Irish Rice Man
What a lot of Blarney. Shamrock-patterned Guinness, the flowing green Liffey and the generally elusive Leprechauns capering down sun-kissed O’Connell Street. The cities of Ireland, and indeed the developed world, come to a standstill to celebrate our patron saint. The sound of breaking glass, a brawl breaking out of a packed bar and Gardai raising their batons. Echoes of “Ole, Ole, Ole” and “Danny Boy” litter the air. The green sequined parade floats inch forward drawing happy cheers from the waiting crowd. Can you identify the stranger? And no, he’s not the fictional little person with the pot of gold.
March 17 has become inextricably entangled with visions of violence and public disorder. Last year alone, on St. Patrick’s Day, 407 arrests were made on the streets of Dublin. Widespread condemnation of our actions inevitably follows the next day. Hospitals are constantly under pressure to treat alcohol poisoning and incidents related to excessive drinking. The streets of our capital are alphabetized with the debris associated with drunkenness. What is it about this day, about this man, about the Irish psyche that contributes to the madness?
When asked about Saint Patrick, most people offer us the clichéd information that Saint Patrick was the guy who miraculously snuck out (or slithered) all the snakes out of Ireland. While I am aware that I should refrain from ridiculing our patron saint, it has long been a mystery to me how he managed to gather enough snakes to get rid of them considering the fact that post-glacial Ireland actually had no snakes. But apart from this well-known minor miracle or optical illusion, what is it about this man that leads us to excessive drinking and general misbehavior on the day of his celebration? Perhaps a brief profile of the man will answer some questions.
Saint Patrick, our patron saint and symbol of all things Irish, was born in Great Britain in the fifth century. It is widely believed that he was christened Maewyn Succat, he was kidnapped by pirates at the age of sixteen. After working a period of six years as a shepherd in Ireland, after being sold into slavery, Succat escaped to France, where he became a priest. Saint Patrick (a name he adopted after becoming a priest), now at the tender age of sixty, was entrusted by Pope Celestine with spreading Christian teachings in Ireland. Patrick’s most famous expression was his use of the shamrock to explain the Trinity (ie, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit as one).
Uninspiring is the word that most easily comes to mind. The Irish, people with Irish connections, people who wish they were Irish, anyone who has seen GAA or drunk Guinness, and people just looking for a party celebrate Rice Day on March 17, the date believed to be the death of our Patron. What are we celebrating? The idea that we are celebrating the memory of man is getting tiresome.
Aside from hiding a couple of snakes up his sleeve, the profile of the man and his work offer no clue as to why he should be so celebrated. There must be another angle. Could it be that we are celebrating being Irish? “If that is!!!!!!” I hear the guy in the green hat and pointy boots mutter, one hand propping him carefully against the wall, the other more lovingly grasping a pint of the black stuff. So explain to me why we constantly get drunk, break the law, and generally come across as a nation of booze-fueled pseudo-intellectuals bent on being outrageous and unpredictable. Would Saint Patrick have approved of such anti-Christian demonstrations on his feast day? Let me go out on a limb here and suggest that we’re just looking for an excuse to party.
Any apologies. Christmas, Easter, Birthdays, Anniversaries, a new year, a sporting event, winning a sporting event, losing a sporting event, finishing a week of work, a bank holiday, a sunny day, a promotion, a demotion, boring television or the fact that it’s just another day. But St. Patrick’s Day is Everest. It is the day when all our previous practice bears fruit, it is when we let go of everything, it is the climax. The bottom line is that the Irish don’t celebrate the memory of Saint Patrick, they don’t celebrate being Irish, they celebrate the fact that it is a day of celebration. Any apologies. The pub is not a destination, it is the destination. God created alcohol so the Irish wouldn’t rule the world.
We Irish have always been a bit backwards when it comes to moving forward. Isn’t it time we grew up a bit? This year, in the run-up to St. Patrick’s Day, there have been widespread calls for gated licenses to close their doors until mid-afternoon, four o’clock, have been silenced, in an effort to curb the violence associated with the day. Now, after considering this for a moment, I’ve come to the conclusion that yes, we may be a drunk and rowdy bunch, but we can be pretty sneaky. Does the closure of pubs and clubs on Good Friday and Christmas Day prevent us from consuming alcohol on these days? No, he does not do it. We Irish have come up with the devious idea of buying our alcohol the day before the shops and pubs close. This brilliant and well thought out idea, surely at the height of the Trojan Horse, seems to have eluded the attention of the authorities when they suggested that we open the licenses after hours on Paddy’s Day. So what do I suggest we should do?
After much deliberation, I have decided not to fill O’Connell Street with snipers and to adopt a shoot-to-kill policy. Instead, I have come up with the radical idea of throwing a few more of our brave Gardai into the streets and asking for a show of responsibility from both the public and publicans. Extreme, you could say. Presence is a powerful tool. Pro-action rather than reaction is what is required in this situation.