St. Patrick’s Day Failures

St. Patrick’s Day, and once again I’ve failed to mark the occasion with any sense of enthusiasm for the gravity and importance which ought to be attached to it. I was awarded a small prize, a mere token, from memory, for wearing a small green rosette to school on St. Patrick’s Day in 1986. That seems to have been my limit. I met and exceeded my allocation of Irish-inspired zany behaviour in that one act. My mum made the ribbony thing, by the way.

Every year, it seems, the date sneaks up on me. Sometimes I don’t know it is happening, on the day itself, and miss it. Other times I see it coming and then do bugger all. And some years – but this has become less likely over the last decade or so – I am given an opportunity to go out and drink green coloured alcoholic beverages in venues with thousands of backpackers and pretend Irish people and actual Irish people and people with a fairly flimsy connection to Ireland and others, and this offer, when given, is turned down. In fact I don’t get the offer any more. Why would I want to do all that, in a cramped environment, with a special (but unofficial) surcharge (a dickhead tax, if you will) levied on prices, and work the next day, when I can be at home, with a drink in one hand and a song in my heart. Or no song – that’s negotiable.

Perhaps that’s it: I find it vaguely embarrassing, despite being a fully paid-up Irish accredited member, the spectacle is silly and over the top, but not in a good way, and I don’t want to be part of it. Maybe. Maybe I’ve just never been asked nicely – that could be it. I don’t know. What I do know is that a pattern has formed.

Having learnt how to read a calendar and use my memory, simultaneously, this year the occasion was not a surprise and a little personal celebration was planned. Buy a small bottle of stout, often known solely by one brand name[1], as if that is the only stout available and the people at St. James Gate invented the concept or something (they didn’t), and enjoy a glass of the dark stuff at home. Quietly.

But I got even this modest marking of the day wrong. Somehow I claimed a bottle of Coopers ale from the shelf of the fridge. Not a stout, but it tasted good. And it’s yet more evidence that perhaps I ought to leave the wearing of the green alone. (Didn’t do that either this year, again.)

Perhaps it isn’t worth trying any more. Although perhaps there wasn’t too much of that going on to start with …

[1] Guinness.

Published in: on March 17, 2011 at 6:42 pm  Leave a Comment  

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