The band brought ointments and unctions to John’s bedside, and soon he was sufficiently recovered to resume his vodka consumption. Ordered to stop smoking he filled the gaping chasm of non cigarettes with coke and flavoured milk. His health was on the way up. Coincidentally, so was the bands. They were invited to Belfast for a second time, and arrived as the fully fledged eight piece, Mr. Paul Smyth was piano hater and Mr. Diarmuid Dermody did everthing asked of him and more. Vincent still held his guitar as if it were a diseased baby he found on the road, and sang with a divas tongue. Simon travelled about the stage, stopping here or there to garnish with a clang of metal, the dulcet twang of Glockenspiel, the artists hand on the drum. Lisa sang and sang and sang for the crowd. Dip stood at the back next to John. They were so very there when they had to be, and nowhere when they needed to be. Rory chanted, and played with the abandon of a runaway train. The Belfast crowd shouted: They’re all pop. Das Madman as pop. It was absurdly delicious.