[The Grimp's 2 coppers' worth: so I've enslaved Hellion for writing reviews of the oRcs in concert in their glorious homeworld until they're ready to play in yours, but I thought I'd get her some practice and dragged her out to the Floggin Molly show on Tuesday.  Alas, she is correct that I was a little disappointed there was no flogging to be seen   ]

The Grimp said there would be flogging.  He brought a cat o'nine tails.

Before we went, he grabbed the back of my neck, brandished the whipand told me that my name was Molly.  Molly?  Had he been reading Defoe?

Hellion, Molly, whatever.  Some girls, they have to worry about whether or not to change their names when they get married.  Me, I have to worry about getting my name changed when I go to a concert.

Hyphenation is not an option.

The Grimp, eyes grinning expectantly, told the bouncer that my name was Molly.  The bouncer grunted.

"Yeah, and I'm flogging."

"Indeed ye are!  Minion!"

The Grimp cavorted with joy, while the bouncer held his green wrist and stamped it 'With the mark of the apocalypse!' (as the Grimp informed the rest of the entourage later that night). The mark of the apocalypse reigned, and the pot wafted by, and as theband filed out the crowd surged forward.

Flogging Molly began. 

The music was intense, the banjo and the fife vying with the accordion to complement the singer's voice.  I've been struck gimpy, so I couldn't dance along with the mayhem in the front of the stage, but there were some sweaty, scrawny hippies moshing like the masses of unwashed Jesus was constantly healing.  No leperous
limbs flew around, but several shirts took turns wafting in the cross-breeze from the speakers.

So who decided that throwing button-down flannels was a rockin' thing to do?  When did that happen?  The flinging (or was it spitting?) of water made sense, in a "look, I am a dancing sea-creature!" kind of
way, but flannels?  I think for a moment the Grimp, horridly disappointed at the bouncer's dismal failure to flog me, hoped that the shirts were actual torsos.
 
The best moment:  one of these brown un-torsos landed in Dave King's face.  Not kidding:  it was like the Alien baby sucked onto all his breathing orifices.  He recoiled -hell, even I recoiled in sympathetic disgust.  I've smelled these sorts before.  The glorious moment came when King spurned the shirt with his foot and said, "Smells like it's been worn by an Englishman."

Have you smelled an Englishman?  I'm not saying anything, but all I'm saying is now that smoking has been banned in English pubs, just go on over the pond and step into one of those fine establishments and breathe deeply.  It's amazing the number of hygienic sins were covered by cigarette smoke. Where there's smoke there may be fire, but where there's no smoke, there is BO.

The Grimp made a note to investigate the smell of Englishmen for possible harvest as a biological weapon in the coming Domination.  Personally, I think he should stick with Jed's feet.  But that, as Rudyard Kipling says, is
another story and will be told another time.

For now, the story says:  let your imagination run wild.  What is "Flogging Molly" really a euphemism for? I submit that it means:  Rocking out like fife-inspired pixies on crack made from accordion dust and the essence of sexy-husky voices.

[More of the Grimp's 2 coppers' worth: I like this band.  They make misery fun!  I definitely found myself dancing the jig-of-death during this set, and would recommend that all of you experience the misery of the Irish in this fine incarnation by going to a Floggin Molly show.  Oh, and be sure to tell me what you thought of this review.  Did Hellion pass muster? I hope not, for then I can have one of the oRcs flog her, hehehehe]