Laughing at ourselves in green suits and leprechaun hats is one tradition we should never give up, writes Róisín Ingle.
DON'T MIND what they say about us being all modern and cosmopolitan and sophisticated. Some of us are still adapting to this St Patrick's Day festival/ mardi gras/ shindig/four-day hangover yoke.
You see once upon a time we knew exactly what Paddy's Day was. Back then it lasted one day, not four. It was bread vans on parade not vast creations worthy of Jim Henson but inspired by Jack B Yeats swooping down from the sky. It was people drinking cans not "baby raves" in Temple Bar. It was lots of litter not healthy walks from Howth to Dún Laoghaire. It was green, white and orange and whatever you're having yourself missus and jaysus no that's not a toilet it's, ah, just forget it, you're after doing it anyway. And now? Well now it's a very different kettle of shillelaghs, that's what it is.
Of course some things never change - like politicians legging it to the furthest flung corners of the globe and Dublin Bus putting on a Sunday (ha!) service for one of the busiest days in the capital. But even so as darkness fell on Dublin yesterday, you couldn't help reflecting on the changes.
For starters the streets looked somehow cleaner than after every other St Patrick's Day. Either we've got tidier (doubtful) or the city council have become more efficient (possible) or all the other nationalities are so desperate to be invited to our party that they've started picking up after us on the sly (probable).
And here's another of these changes that have snuck up on us over the past few years: The most steadfast commitment to getting the best spot for watching the parade is no longer coming from people actually born here. At 9am, walking quickly in the drizzle, past Parnell Square, Nigerian Samson Samuel and his family were on a mission.
"We want to get the best spot for the main event," said Samson (24) who was with his wife Terry (22) and their children Sylvia (4), Peace (2) and Jade (nine months). They have been in Ireland for six years but have never watched the parade live. Up since 6am they talk about how "accommodating" Ireland is, how they love Guinness, how they met on Moore Street, how they named their second child Peace because of the solace they found here after a troubled life in Africa. And while they are saying all this it's like a movie: the rain suddenly stops, the sun comes out and they find the perfect parade-watching spot for the family. Then you stop into an Irish souvenir shop and ask about business. "See them?" an assistant says pointing at a vast selection of inflatable hammers. "We'll sell 200 of them in a hour."
Change? What change? We head down to our place in the grandstand on Westmoreland Street where a very nice French man tells us he is saving the seat beside him for his girlfriend. Which is fine except for all of a sudden the theme tune from Wonder Woman starts up and the next second his girlfriend is standing in front of him jigging about in a Wonder Woman outfit being filmed by RTÉ cameras. And then she's saying how much she loves him and that's when you realise all his family and friends from France are behind her dressed in stripy jumpers and strings of onions. Now she's asking him to marry her and this poor mortified Frenchman called Guillame Ezan, well of course he says yes. The goosepimpled Wonder Woman is called Vicky Heaphy and she's done all this as part of a new RTÉ programme called Marry Me. If it's even a tenth as entertaining on telly as it was in the flesh you need to watch this episode. A marriage proposal? By a woman? So fantastic it upstages the parade before it's even begun? It just would never have happened Back In The Day.
Here's some other snapshots that suggest St Patrick's Day or festival or mardi gras or whatever you want to call it is no longer an exclusive club made up of short skirted marching bands (in short supply, sadly, this year they mostly wore tracksuits) or legless, brainless litterbugs who you have to keep apologising to your foreign cousins for (although, in fairness, they will always be with us): Here's to the woman wearing a gold lame dress and shamrock splattered wings drinking wine in the window of the Shelbourne Hotel. To the people valiantly attempting to watch the parade through the specially erected covering designed to make you "move along please" near Trinity College.
Here's to the two female friends who turned heads all the way down Grafton Street wearing ra-ra skirts, ripped up T-shirts and a smile. Aren't you cold? "No, we're really hot," they said.
And here, finally, is to Patrick Kavanagh's fans and friends who every year since 1969 have marked the unveiling of his canal-side bench near Baggot Street bridge, who did it this year remembering the poet's belief that the right kind of loving laughter is the most poetic thing in life. And if we can't laugh at ourselves on St Patrick's Day, droopy headboppers, snot green suits, leprechaun hats and all, then it's just one change too far.