It’s 2.20am and 2 cops are striding towards us purposefully across the hall.

“Jesus, a haiscí, put out the joint !”. 

I’d already thrown it out the window. It landed beside their now empty car. 

My giggling had given way to that terror that catches your throat and threatens to strangle you with your own spit. 

Thankfully Rónán spoke. In Irish first, and then when he got blankish looks from the Gardaí, a second time in English. 

“Yes, a chara, how can we help you?”

We’ve been djaying reggae to a dwindling crowd in a small room above a pizza place in a small untrendy Donegal village. Gerry Adams’ holiday home was a short walk away. I’d seen him once in the pizza place, wearing shorts. Surprisingly spindly legs I remember thinking. Very white too. Well, you’d expect that. Sinn Féin back then was less inclusive than it is now.

The venue had neither a dancing licence nor an entertainment licence. I’m pretty sure it didn't even have a bar licence. The music should have ended about two hours ago, and we definitely shouldn’t have been smoking weed. It was fairly clear to me that those who were left were fairly stoned looking. Not as stoned as we were. The room basically smelt like Bob Marley’s crotch pocket. We'd been playing, and smoking for quite a few hours. We’d opened the window to let the smoke out and to try and get rid of some of the obvious fumes in a rare moment of clarity thinking this would make things less obvious, instead it drew the attention of the police.

“Could you close the windows lads? It’s just the sound is travelling quite a distance, we wouldn’t want any complaints.”

“No bother, no bother at all”

I couldn’t believe our luck as they turned and left. 

Rónán looked at me and I looked at him and we both started to laugh.

“Probably as well to let them get a distance away before we light up again”,

“Cinnte, a haiscí, cinnte”. 

For one of the best, rest easy a haiscí, thanks for the music, the laughter and the memories.