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The importance of being Irish 
I’ve never really liked the month of March. I’m not sure why
that is. After all it’s the beginning of spring (which means summer
is only a season away) but, for some peculiar reason or other, nothing
eventful or exciting ever seems to happen in my life in the third month
of the year.
Having said that, there is one day of March that I don’t mind so
much — or at least I didn’t mind so much!
It’s that one day of the year that won’t let me forget exactly
where I come from — March 17.
Despite also being the day the rubber band was patented and Nevada legalised
gambling (as Dave, the lovable but geeky guy from work helpfully informed
me), St. Patrick’s Day holds a special place in every Irish person’s
heart.
Well at least it used to!
The St. Patrick’s Days of my youth always began with Mass with a
piece of real shamrock proudly pinned to my lapel.
My piece of shamrock was never too big.
Some people used to wear pieces the size of a garden — they were
obviously extremely proud of the man who banished the snakes and brought
Christianity to Ireland!
And after church it was off to find a good viewpoint for the annual parade.
Dublin always had one of the best parades in the world — although
I never really envied those poor girls in the multi-coloured dancing costumes
trying to smile when it was freezing cold and about to rain.
When I moved to college in Galway the ritual stayed pretty much the same
except I didn’t always get to Mass as often as I probably should
have!
And I usually ended up wiling Ireland’s national holiday in the
company of friends.
When I moved to London I knew lots of things would be different but, to
be honest, St. Patrick’s Day never really entered my mind. That
was until last week in work.
I was arranging a meeting with one of the PR company’s biggest clients.
He said that Monday at noon would suit him best.
Opening the diary on the page headed Monday, March 17, 2008 I was just
about to jot his name down when I spotted something.
It had to be a mistake.
There were already five entries in the diary for that day — St.
Patrick’s Day!
There had to be some kind of mistake.
Nobody works on St. Patrick’s Day. Do they?
Well, nobody in Ireland that’s for sure!
London, always a place for firsts, wasn’t going to disappoint on
this occasion either.
For the very first time in my life I was going to be in work on St. Patrick’s
Day.
Luckily though that didn’t mean there wasn’t going to be a
celebration — I was reliably informed (via The Irish Post) that
the Mayor of London had decided to start a St. Patrick’s Festival
in 2002.
So off I headed to Trafalgar Square not on the 17th but the day before
St. Patrick’s Day. I have to admit I thought I’d feel out
of place.
Parades and festivals outside of Ireland never seemed the same. When I
was younger I always used to watch the footage of parades from around
the world on the six o’clock national news.
You always had the Americans — who liked to dye their rivers green
along with their beer and anything else that could be temporarily coloured.
And then there were always the other enthusiastic Irish-Americans —
wearing each one of the 40 shades of green, shamrocks painted everywhere
and dancing with the leprechauns.
I really didn’t know what to expect from the St. Patrick’s
Day celebrations in London.
But I was pleasantly surprised.
Despite fewer Irish accents there wasn’t much difference at all.
There was a typical parade from Hyde Park Corner with the usual mix —
street theatre companies, community groups, sports groups and dancers
freezing their knees off.
And then in Trafalgar Square a customary big stage with lots of Irish
music and dancing.
There were some novelties too — a ‘Paddy Field’ full
of people proud to be named after Ireland’s most famous saint.
They were trying to break a record of some sort — it was all for
charity though.
Wandering home later that night on the Tube I realised that it really
doesn’t matter where, or even when, you celebrate Ireland’s
national holiday.
I didn’t actually mind being in work on the real St. Patrick’s
Day after all.
I had been able to mark the occasion albeit a day early.
But that didn’t matter.
I was still allowed to celebrate, for one day at least, the importance
of being Irish. |
