TWO years ago this column complained that the St Patrick's Day Parade in Dublin seemed to become diffuse, exhausted, weary by the time it got to my neck of the woods near the Broadstone Station. By that point the remnants of the march looked like the survivors of the retreat from Kabul, with, baffled clusters of Americans, waving little flags, constituting the major part of the marchers. What splendid dentists they appeared to have.
Last year I was at the perfectly splendid Roaring Twenties festival in Killarney, and so missed the parade in Dublin. I am therefore deeply touched that this year the organisers of St Patrick's Day in Dublin have decided to tackle the problem of the petering out parade not by insisting that people stay parading but instead simply by ending it on O'Connell Street, almost the moment it has passed the viewing stand.
Central feature of parade
The viewing stand, ah the viewing stand - of course that being the central feature of a St Patrick's Day Parade. Much more important than the unwashed masses of north central Dublin being able to see the parade - and how very splendid that corporate entertainment principles have entered the St Patrick's Day picture. Twenty five pounds will get your bum on a seat in the reviewing stand, where you can watch the parade members take evasive action the moment they have passed you, and scatter and break like a convoy being attacked by battleships.
Still, we on the Northside should no doubt feel moved, flattered and touched that the march organisers have even deigned to cross O'Connell Bridge and enter the land where the Baluba live, if only for a querulous 100 yards before the paraders do a U turn back and go scampering back towards the safety of the Southside, squealing hysterically.
How nervous those intrepid souls must be, even crossing the Liffey. Do they all troop into Confession beforehand and purge themselves of their sins? Are the paraders even now going through unarmed combat courses, and will they creep across O'Connell Bridge, swathed in Kevlar bodyarmour, dodging from parapet to parapet and making a dash in front of the cameras before fleeing back to the Southside?
The cameras, the cameras; that is, of course, probably why the march is even contemplating entering the Northside, for O'Connell Street remains, alas, the only wide sweep of boulevard in Dublin. How terribly, terribly regrettable, Vanessa; all those grubby little proles, simply covered in impetigo, my dear, and all sorts of other nameless skin diseases, scrabbling around your feet.
Population difference
The thing to do, my dear, is to hurl a few coppers into the Liffey. You should see the little urchins diving in, such fun, and the really marvellous thing is that so few of them can actually swim. Though you'd hardly notice the population difference, overall, no matter, how much you throw in, they breed like rabbits over there, most of them probably don't even know how many children they have, I remember I threw in guineas last year, guineas, in farthings, yet by the end of the day I was still surrounded by hordes of these unwashed urchins, absolute hordes, my dear, absolute hordes.
So why is this happening? Why is the parade becoming a Southside beanfeast? Why can the parade not be a proper promenade through the city, rather than just a stroll through the Southside, Vanessa, all fearfully fashionable, with a quick dash over the Liffey so the bods on the viewing stand can see us, and more to the point, we can he seen by all the television cameras, and then a quick sprint back to the dear old Southside before we get an assegai in the bottom, courtesy of one of the natives? Fearful bwoots over there, Van, oh uttah, uttah bwoots.
St Patrick's Day is now an international affair, it is unstoppable, it is the national day of Ireland all over the world, in countries which do not know what or where Ireland is.
For them Ireland is some distant, dreamy concept, out of which emerges that splendid black beer, Guinness. It is only fitting that Guinness should be sponsoring Paddy's Day binges all over the world - in some 60,000 pubs, says a Guinness press release, from New Zealand to Croatia, from Paris, to Moscow.
Equal of Bastille Day
I daresay Dayaks in Malaysia, Incas in Peru, Hottentots in the Kalahari will also be reverencing the memory of St Patrick sooner or later. March 17th threatens to become an international festival the equal to Bastille Day or July 4th, and no harm in that. The image of Ireland has been set for so long by murderers and terrorists that it can only be improved by the jolly and convivial fictions about St Patrick's Day.
But they are truly fictions. The parade used to consist of three muddy lorries from Mr O'Brien and a troupe of freezing nymphets from Florida, most of whom died of exposure before reaching Parnell Square. Their frozen little corpses were stacked by the horse trough outside the Gate Theatre, for collection by the American Embassy.
St Patrick's Day specialised in freezing sleet and howling gales, but not drink. Alcohol sales were banned on that day. Pubs were shut. Overall, it was the most miserable day in the year. Razor blade sales were outlawed because so many people tried to do away with themselves. People sat at street corners licking boot polish and trying to burn themselves to death with the sun's rays, using magnifying glasses; with little effect. A March sun, forsooth.
Forget about notions telling us about the good old days. St Patrick's Day these days is far more fun, the marches are better, and with Guinness's involvement in particular, it is now a genuinely international affair. We should all be delighted. I will express my delight by sitting at the Broadstone Station on St Patrick's Day, waiting for the squads of gallant Americans with the teeth, the sweaters and the tiny tricolours. They, I'm sure, will not let me down.