In the late seventies I was I confess a bit of a groupie. (This must be a type of condition which it is difficult to grow out of because to this day I am still recognised as a groupie, now to my wife’s madrigal choir.)
But in the Seventies my band of choice were called Dr. Strangely Strange.
These were a sort of weird and wonderful Irish version of the Incredible String Band, musical, hippy, wordy and totally off the wall.
They were managed by a friend Stephen Pearce and, as I was a student in Dublin, I could get in free to the gigs if I pretended to do something, cart about a speaker or keep people from playing with the consoles.
There was a fellow groupie who was actually a sort of roadie who got paid to do what I did and, as we ended up sitting together in many grubby halls we became friendly in a vague sort of way.
We continued to be friends in a saluting, “Howerya” sort of way after the band had broken up.

It must have been in the mid eighties when I was going down Grafton Street with a teenaged nephew when the said roadie came our way.
We managed our usual, “Howerya, Howsitgoin” greetings and passed on.
I then noticed my nephew was flushed crimson and obviously in a state of some excitement.
He then rounded on me
“How, in the name of Jesus do you know Phil Lynott!”
I honestly had no idea that it was he.