It’s been fucking hijacked. St. Patrick’s Day.
And not just destructively hijacked and ploughed into something, but worse. Constructively hijacked by the Patty’s Day Brigade and made bigger; an inflated leprechaun that’s been force fed stereotypes and then ignited. And as we totter backwards on our bar stools, luminous green leprechaun entrails raining down upon is, all we can ask is why the shit did they dye their river green?
Ireland is green, fucking awesome, but not to the point of grabbing Mother Nature and pissing on her face, “MAKE SHIT MORE GREEN, LIKE IRELAND!” they presumably say from their brown suburbs and when she inevitably chokes from shock, they resort to human measures and start spraying E-numbered colouring around like children with not nearly enough good examples.
Green in the pints, green in the rivers, THIS ENEMA NEEDS MORE GREEN.
No, no it doesn’t. All our shit that’s green, it’s supposed to be green. We don’t paint it, we don’t round up the leprechauns at night and send them out with wheelbarrows full of green dye and an insatiable hunger for screwing with nature.
Patrick’s Day is about celebrating Irishness, supposedly, and the only way people seem to be able to do this by drinking what they can’t handle and tinting everything green. Well, I’m sick of this oh-hum, diddle-le-i version of things; this Disney-inspired stereotyped rape of our already sodomized isle.
So, the solution I propose: Bushfest. We bring things back to the start again, and celebrate like they did when St. Patrick was still pissing off snakes.
Drinking, in bushes, watching the endless sheep, endless sheep shit and endless stony soil. We bring it back to when it was a horribly miserable, disgusting life where the average person lived to about 7 and there were no kebabs.
And then see how the world copies us poorly.
For one day.
And see how they hijack it then. Let them realise how this quaint version of Irish life really would’ve been like. Let them see our bloated parades of sheep and famine, the mostly straw-based diet and the constant feeling of death crawling up your evolutalised hairy legs. The hair that is the only thing saving you from frost bite; the only thing preventing the badgers from biting clean through your leg at the first chomp. Let them watch us relive those days of invasion and boar attacks.
For one day we’ll live how St. Patrick lived himself, only with easier access to stout and the awareness of a failed political system spurning us on.
For one day, cities will close, the ESB will turn off the generators, transport will halt as we make our way to the country, rolling the beer kegs with us. Beer kegs that will be opened with nothing but hard stone and ailing thirst.
Other nations will watch on as we pour our only sustenance into drinking troughs and we’ll drink out of horns. Parades around the world will halt as they look towards Sky News in bewilderment. Reporters will flock towards Dublin Airport looking for answers. Brendan Gleeson will axe every one of them, stony gaze upon their feeble frames as he growls, “This is OUR day.”
The entire country, for one day, one 24 hour stretch, will turn feral. We’ll piss in the fields, drink in the bushes and get scurvy. Any shamrock shapes in our pints will be SHAMROCKS. Rotting, green shamrocks that we’ll pick out with our dirty hands or maybe just eat as our livers plot self implosion and our brains plot feasting on raw cow flesh.
And for that one day, the 17th of March every year, the world will see Ireland as it was; when freedom wasn’t just a Mel Gibson quaintism and the fear of the banshee wasn’t something to be laughed at.
And maybe, just maybe, we might be able to ask for the day after Paddy’s Day off work too.