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Derek.
    Joey The Lips looked straight at Jimmy.
    —Rescue me.
    —Wha’?
    —Rescue me. ——I am a man in need of rescue.
    —What’re yeh on abou’?
    Jimmy looked behind him.
    —That woman is driving me fucking crazy, said Joey The Lips. —She won’t get off my case.
    —I think that’s the first time I ever heard yeh say Fuckin’, Joey.
    —She won’t leave me alone.
    —Well, Jaysis now, Joey, yeh shouldn’t of gotten off with her then.
    —I had no choice, Brother, Joey The Lips hissed.
    —She had me pinned to the wall before I could get on my wheels.
    —Wha’ abou’ tha’ soul man’s ludo yeh were on abou’?
    ——What’s the smell?
    —Wha’ smell? ——Hang on.
    —Weed, said Joey The Lips.
    He looked around, frowning.
    —It’s hash. ——Here, Jimmy shouted. —Who has the hash?
    —Me, said Billy.
    Deco, Outspan, Dean and James were with him, over at the piano.
    —No way, Billy. ——No way.
    —Wha’? said Billy.
    The joint, a very amateur job, stopped on the way back to his mouth.
    —Hash is out, said Jimmy.
    —Why? said Deco.
    He was next on it.
    —It fucks up your head, said Jimmy.
    —Jimmy, said James. —It’s been medically proven ——
    —Fuck off a minute, James, sorry, said Jimmy. —Yis won’t be able to play.
    —We’ll be able to play better, said Deco.
    —It’ll wreck your voice.
    That shut Deco up while he decided if it was true.
    Billy took a long drag and held the joint out for any takers.
    —BLOW THA’ OU’, BILLY, Jimmy roared.
    Billy exhaled.
    —I’d die if I didn’t, yeh fuckin’ eejit.
    He still held the joint up in his fingers.
    —What’s wrong with it? Outspan asked.
    Jimmy was doing some thinking. What had annoyed him at first was the fact that they hadn’t got the go-ahead from him before they’d lit up. He needed a better reason than that.
    —For one thing, he said. —Righ’ ——Yis’re barely able to play your instruments when yis have your heads on yis.
    —Ah here!
    —Are you sayin’ I can’t sing, son?
    —Second, said Jimmy. ——We’re a soul group. Remember tha’. Not a pop group or a punk group, or a fuckin’ hippy group. ——We’re a soul group.
    —Wha’ d’yeh mean, WE’RE? said Deco.
    —Fuck up, you.
    Jimmy was grateful for the interruption. It gave him more time to think of something.
    —If you’re not happy with the way I’m doin’ things then ——
    —We love yeh, Jimmy. Keep goin’.
    —Righ’. ——Where was I? ——Yeah. ——We’re a soul group. We want to make a few bob but wehave our principles. It’s not just the money. It’s politics too, remember. We’re supposed to be bringin’ soul to Dublin. We can’t do tha’ an’ smoke hash at the same time.
    —It’s oney hash.
    —The tip o’ the fuckin’ iceberg, Billy. Dublin’s fucked up with drugs. Drugs aren’t soul.
    —Wha’ abou’ drinkin’?
    —That’s different, said Jimmy. —That’s okay. The workin’ class have always had their few scoops.
    —Guinness is soul food, said Joey The Lips.
    —That’s me arse, Jimmy, said Outspan.
    —Listen, said Jimmy. —For fuck sake, we can’t say we’re playin’ the people’s music if we’re messin’ around with drugs. We should be against drugs. Anti drugs. Heroin an’ tha’.
    —Yeah, but ——
    —Look wha’ happened to Derek’s brother.
    —Leave my brother ou’ o’ this, said Derek. He nearly shouted it.
    —Okay, sorry. But yeh know wha’ I mean.
    —Wha’ happened to Derek’s brother? Billy asked.
    —Forget it.
    —Wha’ happened your brother?
    —Forget it, Billy.
    —I was oney askin’.
    —Annyway, said Jimmy. —Do yis agree with me?
    —Ah yeah—— o’ course, oney ——
    —We’ll get a Heroin Kills banner for behind the drums, said Jimmy.
    —Hang on, said Deco. —Wha’ abou’ the niggers in America, the real soul fellas, wha’ abou’ them? They all smoke hash. ——Worse.
    This was Joey The Lips’ field.
    —Not true, Brother. Real