Thanks to climate change, the weather is fairly mild this year, which means there weren’t so many blue-thighed obese-children marching in bands, but even one is more than we need, and anyway, what we lack in fat frozen children, we make up for in loud drunken knackers filling the less discerning pubs with double buggies and stuffing their obnoxious offspring with crisps and fizzy drinks.
Long ago, St Patrick’s Day represented some sort of vague, ill-defined celebration of something. What that something was, people weren’t too clear about, but it involved children buying cheap little badges, grown-ups wearing lumps of clover on their lapels for no obvious reason and local businesses promoting themselves by driving trucks slowly through the city with signs on them.
That was the St Patrick’s Day parade, and that was the end of it. Nobody went out and got hammered. Nobody threw up in the church — that was reserved for Midnight Mass at Christmas. People just went home again because, I suppose, they had no money.
Ah, the good old days.
Here’s a few pics from a time when people knew their place.
After all that excitement, a fellow would need a pint.