It was left to me to nod, or ‘hup!’, to everyone as we approached the end of ‘The Skylark’ to indicate the change into ‘The Bird in the Bush’, and/or shout out the name, which may or may not be of any use if the name of the tune was not known, or if they had a different name for it. Then I had to shout the chord for Spud as well. Plus I had to do this while playing the end of one reel and trying to remember the start of the next. All in all a fairly hefty responsibility, but this being a standard set it passed off rather smoothly.
“Lovely stuff lads, what’s that second one called?”
“The Bird in the Bush.”
“and ... em ...”
“All aboard the skylark!!!”
“The finger in the bush.”
“... but I only fingered her, Ah Ha Ha.”
“Fuck off.”
“The bird’s bush, Ha Ha!”
We played on and it sounded grand despite the semi cured hangovers. A small local crowd slowly gathered around us and some oul’ fella’ even sang us a song, a long macaronic piece that was as boring as hell but nice enough for the first couple of verses. In view of the oul’ fella’ getting a wild round of applause for his efforts I started to prompt Brian to do ‘Chantelle’.
“Ah, this is the famous John Tell, is it? The Swedish apple guy?”
“That’s William Tell ye gobshite, and he was Swiss! Jesus H, your geography is up your arse.”
“Yes, well put Mr. Foy, and even with a bell on it he’d more than likely need a map to locate that too.”
“... and it’s Chantelle, CHANTELLE!”
“Ahaaa, Sean Tell, like the Irish apple guy.”
“Ah fuck this. Just sing the bloody song Brian, get this cunt off me back.”
“Go oooooooon, ye know you want to.”
“No way man, I’ll only make a bollix of it.”
“No ye won’t, but you certainly will later on when you’re too wrecked, c’mon, you’re in Galway an’ all.”
“Ok ... you lads play a tune and I’ll make sure it’s all there.”
“Great stuff.”
“Brian’s gonna sing? ... Jaaaaysus.”
We played a couple of hornpipes, ‘The Home Ruler’ and ‘Cooley’s’, then I gave a short excited intro for Brian’s song to make sure he got a bit of ciúnas.
“Ladies and Gents, a bit of hush now if yiz wouldn’t mind. Brian here is going to sing you a little local ditty, written by some unknown local genius ...”
The crowd around us hushed and Brian cleared his throat.
“This is called ‘Chantelle de Champignon’. I’ll sing it in a mock sean nós style for comedic effect and the bits in a French accent I’ll sing in italics.
Whatever the fuck that meant ...
He cleared his throat again ...
Well, ‘twas one night when I was jarred at the local bar
when out of the corner of me eye,
I saw this beauteous thing that made me hormones sing
I couldn’t let this chance pass by.
Well, her skin it was fair, she had short blonde hair
and her beauty would shame all queens,
with her glistening lips and her twisting hips
and her slim fitting Levi jeans.
Well, I slid off of me stool and observed me first rule
I checked me fly and me fáinne,
and I got ready for a story of bitter and glory
like Diarmuid agus Gráinne.
Well, me opening line was ‘howaya sunshine,
how’s it goin’ me name is John’,
and with a toss of her head this Goddess said,
‘I’m Chantelle de Champignon’.
‘Oh bedad’, I said, ‘you’re some thoroughbred,
you’re no cave-woman from Cavan,
you’re operatic, aristocratic and very aromatic
so tell us, what are ye havin’?
Well, from the furrow in her brow, I could see just how
she was torn between a short and a long,
‘I’ll have an Irish coffee and a pint of Murphy’s’
said Chantelle de Champignon.
Well, she’d been hitching around but as yet hadn’t found
any savages scouting for scalps,
and she’d scaled the peaks of Kildare and Leeks
which reminded her of the Alps.
She’d seen nearly all of Donegal
and learnt ‘sláinte’ and ‘slán agus beannacht’
when some racial purist who couldn’t stand tourists
told her ‘go to hell or to Connaught’.
So now here she lands with a week on her hands
before flying back to France
and she’d like to get to know Galway and Mayo
so boys, I saw me chance.
I said ‘I’m yer man, I’ve a Hiace van
and I’ve feck all to do right now,
and me five acre farm will come to no harm
sure the calf can milk the cow’.
‘Oh yes to you I’ll show Galway and Mayo
‘twould be my privilege and my pleasure
and for fear you’ll grumble, I’ll make like Cromwell
and throw Clare in for good measure.
So to hell with the silage, let’s clock up some mileage
you’ll be as safe as with your daddy’
she said ‘ I like you more zan I did before,
I’ll have a Smithwicks and a Paddy’.
So next day we drove by creek and cove
all along the western seaboard
and the music of her voice was twice as nice
as the notes from any old keyboard,
(for example) ’oh Jean, you turn me on
you completely fill up my senses
and I can see in your eyes all the stars in the skies
shining out through your contact lenses.
Well I pulled in the van and she said ‘oh Jean,
I hope you don’t take this amiss’,
I said ‘that’s not, you’ll find what I had in mind,
all I want to take is a kiss’.
Well her eyes shone bright and her teeth gleamed white
and her breath it smelt of garlic,
and she tore into me lips like fish’n’chips
in the shadow of Croagh Patrick.
Well after such happiness there was no stopping us
we clocked up hundreds of miles,
we spent thousands of hours around round towers
of varying slants and styles.
Near passage graves and lakes and caves
in historic and holy places,
near saint and hero we reduced to zero
the distance between our faces.
‘Twas in the county Clare, I do declare
we had manys the tasty beverage
and the intensity of our propensity
was way above the average.
Down in Killaloe, where the gales did blow
and the rains fell fast and furious
by all the Gods above she swore ‘eternal love’
and I thought ‘Jaysus boy, this is serious’.
And at Poulnabrone under twenty ton of stone
we drank rainbow coloured wines,
and sure sitting in that dolmen I pitied king Solomon
he could keep all his concubines.
Then I offered to show her the cliffs of Moher,
and she showed me a thing or two too,
and in O’Connor’s of Doolin she said ‘ I’m not foolin’,
I want to spend my life with you’.
Well the days flew by and the week went by
between one thing and another
and she’d a plane to catch back to Paris-Match
to see her father and her brother (and two sisters and her mother),
so we loaded up the van with some cheese and ham
and some six-packs from the fridge
and a Guinness keg for the final le
g
of our amorous pilgrimage.
Well ‘twas in the ruins of Clonfert that we had a little flirt
and I could hear St. Brendan cheerin’,
and we discovered new joys in Clonmacnoise
courtesy of St. Ciarán.
We got into Monasterevin about twenty five to seven
and dropped in to see me uncle Ted,
and we hit Glendalough around eleven o’clock
and we slept in St. Kevin’s bed.
Well as the day was dawning the two of us were yawning
and it dawned on me ‘oh she’s going’,
so we drove up to the smoke where these words she spoke
just before she boarded the Boeing,
‘I’ll acquaint my parents with what has transpired
and my paltry possessions I’ll pack,
zen I’ll return on wings of desire
and up with you I’ll shack’.
Well, that night I flew low through Athlone and Ballinasloe,
I was home in an hour and a half
and although it was getting late I just had to celebrate
so I ate the fatted calf.
Next day I booked a room for me up-coming honeymoon
where no-one would be any the wiser
and in raptures and ruptures, I published me nuptials
in the ‘Galway Advertiser’.
Well, for six days or seven I thought I was in heaven
I was trying it out for size,
but like every other lover I was shortly to discover
‘twas an amadáns paradise.
For while I was thinking the kingdom had come
and was singing ‘Hallelujah’
Chantelle was dancing to a different tune
and singing ‘Johnny I hardly knew ye’.
Well I danced and sang ‘til the night she rang
she said ‘Jean, sit down on ze sofa,
for I have some news zat will give you ze blues
in a nutshell chérie, it’s over.
For I was told for a fact on ze plane coming back
by a man who was once your friend,
you spent two years in, ze loony bin,
without marbles, round ze bend’.
‘Oh Chantelle’, says I, ‘you were told a lie
although it’s neither here nor there,
but it was seven years I spent in the oul’ oxygen tent
with a hole in me ozone layer,
but it was the want of whoopee the drove me loopy
and sure you’ve sorted out that trouble,
so apply some fire to those wings of desire
and get back over here on the double’.
‘Oh Jean’, said she, ‘I quite agree
zat you could do with a woman,
but if you think zat I will be your shrink
zen you’ve got another think coming,
and think besides, if I were your bride
in forty years I would have no fun
for I’m no more than twenty four
and you are forty one’.
‘Oh yes I know I’ll miss your eyes and your kiss
and your fingers running through my hair
but if I lost my head in St. Kevin’s bed
I got it back in ze clear French air.
For I got off that jet and my paronts I met
and I got my act togetheur
I saw ze line zey would draw at a son-in-law
who was a middle aged Irish header’.
‘But as sure as I’m blonde of you I’m still fond
and I might even write, we’ll see
and I won’t regret and I’ll never forget
our petit coin de paradis,
now I’m in a little hurry so be happy don’t worry
and just think how much you’ve grown’
well I opened me face to plead me case
and she put down the shaggin’ phone.
Well I staggered to the mirror and confronted there with terror
a pathetic poor put-upon poltroon of a paddy of a peasant,
and I made smithereens of her Levi jeans
that she gave me for a wedding present.
Then I made minced-meat of her other little treat
two little blue pottery goblets,
and I sat down and I wrote, a suicide note
and swallowed thirty-five-quids-worth of tablets.
Well a week later I awoke and me heart it nearly broke
for I suddenly chanced to remember
that I was in a proper mess for I hadn’t her address
not to mind her telephone number.
So I had a quick look in the oul’ French phone book,
but the results were most unsatisfactory,
for after all me research I was still left in the lurch
for her daddy was ex-directory.
Well the weeks went by and there sat I
a wreck by any reckoning,
and I lost two stone sitting by the phone
but the silence from France was deafening.
Well me breath I bated, for the post I waited
all day and all night long
but neither a letter nor a card came up the yard
from Chantelle de Champignon.
Then I tried to make a pass at her via our ambassador
I explained I was besotted.
He was very sympathetic but said something about ethics
and told me to shag off and go and get knotted,
so then I hired a spy whose fees were high
to assist me plight along,
well he collected his fees but came up with no leads
on Chantelle de Champignon.
Oh, was she down at heel in the town of Lille
or at large in La Rochelle,
letting down her hair in the ‘Folies Bergère’
belly-dancing her way to hell,
or was she singing the blues way down in Toulouse
or picking pockets in Perpignon,
und mein Got, but what, if her name were not
Chantelle de Champignon.
So now I’d lost the scent so gung-ho I went
and I phone Msr. Mitterrand
but they wouldn’t put me through to the president
although I threatened his aide-de-camp,
so then the towel I threw, resigned, withdrew,
although I’d done no wrong,
well I thought I had her taped but the vixen she escaped,
Chantelle de Champignon.
Now an awful lot of water has been led to the slaughter
since she led me this merry dance,
and I never took a wife for I spent me whole life
lookin’ out for this letter from France.
Oh Chantelle, Chantelle I love you more
than in those times that’s gone
although you’re going on eighty-four
and I’m tippin’ a hundred-and-one.
Well I’ve outlived all me mates and I’ve lost all me slates
and I’m back in the oul’ oxygen tent,
and me ozone holes are scoring own goals
in me pitch-black firmament.
There’s more tears in me eyes that there’s stars in the skies,
I’ve lost contact with me lenses
but I’d gladly see through a dark night with you
to recover me soul and me senses.
So come all ye middle aged Irish nutters
and a warning take by me
take care when you go out to get scuttered
in your local hostelry.
Don’t be a fool, stay up on your stool,
sit tight and drink yourself stupid,
give your number one to whiskey and rum
and don’t waste your vote on cupid.
And if by chance some Goddess from France
with luminous short blonde hair
lights up your horizon, just stick to your poison
in two simple words, be ware.
Make no overtures, give no misguided tours
for Diarmuid agus Gráinne went wrong
for after all your mileage, she’ll leave you sitting in your silage
like Chantelle de Champignon.
Ah sorry, I’m a bit jarred so please disregard
the advice I gave you just then
for you’ll be stuck in first gear for a hundred years
like some shagging oul’ farmyard hen.
For when all is said and done, I once flew near the sun
for one week I was a swan
for I was on the wing and I learned to sing
with Chantelle de Champignon.
Oh Chantelle, Chantelle, I hope you’re still me pal
and don’t think that this song is a blunder
for I love more, than I ever did before
the ground you walk on, or maybe even lie under,
and don’t take the view that I’m laughing at you,
sure what do you think I’m doing to me
and please God and St. Kevin we’ll recover in heaven
our petit coin de paradis.
Go raibh mile maith agat.
“WWWHHAAAAOOOO,” went the whole pub.
I didn’t want to interrupt you there with a commentary but I don’t need to tell you that the whole place had gone silent around the fourth or fifth verse. The barmen stopped serving and everyone was intermittently laughing uproariously, sometimes making Brian stop, laugh and then pause to try to remember where he was. A fuckin’ triumph!! That was Brian, my pal!
“Fuckin’ A, Brian, fair play.”
“Where the fuck did ye get that?”
“Ah, that young one, Dara whats-her-face gave it to me. Some guy from here wrote it. It’s fuckin’ ace isnit?”
“Yeah, fuck’s sake man, how d’ye remember it all?”
“Usually I don’t.”
A round came down from the bar, Declan himself brought it.
“This one’s extra lads, for the song. Ye have one round left behind the bar. Great stuff altogether.”
“Cheers, Declan.”
“Good man.”
“Fair play.”
“Spot on, boy.”
Just then another round came down, this time apparently from Helmut and Kevin who had arrived during the song and were well impressed before they’d even heard us play a note. Things were lookin’ up.
Another pint came down for Brian from one of the punters and all of a sudden we needed a bigger table.
“Fuuuuck’s sake, sing that again Brian.”
Helmut and Kev came over and were introduced to me an’ Spud. Kev was your typical Irish barman, the kind that gets jealously bad tempered looking at punters getting locked and enjoying themselves while he’s working, and Helmut was a big portly man with a tight beard and an impressive set of choppers permenantly on display. They seemed like nice guys. We took a short break to give the punters time to natter away after such a lengthy pause, and us time to have a fag and a piss and to try to make a dent in the abundance of drink in front of us.
The Good Servants Page 10