It was March 17 and the celebration of all things Irish, because of some guy named Patrick who was a saint. Immediately you think of the colour green, Guinness, leprechauns, four leaf clovers, an excessive amount of drinking with dodgy faux Emerald Isle accents being used, and generally having a grand ole time. One of those times you can get away with being pissed and it’s acceptable, like New Years Eve and wedding receptions.
Yesterday was an exception. It didn’t have the essence of dee-dill-dee-deeness. Maybe it was the fact that the realisation that summer was over from the chill in the air, or the fact that my crew had accidently over indulged in dee-dill-dee-deeing the previous night. I say accidently because when 20 free beer vouchers are placed in front of you on Tuesday, that have to be used then and there, you are not really going to say no. Except me, who was el sober drivero.
I did actually put in a good effort by dressing up as a Pikey. I had started off on the right foot with good intentions. I drove past the best bet pub for Irish jigging, it was impressively full with a queue longer than MJ’s star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I turned the corner and parked outside option 2. It was Irish, but had nowhere near as much charisma or fun.
In fact, it was suitably labelled lame. I entered the pub behind two young colleens wearing pretty much just a green singlet scribbled with ‘Kiss me I’m Irish’. They got points for actually being Irish.
The bar was four deep and was slower than an indecisive elephant with a Zimmer frame. I gave up and was doing this St. Paddy’s sober. Men were checking out the emerald pieces of meat, selecting which one they’d put in their trolley. Then weirdly enough, ‘Like a Virgin’ softly played in the background. Madonna is not Irish, and I don’t think they’d want her to be either.
People stood around in clusters waiting for something to happen. Finally, two guys picked up their guitars and a man joined them with the spoons. It looked promising. They played Miss Spears first hit ‘Baby One More Time’. The musos even said it went down like a lead balloon.
Where was the thrashing of The Pogues, The Corrs, and The Cranberries? (I sense an international Irish band ‘the’ pattern going on. Cue the people who say ‘But hey, what about U2’. Saved by a vowel). There was not an Irish tune to be heard. We tried in vain to dance a wee jig, but resorted to making shadow puppets and toss the sparkly green party hat on the head.
It was a ‘use your imagination’ night. So we went from questioning how many Jameson’s-fuelled babies were inevitably made that evening (if your birthday is December 17…), to pondering the best St. Paddy’s Day pick up lines.
“Kiss me, I’m Irish.”
“Want to see my pot of gold?”
“I’m a leprechaun and can make your wishes come true.”
It wasn’t long before we left and high-tailed it to the nearest servo for some pick-me-up chocolate. It felt like 10C outside, but one chick was making the most of the balmy cold-snap by wearing a green boob tube and mini.
The evening was concluded with a re-cap of Tuesdays random events, how sexy the Irish accent is, and discussing the up-and-coming costume party for the weekend. We did not mention a word about our St. Patrick’s Day evening. It was not worthy of words.
But I live in hope that next year a little leprechaun will perch on my shoulder and guide me to a Guinness laden land of jigging, mayhem, and potato tossing. Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about!