Jimmy was fighting back a redner.

–I didn’t mean it like tha’, he said.—It’s not the fact tha’ they went to fuckin’ art school that’s wrong with them. It’s—(Jimmy was struggling.)—more to do with—(Now he had something.)—the way their stuff, their songs like, are aimed at gits like themselves. Wankers with funny haircuts. An’ rich das.

–An’ fuck all else to do all day ’cept prickin’ around with synths.

–Tha’ sounds like me arse, said Outspan.—But I’m sure you’re righ’.

–Wha’ else d’yis do?

–Nothin’ yet really, said Derek.—Ray wants to do tha’ one, Louise. It’s easy.

–Human League?

–Yeah.

Jimmy pushed his eyebrows up and whistled.

They agreed with him.

Jimmy spoke.—Why exactly—d’yis want to be in a group?

–Wha’ d’yeh mean? Outspan asked.

He approved of Jimmy’s question though. It was getting to what was bothering him, and probably Derek too.

–Why are yis doin’ it, buyin’ the gear, rehearsin’? Why did yis form the group?

–Well—

–Money?

–No, said Outspan.—I mean, it’d be nice. But I’m not in it for the money.

–I amn’t either, said Derek.

–The chicks?

–Jaysis, Jimmy!

–The brassers, yeh know wha’ I mean. The gee. Is tha’ why?

–No, said Derek.

–The odd ride now an’ again would be alrigh’ though wouldn’t it? said Outspan.

–Ah yeah, said Derek.—But wha’ Jimmy’s askin’ is is tha’ the reason we got the group together. To get our hole.

–No way, said Outspan.

–Why then? said Jimmy.

He’d an answer ready for them.

–It’s hard to say, said Outspan.

That’s what Jimmy had wanted to hear. He jumped in.

–Yis want to be different, isn’t tha’ it? Yis want to do somethin’ with yourselves, isn’t tha’ it?

–Sort of, said Outspan.

–Yis don’t want to end up like (he nodded his head back)—these tossers here. Amn’t I righ’?

Jimmy was getting passionate now. The lads enjoyed watching him.

–Yis want to get up there an’ shout I’m Outspan fuckin’ Foster.

He looked at Derek.

–An’ I’m Derek fuckin’ Scully, an’ I’m not a tosser. Isn’t tha’ righ’? That’s why yis’re doin’ it. Amn’t I righ’?

–I s’pose yeh are, said Outspan.

–Fuckin’ sure I am.

–With the odd ride thrown in, said Derek.

They laughed.

Then Jimmy was back on his track again.

–So if yis want to be different what’re yis doin’ doin’ bad versions of other people’s poxy songs?

That was it. He was right, bang on the nail. They were very impressed. So was Jimmy.

–Wha’ should we be doin’ then? Outspan asked.

–It’s not the other people’s songs so much, said Jimmy.—It’s which ones yis do.

–What’s tha’ mean?

–Yeh don’t choose the songs cos they’re easy. Because fuckin’ Ray can play them with two fingers.

–Wha’ then? Derek asked.

Jimmy ignored him.

–All tha’ mushy shite abou’ love an’ fields an’ meetin’ mots in supermarkets an’ McDonald’s is gone, ou’ the fuckin’ window. It’s dishonest, said Jimmy.—It’s bourgeois.

–Fuckin’ hell!

–Tha’ shite’s ou’. Thank Jaysis.

–What’s in then? Outspan asked him.

–I’ll tell yeh, said Jimmy.—Sex an’ politics.

–WHA’?

–Real sex. Not mushy I’ll hold your hand till the end o’ time stuff.—Ridin’. Fuckin’. D’yeh know wha’ I mean?

–I think so.

–Yeh couldn’t say Fuckin’ in a song, said Derek.

–Where does the fuckin’ politics come into it? Outspan asked.

–Yeh’d never get away with it.

–Real politics, said Jimmy.

–Not in Ireland annyway, said Derek.—Maybe England. But they’d never let us on Top o’ the Pops.

–Who the fuck wants to be on Top o’ the Pops? said Jimmy.

Jimmy always got genuinely angry whenever Top of the Pops was mentioned although he never missed it.

–I never heard anyone say it on The Tube either, said Derek.

–I did, said Outspan.—Your man from what’s their name said it tha’ time the mike hit him on the head.

Derek seemed happier.

Jimmy continued. He went back to sex.

–Believe me, he said.—Holdin’ hands is ou’. Lookin’ at the moon, tha’ sort o’ shite. It’s the real thing now.

He looked at Derek.

–Even in Ireland.—Look, Frankie Goes To me arse were shite, righ’?

They nodded.

–But Jaysis, at least they called a blow job a blow job an’ look at all the units they shifted?

–The wha’?

–Records.

They drank.

Then Jimmy spoke.—Rock an’ roll is all abou’ ridin’. That’s wha’ rock an’ roll means. Did yis know tha’? (They didn’t.)—Yeah, that’s wha’ the blackies in America used to call it. So the time has come to put the ridin’ back into rock an’ roll. Tongues, gooters, boxes, the works. The market’s huge.

–Wha’ abou’ this politics?

–Yeah, politics.—Not songs abou’ Fianna fuckin’ Fail or annythin’ like tha’. Real politics. (They weren’t with him.)—Where are yis from? (He answered the question himself.)—Dublin. (He asked another one.)—Wha’ part o’ Dublin? Barrytown. Wha’ class are yis? Workin’ class. Are yis proud of it? Yeah, yis are. (Then a practical question.)—Who buys the most records? The workin’ class. Are yis with me? (Not really.)—Your music should be abou’ where you’re from an’ the sort o’ people yeh come from.—

Say it once, say it loud, I’m black an’ I’m proud.

They looked at him.

–James Brown. Did yis know—never mind.

He sang tha’.—An’ he made a fuckin’ bomb.

They were stunned by what came next.

–The Irish are the niggers of Europe, lads.

They nearly gasped: it was so true.

–An’ Dubliners are the niggers of Ireland. The culchies have fuckin’ everythin’. An’ the northside Dubliners are the niggers o’ Dublin.—Say it loud, I’m black an’ I’m proud.

He grinned. He’d impressed himself again.

He’d won them. They couldn’t say anything.

–Yis don’t want to be called And And exclamation mark And, do yis? Jimmy asked.

–No way, said Outspan.

–Will yeh manage us, Jimmy? said Derek.

–Yeah, said Jimmy.—I will.

They all smiled.

–Am I in charge? Jimmy asked them.

–Yeah.

–Righ’ then, said Jimmy.—Ray isn’t in the group annymore.

This was a shock.

–Why not?

–Well, first we don’t need a synth. An’ second, I don’t like the cunt.

They laughed.

–I never have liked him. I fuckin’ hate him to be honest with yis.

–I don’t like him much meself, said Outspan.

–He’s gone so?

He was gone.

–Wha’ sort o’stuff will we be doin’? Derek asked.

–Wha’ sort o’music has sex an’ politics? Jimmy asked.

–Reggae, said Derek.

–No, not tha’.

–It does.

–Yeah, but we won’t be doin’ it. We’ll leave the reggae to the skinheads an’ the spacers.

–Wha’ then?

–Soul.

–Soul?

–Soul?

–Soul. Dublin soul.

Outspan laughed. Dublin soul sounded great.

–Another thing, said Jimmy.—Yis aren’t And And And annymore.

This was a relief.

–What are we Jimmy?

–The Commitments.

Outspan laughed again.

–That’s a rapid name, said Derek.

–Good, old fashioned THE, said Jimmy.

–Dublin soul, said Outspan.

He laughed again.

–Fuckin’ deadly.

The day after the formation of The Commitments Jimmy sent an ad into the Hot Press classifieds:

–Have you got Soul? If yes, The World’s Hardest Working Band is looking for you. Contact J. Rabbitte, 118, Chestnut Ave., Dublin 21. Rednecks and southsiders need not apply.

There was a young guy who worked in the same shop as Jimmy. Declan Cuffe was his name. He seemed like a right prick, although Jimmy didn’t know him that well. Jimmy had heard him singing at the last year’s Christmas Do. Jimmy had just been out puking but he still remembered it, Declan Cuffe’s voice, a real deep growl that scraped against the throat and tongue on its way out. Jimmy would have loved a voice like it.