An audience with Jerry Fish

's arse.

I was minding my own business on Farcebook the other evening (I was actually reposting Red's hilarious link when a message from Jerry Fish popped up on my fence (I can't quite afford a Farcebook wall yet): 5 pairs of tickets to an invite only concert in the legendary Windmill Lane studio for the first 5 people to send an e-mail.

I was fourth (I had taken the time to write 'Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeease' in the subject field and copied and pasted it twice in the body of the e-mail).
And so Mrs Raheny and I were on our way to the legendary Windmill Lane studio (which has hosted recording sessions for the likes of U2, David Bowie, Metallica, P.J. Harvey, Elvis Costello, Marian Faithful and...erm... Chris de Burgh).

Except that now the Windmill Lane studio is... on Ringsend Road (hence our fashionably late arrival).

We had a fine evening of Stella Artois and warm Riesling on an empty stomach, superb sound (in mean, if you don't get good sound in a recording studio, where will you) and watching Jerry Fish's arse while he was doing what he does best: reinvent himself from a hairy sweaty sexy up and coming young frontman of an Irish indy band into a hairy sweaty sexy crooner leading a hard to categorise bandorchestra.

We got the worse seats because I was in the loo while the all the others sat down in the 50 capacity studio.

After the concert I guzzled more warm Riesling (still on an empty stomach).

Which was a bad idea.