Two comedians are playing pool in the corner of Lillie's Bordello. What flair, what precision, what modesty! "That's an extraordinary shot," says Barry Murphy, of RTE's Apres Match fame, greatly taken with his own skill. Simultaneously - and at the same time - he's trying to pot the black, give On the Town an in-depth interview and pose for the photographers who are milling around.
All the comedians here are like this - talented, multi-dextrous and self-effacing. They've come to check out Gift of the Gag, a new book about themselves, their humour and the explosion in Irish comedy over the past 10 years. Murphy is to introduce the book. With his speech is in his pocket, he suavely lines up his next shot. Without missing a beat, he answers the questions and smiles for the cameras. We chase him around the pool table.
No, he never sits in front of a computer to work on his material. "It mainly comes off the back of beer mats," he says, narrowly missing the corner pocket.
Actor Risteard Cooper moves in for his shot. Garry Cooke, the third member of the Apres Match team, says he started to hone his skills at school doing impressions of the teachers at the King's Hospital. "It's classic fodder for the comedian," he says.
Jon Kenny, one half of D'Unbelievables, is here too. "That's Sean O Cionnaith," he adds for good measure - obviously concerned that d'officials in the Department of Education and Science won't recognise his, eh, stage name. He and Pat Shortt are "in the phone book," he says. "We get the wurrald of calls for Father Tony, but" - he adds sadly - "he's off to the missions now. And, you know, we're one of the few comedy acts in the world to have a drum machine, the Boss 207." This week the two are playing in Wexford town - daas riiite!
Cartoonist Tom Mathews assures us that he's not "thermo-dynamically challenged" - he stands sockless in his toeless sandles, a bit like a Franciscan friar out on the raz with his grey hair and flowing robes.
Alan Amsby, aka Mr Pussy, has a little glittering brooch on his lapel. "It's a kitten chasing a pearl, a Christmas present from Bono," he says proudly. At another table sipping free Murphy's stout are two of the Nualas, Anne Gildea and Susannah De Wrixon - as her name implies, says Anne, she's blue-blooded. "Some day comedy will attract more sophisticated sponsors," they say, lifting their glasses. They long for the day when they will get "free Campari or gin or Pernod or a bit of Gateaux. I'd prefer a bit of cake any day."
Arthur Mathews is telling Frank Kelly about someone who continues to inspire him - Blessed Matt Talbot who used to come home in the evening, make "a really hot pot of tea" and wait for it to go cold before he drank it in order to mortify himself.
The book's authors, journalists Deirdre Falvey and Stephen Dixon, we are told, trudged through the rain to see obscure acts "when it was neither popular nor funny" to do so, says Barry Murphy. The two suffer much heckling and squirm with delight.
Deirdre O'Kane, fresh from her first appearance on RTE's political satire, Bull Island, is enjoying the party, chatting to Dara O Briain who points out that no public funds have been used in the purchase of his fine, grey coat "although I have been using it as a tax-write off".