and then a brace of Beatles tunes. At one end of the floor, near the entrance, the drunken outsiders clamoured, while further up the locals danced sedately. The girls waltzed across the clattering floor, took bold swings, avoided the middle-aged women who were doing the Twist and Huckle-Buck, and, perspiring, waited during the intervals while the young crowd called out for Planxty. A song by Elvis took the sweating ancient-faced singer, who was encouraged by everyone there, to his knees, while even older men than him, on sax and trombone, pretended it wasn’t happening. The different generations roared for more while the stout brass players huddled together and blew wild riffs into a single microphone. Then the guitarist, grey-haired and pot-bellied, turned his back to the dancers and played his solo facing the blustering canvas behind. The air of the tent flickered with static. Jack Ferris danced with all the women who had come by minibus from the peninsula. The girls spied Jack in the arms of a married woman, Annie Burke, whose husband skippered the Inishglora, and then with Josie Malley who was beautiful, and Mary Noone who was tall.

When Ladies’ Choice was announced a huge cheer of nostalgia and mirth and lust went up.