Our Fifth venue was Dooleys. As it turns out this is the home of the Waterford Country and Western scene.
We paid a very quick homage and then swiftly moved on.
Then it was on to the Granville, the birthplace of the illustrious 1848 patriot Thomas Francis Meagher. It was immediately
clear that many of the patrons (or possibly "inmates") inside were personally acquainted with Mr Meagher. I'm sure I spoke to
his father and his great-grandmother. Mind you, this could be the effect of the accumulating beer tally amply fortified by
the availability of Fungarvan Beer Company's fine products. Alas there was no time to try all three brews and we fled before
some of the Not So Young Irelanders present threatened to pole dance with their zimmer frames.
Then came the most difficult passage of the tour. The nine intrepid tourists had to cross the notoriously dry section of the
Gobi Quay without so much as a single well, boy. Previous oases such as My Wadi Egans had long since dried up and the next
door mosque had closed its doors (and its stash of altar wine) for the night.
There was no option but to attempt to cross the river at Jordan. Tourists bemoaned absence of the Hack Island hipflask and
on several occasions Darrers took the extreme act of lying flat on his prayer mat with camel in mouth. Desert police were
only briefly interested when it seemed as if CJB was about to audition Darrers' head for the next World Cup ball.
At journey's end they were met by five wise men headed by the Sultan of Swinng who had taken a less dry route to Jordan.
With the caravanserai complete, plans to move to the Back o' the Munster were abandoned. Several members led by Paul retired
to embrace the warm bosom of the smoking room. They tittered politely as they kept abreast of affairs of one of Jordan's more
prominent staffers. Indoors, LLF provided the entertainment with his realistic portrait of Man in Downfall Chair.
When the well finally closed for the night, the crew scattered in several directions. A strong contingent ended up in John
Street for a late night feast of Deep Fried Dromedary served in a "special" sauce that looked as if it might have emerged
from an emir's arse. It led to some delightful odours in the ships of the night that took tired tourists back to their tents.
It was Salaami Bombay for yet another successful ciddytour.