And in this case we won't be discussing well-intentioned actions. St. Patrick's Day in the US paints the Irish as a bunch of drunken, crud-eating aggressive louts. It's an excuse for binge-drinking foul fluorescent-green-colored American faux-beer, Budweiser or worse, while singing cretinous Irish American ditties like Toora-loora-loora, consuming stinking overcooked corned beef and cabbage, assuming fake 'brogues' (the word means 'shoe', morons) and generally associating my fair native land of mists with the most brutish of behavior.
On my first St. Patrick's Day in America, I naively travelled to South Boston, the Irish area of the city, with a pal from Ireland and a Yank hanger-on, in the expectation that when they heard we hailed from the old sod (or ⅔ of us did), we wouldn't have to buy a beer for ourselves the whole night. So we all ordered pints and settled down at what looked like one of the cleaner bars. About halfway through the first round, the bartender sidled over to us and asked where we were from.
"I'm from Dublin, John's from Wicklow, and this guy's from some place called Vermont." I said beaming, expecting the next phrase would be "Drinks on the house lads!"
"Well, I hate to do this, but I think it would be better if you would leave. It's St Paddy's Day (grrrrr) and there's a bunch of local guys who'll be down here later on, and they won't want anyone who isn't Irish at the bar"
"But we are Irish. We're from Ireland"
"No, you're not Irish. You're not from South Boston."
So I was thrown out of a bar in the most Irish precinct in America, on St. Patrick's Day, for being Irish. So fuck the Yanks and drink their wives, I say.
On this blog, for the next three weeks or so, I will be collecting miscellaneous offense, grievance and obnoxiousness associated with the locals' befouling of St. Patrick's Day, which after all, is a religious holiday and holy day of obligation in Ireland. You sacriligious bastards.