This is your dad (image via Pixabay)
This post ran originally on THUMP UK.
St. Patrick is probably the best of the patron saints because none of the other patron saints are really, really into tanning pints of Guinness and wearing oversized green felt hats. Sorry Francis of Assisi, the Archangel Gabriel, and Ignatius of Loyola the patron saint and military ordinariate of the Philippines—you're all undeniably top lads, but do you like a pint as much as old Paddy does? No, didn't think so.
Thank you, Patch, mate, for the snake-clearing and for giving people around the world an excuse to drink their own bodyweight in stout because they met a bloke who'd met a bloke who knew a bloke who used to live in Kilburn whose great-great grandad had spent a fortnight in County Mayo a while back. Andrew, David, and George, what have you ever given the rest of us? Fuck all. Sweet fuck all.
Today, you might have noticed, is St Patrick's Day, which means in a few hours time you'll probably be singing "It's a Long Way to Tipperary" while you watch the Father Ted Christmas special and slowly puke up thick strands of jet-black beef and ale stew all over your leprechaun outfit. And, naturally, you'll want to celebrate the big day in style. With that in mind, we did the honorable thing and found the five worst events you could go to tonight. Unless you want to have the ultimate Time Out friendly evening, of course.
This is you (image via Flickr)
When people tell you London is crap—which they do, all the time in fact, possibly because London is a bit crap—they're probably actually talking about the kind of London that's best typified by the aspirational-hellmouth that is Clapham. Clapham is objectively shit and anyone who enjoys living there or spending time there is very likely the result of some Satanic birthing ritual which leaves the resulting spawn wanting nothing more from life than a "decent neighborhood Italian place," and a high-ceilinged pub that charges £6 for an Amstel and shows the rugby. If the idea of eating very expensive sausage rolls while Benjy talks about his upcoming Tough Mudder in Kettering, all the while guffawing way too loudly at Dougal's whacky antics suits you, then why not visit The Grand? I've never been but I'm prepared to assume it is a fucking shithole. If, by some terrible, awful, unfortunate chance you do end up there, do the world a favor and chuck a heavy pint at whatever ruddy-cheeked cunt in red trousers decides to enter the "lovely girls" competition because it's "totally jokes, right?"
I don't know about you but I was brought up to believe that people who ate in the street were uncouth nitwits who probably didn't wash their hair enough, wore the same pants a few days in a row, and probably watched ITV. And perhaps it for that reason that the idea of street food is so repulsive to me. Ignoring the rank fetishization of other cultures' foodstuffs and the unbearable expensiveness of it all, the idea of eating a bowl of pho in a converted petrol station on a miserable Tuesday night, washing it down with a £6 Amstel, listening to the inane witherings of the assembled throng of fuckwits is, well, another scene ripped straight from hell's playbook. If, for some reason you associate Irish history and heritage with paying a week's wages on a parmo in a train station car park, knock yourself out. Literally. Find the nearest wall and test its strength with your forehead. Top of the morning to ya...is what you can say to the kindly nurse tomorrow morning.
Has nostalgia turned us all into jibbering know-nothings who flat out refuse to believe that culture can change and that that change is a good thing, and that we don't actually have to gasp with orgasmic glee every time we remember literally anything that's ever happened over the span of human history? Sorry...what did you say? I was too busy dunking my head in a vat of gunge like they used to do back on telly in the good old days when I used to wet the bed and shit in the garden and my mummy cut all my turkey dinosaurs up for me and my daddy used to share the bath with me and everything was fantastic. Why this club is only playing music from 1991 is beyond me, but hey, the past was AWESOME! It'll be so fun to hear all those songs that came out just before you were born, surrounded by people who had pubic hair back when you were a twinkle in an adolescent eye. I hope they play the Fresh Prince song, 'cos I love that one!
This is your best mates (image via Flickr)
Norwich is the least Irish place on earth. There is nowhere less Irish than the East Anglian city, and perhaps that's why you and your squad—AKA the three mates you've clung to like a social barnacle for years, despite the fact that you view them with a repugnant blend of pity, revulsion, and need—will be hitting the city's numerous nightspots for some Paddy's Day partying. Drink green shots in Mercy! Drink green shots in the Cabana Club! Drink more green shots in an alley behind Mercy! Watch your mate throw up all his green shots at Platinum Lace, the city's second most popular pole dancing club! Sing Irish rebel songs in the face of a confused and terrified kebab shop worker at 4AM, your breath reeking, your eyes pink and bulbous, your chin covered in charred chicken and bright green sick. What a way to spend the best day of the year! Oh, and you get a free hat too...now that's what they call the luck of the Irish!
Face it, March is a long month, you're skint, you don't have anyone to go out with anyway, so if you're going to join in with Patrick and the lads, you've got be be innovative. Why not smear your head and neck with the juice of three cheap tins of beans, wrap your torso and genitals with A4 paper you've nicked from the office printer, and kneel in the grass outside your local police station for the authentic Irish flag look. Then drink yourself into a stupor and try and forget that you're going to have to do this another 45 times before you croak it. Bottoms up!
Thanks again, Patrick!