Writers Week had two Denis Lehanes
So, with relaxation on the brain, I headed for Listowel last Friday evening. Being Writers Week back there, I felt it would be the perfect spot to unwind. Anyhow, on my arrival I made straight for The Listowel Arms Hotel.
This was where I was told Writers Week perches its headquarters. And much to my surprise, not only did I discover that they had been expecting me, but had me lined up to give the keynote speech. The talk by Denis Lehane was due to get underway at any minute.
And I, after spending two hours driving to Listowel in my battered old Hilux, was in no condition to give a major address. But never a man to throw in the towel, I headed straight for the hotel bar and, rummaging through my pocket, I found a crumpled piece of paper and a stubby pencil.
Then, ordering a pint, I settled down to write my speech.
And in a town where the likes of Bryan MacMahon and John B Keane once held court, I felt it would have to be a right good one. With my mind racing, I suddenly latched onto that old tale about the purchase of the cock.
The cock, if you recall, had lived a secluded life on a farm in Rylane before my father had purchased him.
And on introducing the poor creature to our flock at home, didn’t the cock get himself into a terrible tizzy. Having never seen birds before, his head turned red and his belly swelled with excitement. He then took to running frantically around the hens. And, after working himself into an ecstatic state, he collapsed and died on our doorstep, just ten minutes after his arrival. The moral of my story was, of course, to always conduct yourself around the fairer sex.
Anyhow, with my speech written, I returned to the hotel lobby to announce that I was ready to deliver the talk — only to discover that it was a different Denis Lehane entirely who had been lined up. A writer called Dennis Lehane from Boston, with two ‘n’s to his name. And why, I wondered, did they fly in a Denis Lehane, when there was a home-grown Denis Lehane just a few miles west of Béal na mBláth?
Then came the bombshell. The Boston Dennis Lehane was really famous, with dozens of books to his name, never mind film and TV work. And all I really had was a story about an old cock.
There were two Denis Lehanes in Listowel last Friday night. The famous one, and the quare fellow. ’Twas a nasty blow to the old ego, and it would take a tasty burger and chips in a nearby restaurant to revive me. With the spring returned to my step, I spotted a poetry session underway in The Kingdom Bar. So I decided to re-join the literary circle while enjoying a pint or two at the same time.
And later, with my spirits fully restored, I ambled to John B’s Bar. I could hardly have gone to Listowel without calling here. It would be like going to Knock without blessing yourself at the Basilica. In John B’s, it was standing room only, with a lively band lighting up the premises.
And it was here that I finally realised, it doesn’t matter who you are, when it comes to having the craic at Writers Week, your name is of little importance.
