Comments on life, the universe and everything from an aging Sixties survivor.

Location: Massachusetts, United States

Ummm, isn't "about me" part of the point of the blog?

Friday, March 16, 2012

Be careful what you wish for

There are, of course, fewer Welsh than Irish. The latter, for a variety of reasons, won the fecundity derby long ago. They also won the emigration derby hands down 150 years ago. Well, well, beware success and assimilation.

It's been a mere five years since St. Patrick's Day fell on a weekend. You'd think it had been 50. What remains a solemn religious holiday in Ireland, what is a day of thoughtfulness and reflection (as well as jollification) among the better-informed Irish-Americans, has morphed. It is now an occasion of thoughtless, amateur drunkenness, chiefly celebrated by people in green plastic hats, with plastic shillelaghs, without a drop of Irish blood among 100 of them. They drink themselves shit-faced on American light beer with green food colouring, eat a dish of corned beef and cabbage, and think they're Irish for a day. They don't know who Saint Patrick was*. Hell, if it wasn't for the financial meltdown, they wouldn't know what Ireland is and they don't know how to find Ireland on a map. The Aer Lingus gate is all they need.


Better by far to be Welsh, to have a country no American ever heard of, and a holiday known only within the British Isles. Obscurity belongs only to itself: celebrity is owned by the world.

*St. Patrick was born in Wales. Heh.



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