We all know the world is getting smaller. And  nowhere is this more true than in music. 
 You may have heard that the best bluegrass banjo  players in the world are the Kroeger Brothers - from  Switzerland! They didn't let a lack of inbreeding,  and a home far away from Kentucky, get in their way. 
 The same thing happened - almost - to a couple of  brothers who live in the little Polish town of  Glotny, just a few kilometres away from the busy  port of Gdansk. Vlad and Lech Jesvekov were young  twins who both loved to listen to music on their  marine band radio. And the music they liked was -  you'll be surprised by this - Irish pub music. "Once  you got the hang of one tune, you got them all."  Vlad put it somewhat wistfully. 
 The precocious teenagers suddenly realized there was  a ready made market for their music in the hundreds  of Irish sailors who passed through Gdansk . "We'd  go down to the docks as the ships unloaded and  strike up 'The wind that shakes the barley'" recalls Lech. "And the amazing thing was, they all seemed to  know who we were. As they came down the gangplank,  almost every sailor would mention our last name with  a certain passion - Jesvekov, Jesvekov, Jesvekov.  Right then and there, we knew we had hit a nerve." 
 The brothers mortgaged almost everything they could  get their hands on - a letter from a young Cardinal  Karol Wotyla congratulating Vlad on some minor  church award, a photograph of Lech Walesa with Dick  Clark at TImes Square in New York, and a shirt from  a member of the famous Polish national soccer team  that finished fourth in the 1992 World Cup. 
 "We bought fisherman's sweaters and tam o'shanters."  says Lech, "as well as a guitar and a whistle and a  one way ticket on a freighter bound for Dublin". 
 "When we got there, we were miserable" recalls Vlad.  "We couldn't speak the language, and we had to mimic  the words in the songs we played without having a  clue what they meant., But as they say, an Irishman  is never so truly happy as when he's miserable, and  maybe we tapped into that vein". 
 Not knowing the language, they couldn't come up with  a name for the group that reflected their heritage,  so they just stuck with the obvious one - "The  Jesvekov Brothers". And again, they were amazed.  "People would chant our name - we'd get up and play  our hearts out - and they'd shout our name even  louder - so we'd keep on playing". 
 In a few short months, the boys had outgrown the pub  scene and managed, thanks to some careless custody  of a case of Bushmills, to wangle an invitation to  the prestigious annual Festival of the Little  People, held in Cork. 
 "We wanted so badly to do well" recalls Lech. "So we  asked ourselves: how can we be more Irish?" And they  came up with what they thought was a killer idea  (which it turned out to be). In every Irish band  they had seen, the members sported noses that were a  bright red, under-laid with stripes of a striking  purplish blue. The brothers realized their handicap:  the others had enjoyed a 20 year head start on them  in Guinness consumption. There was only one thing  they could think to do: apply makeup. 
 It was a bright Friday morning in July as the  brothers walked on to the festival stage to do their  sound check, cheerfully acknowledging the few dozen  fans who called out their name. But by performance  time, the clouds had turned a dark grey. And with  what in hindsight seems like a heavy dose of irony,  the heavens opened during the second chorus of "A  Walk in the Irish Rain". Red and purple streaks and  smudges started to appear on their faces. And an  audience that had started chanting their names  suddenly started laughing. 
 And that, they realized almost immediately, was the  end of their Celtic music career. "We knew that no  entertainer can survive derision," said Vlad. So,  they packed up quietly and flew home. And never  played a note of Irish music again. 
 Today, both are happily married with children,  looking to break into the world of high stakes  internet poker. They will occasionally play a Val  Doonican or Van Morrison record. But what do they do  when they encounter someone form Ireland? "Just  remember the good times" the brothers respond in  unison "and call out our name to them the way our  audiences did to us."
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Some readers seem intent on nullifying the authority of David Simmonds. The critics are so intense; Simmonds is cast as more scoundrel than scamp. He is, in fact, a Canadian writer of much wit and wisdom. Simmonds writes strong prose, not infrequently laced with savage humour. He dissects, in a cheeky way, what some think sacrosanct. His wit refuses to allow the absurdities of life to move along, nicely, without comment. What Simmonds writes frightens some readers. He doesn't court the ineffectual. Those he scares off are the same ones that will not understand his writing. Satire is not for sissies. The wit of David Simmonds skewers societal vanities, the self-important and their follies as well as the madness of tyrants. He never targets the outcasts or the marginalised; when he goes for a jugular, its blood is blue. David Simmonds, by nurture, is a lawyer. By nature, he is a perceptive writer, with a gimlet eye, a superb folk singer, lyricist and composer. He believes quirkiness is universal; this is his focus and the base of his creativity. "If my humour hurts," says Simmonds,"it's after the stiletto comes out." He's an urban satirist on par with Pete Hamill and Mike Barnacle; the late Jimmy Breslin and Mike Rokyo and, increasingly, Dorothy Parker. He writes from and often about the village of Wellington, Ontario. Simmonds also writes for the Wellington "Times," in Wellington, Ontario.
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