Jeremy found himself joining the press of bodies around the main exit of the Ballroom.    Someone had got one of the double doors open, but the banshee wailing that assailed the ears gave unoquivical notice that the meterological depression outside had deepened in roughly adverse proportion to Jeremy's own temporarily lifting.    He tried to make out his companions within the mass of the pushing, recoiling crowd.    Of Ken no immediate sign.    And where the hell were Shelly and Paul?     Not slipped off for a quick one at the commencement of his cruely truncated comedy debut, surely?  

      Well, the hurricane outside might explain the power cut at least.    Hurricane Michael, Jeremy thought, since we're in Dublin.    And surprised himself that he'd just thought of that.    Now, think of a better one....     'Two parrots sitting on a perch.    One says to the other: "Can you smell Fish?"     Michael Fish!     1987.    God, was this one of those all defining, changing moments in life?   Cupping his hands to his mouth, Jeremy called out at the top of his voice:

     "What did the electric meter say to the shilling?    Glad you popped in I was just going out!"

     Go on, beat that for a neat bit of extemporising then, Ken.    

     A gruff voice somewhere in the scrum:  "Why don't yer shut yer stupid mouth yer fuckin' English eejit?"   

      The wind vibration was starting to become scary.     Jeremy devoutly hoped his earlier thought about Shelly and Paul had been a false one.     If not at this rate it would not be so much of a case of "Did the ground move for you, darling," as the whole bloody building coming down.