We Need To Talk About Saint Patrick
Hi. It’s me, Saint Brigid, one of Ireland’s three patron saints! What do you mean, you thought there was just one? OUTRAGE.
Hi. It’s me, Saint Brigid, one of Ireland’s three patron saints! What do you mean, you thought there was just one? OUTRAGE. There are three of us. Me, Saint Columba, and that green-obsessed gobshite Saint Patrick.
Let me introduce myself: Brigid — Nun, fifth-century Abbess, Chicken Enthusiast. Patron Saint of Ireland and many other important things, including babies, blacksmiths, and poultry farmers. Poultry farmers take up most of my time, obviously. But Sweet Jesus, Mary, and the now-adult cubs of the Celtic Tiger, the prayers that come in!
But I’m not here to talk about poultry pleas through the centuries — March 17th is upon us, and we need to talk about Saint Patrick. Holy bank bailouts, the tired Irish stereotypes he loads on his parade floats! The leprechauns! The green-cloaked gingers! The sheer shamrockery! It’s the 21st century. We have a bushel of shiny new Irish stereotypes waiting to clamber on repurposed flatbed trailers and trundle down main streets of the world — and this is what he still insists on?
I don’t want to sound like a raging xenophobe, but can I point out that Saint Patrick wasn’t even Irish? Sure, we Irish stole him from Wales, enslaved him for six years to look after the sheep, and then he came back and converted the whole bloody island to Christianity, but whatever. I was born here, never left, and rarely utter sentences that don’t include Jaysus, Christ on a bike, or Sure, another cup of tea would be lovely. And I don’t get a parade?
People go on and on about Patrick driving the snakes out of Ireland and into the sea. So we’re celebrating someone who gleefully exterminated countless species and then boasted about it for millennia? My granny was around in Patrick’s day and she swore there were never snakes in Ireland. Not one. Everyone believing that Welsh snake murderer is annoying, but mostly I flagellate myself for not having invented ferocious flocks of fanged featherbeasts that I cast to the winds from a tussock outside Tubbercurry. (Float idea: instead of snakes… Chickens. With teeth?)
Patrick will only sanction three types of official headgear for his regressive revelries — leprechaun hats, tartan monstrosities with ginger tufts, and — shudder — Kiss Me I’m Irish hats. Jaysus, it’s as if we’re all still hirpling about, dressed in shawls and wisps of potato. I propose everyone don angular helmets created from mohair and whimsy by haute Irish hatter Philip Treacy, milliner to the stars. If helmets absolutely must offer some Kiss Me I’m Irish-type directive, my vote goes to “Engage Me In Conversation About Chicken Farming Subsidies, I’m an EU Citizen.” (Saint Columba suggested “Get Up On Me Tractor,” but he’s also a bit of a gobshite.)
Saint Columba says if it was his parade, he’d have a heifer or two and maybe a float covered in grass. But, as I mentioned — also a bit of a gobshite.
In place of the usual phalanx of ruddy-cheeked Texan step dancers, I suggest a float featuring a tight cluster of Sally Rooney lookalikes with copies of Normal People clutched to their bosoms. They’d cast furtive glances at the crowd, but avert their eyes to avoid any public exchange of emotion.
Where Patrick usually opts for some ginger waif wrapped in a shamrock cloak, plucking a harp and emoting wistful Irishness, my next float would have Saoirse Ronan. Yes, just Saoirse Ronan. Clear-eyed and intense, she would sit nursing her four Oscar nominations and her quiet passion. (Chris O’Dowd would bumble along behind in a comically small float shaped like a cartoon labradoodle. He’d alternate between hangdog Irish, surprised Irish, and exasperated Irish expressions.)
The next float would be entirely peopled by joyous flocks of other people also named Saoirse, looking smug and waving paper coffeeshop cups from around the world on which “Saoirse” is spelled correctly. Then three floats featuring sad people named Naoise, Roinseach, and Ceibhfhionn, clutching coffee cups saying “Noose,” “Runt,” and “Jim.”
Patrick’s a big fan of the Salmon of Knowledge, but she’s on sabbatical. Anyway, after the last year, what with the pandemic and Brexit’s shocking effect on the supply of the Emerald Isle’s confectionery products, it’s time for one of the lesser-known legendary Irish fishes to take a turn. I’ve left a voicemail for the Cod of Despondency.
