The Tin Pub

When I arrived in Ahakista, I was amazed at all the people that lived around here; only later did I realize that I’d found myself smack dab in the middle of a large festival, the ‘Ahakista Regatta’ (& road bowling competition).
After I checked into my B&B, I wandered over to The Tin Pub for a light dinner, but found it kind of closed –in preparation for some grand event; Even though the parking lot was packed with about 300+ spectators –pints in hand, all watching the bowling competition I couldn’t figure out why they weren’t officially open yet. In the parking lot I met a couple with 2 kids from Dublin. The man, a few years older than myself was a rugby coach for Team Ireland. Me being a seasoned rugger –we just hit it off. After the bowlers had moved down the road, about half the crowd moved into the pub, or at least tried to.
The couple I’d met had been kind enough to save me a seat at their table inside, but I felt more comfortable standing amongst the cramped quarters and ended up drinking several Cokes after they’d apparently run out of Guinness (only later did I find out that one doesn’t request «Guinness» anywhere in Cork. The only stout that should emanate from one’s vocal chords is a rousing «Murphy’s»). So there I stood, listening to a local pub band, experiencing radical tooth decay, and chatting with a short balding musician who’d approached me on the evils of drugs and drink, and his interest in music –for over an hour. After I wished him «…good luck with your musical pursuits» I decided to lean against the wall to let him converse with others. But he kept talking to me, in part because I was the only one for miles not drinking alcohol.
Then the MC gets up to the microphone.
«And we have someone very special with us tonight. We’d like to have him come up and give us all an introduction to tonight’s kick off Festival events…» Now remember, The MC’s voice is being blasted over speakers past the parking lot and across the cove. The MC points to me. Huh? Me? WTF? I suppose this small town is so small that anyone outside Sheep’s Head peninsula is considered a celebrity. So be it. I smile and begin to approach the podium. I take four steps forward, when the MC says (over the microphone) «Not you ya great bullocks, the man standing next to you!» –I pause for a second and think to myself, ‘Does he mean the short balding guy?‘
As I peered out into the stunned curious faces, so quiet one could hear a pin drop, the MC continues, «Geesus man, haven’t you heard of Christy Moore? The man you’ve been chatting to for the past hour and a half?!»
It abrupty dawned on me that I was a gigantic ass of universal proportions. No, I had no idea who Christy Moore was, but soon realized that he was to Ireland, what Elvis was to the U.S.
In fact, in the hierarchy of Irish musicians, it goes: #99 Sinéad O’Connor, #8 Wolfetones, #7. The Irish Rovers, #6. Bono, #5 The Pogues, #4 The Boomtown Rats, #3 the Cranberries, #2 {God}, and at the top #1 slot, Christy Moore (a shared position with Luke Kelly, RIP). Talk about ugly American. Christy came up behind me, patted me on the shoulder, and said in a very strong tone «Someone get this man a drink». The uproar of laughter lasted well over 15 minutes. But set the tone for a memorable evening: ‘The eejit who had never heard of Chirsty Moore.‘
To The Tin Pub staff. Thanks for making my visit educational, memorable, and taking the piss out of me.
I had more fun in this one evening, than the entire 3 months anywhere in Ireland.
Slainte!