there should be a moment in this one where the sound track to the good the bad and the ugly goes aaaiiiiiaaaiiiiiaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh

The poet Desmond Egan entered Newbridge church by a side door and walked up the aisle.
Dark, sepulchral, haunted, and with a face on him like a boiled shite.
In his stance and motion very much a Phantom Of The Opera type figure.
Seen from behind maybe tending a bit more towards a posthumous Heathcliff on a night off from chasing the ghost of Cathy around the Yorkshire moors.
Or Mr Rochester.
Or Dracula.
Gothic is the mot juste.
Of course, some of you will know of him.
I mean some of you will know of Desmond Egan, not those also rans the Phantom Of The Opera or Heathcliff or Mr Rochester or Dracula or the famous Muslim terrorist Mohammed Juste.
He is a neo classicist and academic, with an international reputation.
There are indeed those who like him.
I was in a prominent pew doing my Saint James of Compostela routine.
As Desmond Egan crossed the front of the church, our eyes met.
In spite of myself I gave him a jaunty wave, segooing (as my cousin Pauline would say) neatly from James of Compostela to a broth of a boy.
Desmond Egan halted, and turned, and favoured me with a cold stare.
The stare was laced with withering elements.
It was as though he was looking into my immortal soul.
Heavens to Murgatroyd.
This is awkward.
My soul wasn't expecting visitors today.
Then.
He allowed himself a curt almost contemptuous nod.
And he was gone.
If he'd been wearing a dark, billowing, cloak, I suppose he would have flapped it about a bit and accentuated the pivot and whirl prior to exiting.
These things are for the scholars to sort out.
I sat there getting slowly worked up.
The curt nod.
To me.
Really?
"What the ****!" I murmured reverting to an old Anglo Saxon saw from my Revenue Commissioners days, which in the corridors of taxation we generally used to express bemusement at the proles attempts to avoid giving us their money.
A curt nod.
At point blank range.
He could have had my eye out.
Outrageous.
Oh the humanity.
Nobody gives me a curt nod.
I invented the curt nod.
In the sensation scene of my theatre play Poets In Paradise, the ghost of WB Yeats gives a curt nod to the ghost of Brendan Behan.
He's not a bit nice about it either.
Although in my work it represents a grudging accomodation among two immortals.
A lesser poet doing it to me is an infringement of copyright right there.
And here.
In a church for crying out loud.
I gotta tell ya folks, anyone who gives me a curt nod and leaves me alive, he know nothing about Tuco.
And so on.
Seriously though gentle travellers of the internet, when these Rah poets give you a dirty look, you can feel the devil bite your ass.
I wonder what I did on him.