WEPT FOR ST.PADDIO, GOT FRISKY IN THE BAR-O

The Night before Paddy's day I had a dream, I dreamt St. Patrick himself came to me, and said "Jaysus, your dreams are pretty fucking boring if you're dreaming about me..." He then prattled on for a little bit, but it was so boring that I don't really remember what it was about.

Who's this? He came to Ireland circa 432 and rid the island of its snakes, he systematically united all of Ireland's warring tribes through Christianity, and he went from place to place, everywhere leaving miracles in his wake. That's right - it was Bono. He's done pretty much everything. 1798? 1916? The guy who first accidentally tasted a black industrial effluent and decided that it should be bottled as the worlds finest stout-cum-emulsifying agent? All Bono. No wonder he wears orthopedic trousers (aka leather pants), he must be fucking knackered.

On Patrick's day itself I was a foreigner enjoying Paddy's day. I went with some Johnny foreigners (none of whom, strangely, were named Johnny) to Croke park, in order to misinform them about the rules of Gaelic football. "Why does he sometimes bounce and sometimes kick it into his hands?" the Portuguese girl asked me "Well", says I "ye see, the ref is given them all points for style, it's like Pop Idol you see, that's why they call it 'soloing'." Then: "Why does he kick it OVER the bar and not under?"... "Ah well ya see, see yer man up there in the crowd? last week he sneaked into HIS field and fisted HIS sheep, so now he's trying to give him a concussion"... "Why are they beating the shit out of each other?"... "Again, it's points for style, think of it as the most psychopathically violent ballet in the entire world" - "Is that why that person is wearing a tutu?"... "Eh no, that's RTE sport correspondent Colm Murray... that's what he ALWAYS wears, under his desk."

Then on into The Porterhouse to meet two divine Estonians (word to the wise, if you ever want to enjoy Patrick's day to the full, surround yourself with lovely foreigners, they think you're brilliant just cause your Irish - the ONLY time of the year that happens to me!) It was packed more than a tin of sardines with tight trousers and giganticism. There was plenty of Irish dancing and I tried a bit of my 4th class-educated 'one-two-threes', but there was only room for 'halves'. The merriment was put in peril however, when one of the bouncers assumed I was having some sort of fit, and pinned me to a surprisingly painful set of exposed nails. Upon realisation that my manic jogging on the spot was in fact my interpretation of 'The Irish Rover' I was released, with a caution. I mentioned the name of Michael Flatley however, and he became somehow more understanding and less critical. I convinced The two Estonians, Butterfly and Evie (their requested pseudonyms) that it was all an Irish tradition and it was all part of the dance. Strangely, they accepted this violent fiasco as an Irish tradition, and continued with their celebratory antics (which was having a boogie while I minded the bags).

Then onto a party in UCD, after Evie and I got Butterfly onto a bus and prevented her from stealing a map of Dublin (honestly, for most people it's beer glasses or ashtrays!). There I celebrated the death of the holiest man in Ireland (apart from Bono) by numbing myself to the world with Cognac, red wine and Estonian Vodka, listening to an yet another Estonian girl tell me how sexy Irish men were. I left that night in high spirits after being physically threatened by her hugely discontented and extremely blonde boyfriend. And then I dreamt of St Patrick again, this time surrounded by a harem of Estonian beauties who were all complimenting him on the size of his crook. "Not so boring NOW are you?" I called over to him, as he begins to use the anology of the shamrock to infer a threesome.
And I watched.