernapped, and brought for a brief spin. As the theme to "Knight Rider" boomed in the background (α la Busta Rhymes), Mr. Meade was asked about Grαinne Seoige. The speel that followed is on tape if anybody is interested. The X_Mobile returned to pick up Jimmy and Murt, and scooted off to the top of Killeshin. In the howling gales, more documentary footage was recorded, and flagons polished off. Back in the house, d.j. def ME took over, making up for some of his disappointment at being denied his well-planned slot at the gig. Cue lots of Orgy, Depeche Mode, Korn, Faith No More and Slipknot. Juice was attempting to prise his way onto the decks, blaring downset before Wad took over with some Atari Teenage Noise.

As Dave's five-litre keg began to deplete, he was forced to take more and more drastic measures. Cue much spillage on the kitchen lino. Floody did not help proceedings with his misguided assistance. Decky was in most abusive form in the sitting room, singleing Pauline out for some particularly loud roars. The kitchen floor began to take the first of its many casualties, lamping Floody and Baz to the concrete in ungainly heaps. Murt's moonwalking defied the slithery lino, before he gamely attempted to recreate the bagpipe intro to "Shoots & Ladders". With a cymbal stand. The impatient d.j. had other ideas. The unfortunate, semi-conscious Juice was debagged, and suffered the indignity of having an empty wine bottle inserted in his rectum. The sight will remain with us for quite some time. Dave hauled himself into the sitting room, and fell behind the couch. His hand was the only thing visible, shooting into the air on occasions, like some eager (twisted) student. Eventually, he decided that he'd had enough, and had to be forcibly restrained from leaving the house. In his luodrified state, walking home was hardly the wisest option. He collapsed onto the stairs, refusing to leave until O'Connor offered the use of his vroom vroom. Needless to say, the man obliged. Murt, Johnboy and Baz joined the accountant as O'Connor drove them to Johnboy's for coffee. This spruced young Meade up considerably,and he egged Savage to go looking for his missing hubcap. They found a hubcap, but not the correct one. Some time later, the pups were delivered home, and fell into happy comas, similar to those inhabited by the rest of the posse chez Burroughs. Sleep tight.......