Rafferty may have outsmarted himself.

I was impressed with young Rafferty because he showed up at Irish Fest last month in the Fifth Province bar with two young ladies on his arm.

My wife and sons opted for snoozing that gorgeous Sunday afternoon so I lit out alone for the fest. I told the lovely Mary, “There will be plenty of people I know there!”

Circling the Heritage Center in search of parking, I heard someone shout to my car, “Hey you f---ing Irish p----!”

I couldn’t see who said it but it felt good knowing that I had been recognized, whether by friend or foe.

Years ago I performed my show, Goin’ East on Ashland, at the Heritage Center and I also have fond memories of some great concerts at this Irish cultural oasis. I’ve never had a bad time there. I lucked out with a parking spot only two blocks away and marched in to buy my ticket. The young lady at the door questioned me before putting the “over 21” bracelet on my wrist, “Do you think you might be doing some drinking today?”

I might indeed.

Bumping into Frank McNichols as I walked in the door was serendipity because he had just come from the Michael Collins Whiskey tasting and offered me a free shot glass, “The tasting just ended but there’s another one at four.”

I’ll have to check that out in a couple of hours.

I bought some beer tickets before making my way outside to the food tents and figured I’d set a base with some fish n’chips and lemonade. I was on a mission to find somebody, anybody I knew, maybe even the guy who cursed me out as I drove by earlier.

I cruised the Grafton Street Market, checking out all the Irish gift shop stands. Came across a t-shirt that said “Irish Yoga” and featured pictures of guys passed out in various uncomfortable poses. Real classy.

In the music tent I noticed a young Irish gal in the crowd with tattoos all over her arms, neck, and shoulders. Can just imagine the parents of the boy who comes home and says, “Mom and Dad I’m gonna marry an Irish gal!” and then shows up with this emblazoned bimbo. Mom says, “Crikey, she’s got drawin’ all over her bosom!”

Took a tour of the Heritage Center, checked out the new library, very impressive. There was a guy with a brogue beguiling a packed room of micks with tales of Yeats. Maybe someday my book will be discussed here and some turkey bird will deliver a lecture on the insignificance of it all.

Outside again I saw a big fat guy wearing a green t-shirt that said, “Irish Guys Do It Better!” Most of the women there would give him an argument on that one I’m sure.
As I was leaving the beer line a guy offered two extra tickets to the lady bartender, his tip I supposed. She turned to me and said, “You want these?”

I do indeed, ma’am. Thank you!

Waltzed through the auditorium where a theatre company was performing a one-act play while a dozen people stared on in distracted boredom. This was uncomfortably familiar to me and I scurried from the scene to the Fifth Province.

There at the bar was none other than our editor and publisher Cliff Carlson with IAN columnists Frank West and Scott Powers. I bellied up for a free one and we all engaged in some high level Irish journalist conversation. Our editor showed off a new camera that he will use to shoot videos and put them on the IAN website. Cliff vanished to chase down another story when I suggested he start putting a centerfold in the paper.

And then Rafferty and his girlfriends showed up. They were perfect foils for Scott, Frank and I to engage in some lighthearted ribbing. The girls wore hats that said, “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” and Rafferty’s said, “Fight Me, I’m Irish”, which he disavowed.
We learned their names, Fai, Leah, and Raf. He was from Boston and saw an ad in the RedEye and thought it would be fun to hit the fest with his two nubile friends. I asked them, “Are you enjoying the craic?”

“I beg your pardon?”

We had to explain the term craic as well as Slainté, but they learned fast and the next thing I know the girls are yelling “Slainté” in every direction. Ten minutes later I overhear Rafferty’s boyish seduction of the girls. “Come on, whattya say we do just one shot?”

Oh Rafferty my lad, you are a dirty dog.

I took my leave of those at the bar and made my way back to the music tent, stopping to pick up raffle tickets for a trip to Ireland. It was getting close to six now and suddenly I knew everybody. I spotted Southside Jack Kelly and bumped into Danny Boyle the plumber twice in ten minutes. Both times he asked me, “How much longer are you goin’ to be here?”

I’ve got two beer tickets left, that’s how long!

Rocking with the crowd to the tunes of the Makem brothers I spy Rafferty and his darlin’ gals. Leah spots me and delivers a high five, “Great Craic!”

It was indeed, the sights and sounds of a fun summer afternoon at Irish Fest.

Monday morning I call the Heritage Center to ask if I won the trip to Ireland.

“Who is this?”

I told her.

“No… ye didn’t.”

I wonder how Rafferty did.