Last month I attended (and not for the first time) St Patrick’s Day in America. There must be more Irish people in that country than in the whole of Ireland.
About 40 years ago I was in Aberdeen, Scotland, at the time of the offshore oil boom. I saw some funny sights with Texans looking up the family name and then ordering the kilt made from ‘their’ tartan.
All of this is lovely apart from them wearing it down the High Street complete with Stetson hat and cowboy boots – I even saw one with Spurs!
Not to be outdone I looked up my mother’s Irish name O’Farrell, only to find out it is one of the old Irish royal families and is allowed a cloth of its own which, of course, I immediately ordered (and they are not cheap).
This I wear with pride on St Patrick’s Day – but with work boots instead of cowboy and of course no Stetson.
A lot has been said about St Patrick – mostly by the Irish but it is normally kept quiet that he was British and only got to Ireland because he was captured by some Irish thugs on a raid to Britain in Roman times and taken back as a slave.
Well the boy done good, found good, and became a priest. I say all this because it’s a shame we don’t celebrate our Saint George with the same vigour.
I’m doing my best on the 23rd of this month (having been invited to two St George’s Day celebrations).
I’m at The Swan in Southwold in the daytime and at The Oaksmere at night – I just might take the next day off.
Well I am supposed to be retired! Yeah right!