Irish dance may be a migraine set to music, and Irish cuisine is banned by international treaty from Guantanamo Bay. But when an Irishman orders a drink, my first instinct is to call out “For two – and make mine a double.”
I can’t remember a St. Patrick’s Day when I hadn’t made detailed plans. If I wasn’t travelling I had rounds to make hereabouts. I’ve marched in the New York City parade. I’ve seen the Dropkick Murphys in their St. Pat’s evening show on Landsdowne St. I’ve ridden the high speed line into Philly to wander South Street amongst the revellers. I’ve done the local Gettysburg rounds.
For the first year in recent memory, I am without a plan. And what minor plans I had – go to Philly, maybe train it up to New York – have been thwarted by an unloving and arguably malevolent God.
So we’ll try again on the day itself. Try to get somewhere with some action. Some place with a fire and ice cold Guinness. Some place worth being in on one of the finest days of the year. Some place to hoist a pint and proclaim a toast to Holy St. Patrick and the Race he brought to God.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day.