Even Google have joined in with today’s remembrance of Maewyn Succat, the 5th century Briton who converted much of Ireland to Christianity. It was a mission whose somewhat unpromising roots lay in his kidnapping, aged 16, by pirates who sold him into Irish slavery. Having escaped at the age of 22 (thanks to a tip from God), he returned home, studied religious matters diligently and passionately, and eventually returned to Ireland with the Pope’s backing and an evangelical mission he discharged with great effectiveness for almost 30 years.
St Patrick, as he is better known, is a much-loved saint—not least by those nice fellows at Guinness and whoever owns the patent on the colour “shamrock green.” You’ll find few more profound takes on today’s global significance, however, than this meditation from the Stuff White People Like blog which, as ever, concludes with a handy hint for would-be whitey-lovers:
Most of the time, white people consider celebrations of European heritage to be racist unless they omit large swathes of the 16th through 20th centuries. But since the Irish never engaged in colonialism and were actually oppressed it is considered acceptable and encouraged to celebrate their ancestry. For this reason, 100% of white people are proud to claim that they are somewhat Irish.
A big part of St. Patrick’s Day is having white people feel particularly upset at the oppression of their ancestors that has in no way trickled down to them. If you find yourself talking with a white person who tells you about how their great grandfather was oppressed by both the English and the Americans, it is strongly recommended that you lend a sympathetic ear and shake your head in disbelief. It is never considered acceptable to say: “but you’re white now, so what’s the problem?”
It is also worth nothing that on this day, there is always one trump card that never fails to gain respect and acclaim. When you are sitting at an Irish bar and someone orders a round of Guinness, you must take a single sip and while the other white people are savoring their drink, you say: “mmmm, I know it sounds clichéd, but it really is true. Guinness just tastes better in Ireland”…
It is also strongly encouraged that you memorize the lyrics to “Jump Around.” It will come in handy.
In the interests of full disclosure, I have about 500 years of English blood trickling through me, with a dash of Scotch and a (possibly mythical) Mediterranean sailor. I have never been to Ireland, I do not know the lyrics of “jump around” and—like many of my white friends—I like Stuff White People Like.
It has always been acceptable in England to be racist about the Irish and still is. Such is life. More importantly, it’s my father’s birthday today. Joseph Patrick Kelly, one of the best greyhound trainers and fearless (if not successful) professional gamblers of all time, hard man, good judge of horses and boxers, excellent tenor, hater of plastic paddies, liars and amateur drinkers, was born on St Patrick’s Day in Kilrush, County Clare, 79 years ago. He taught me to question everything and get my retaliation in first: good advice at Irish weddings and funerals, where we traditionally engage in fist fights, but not so great when meeting HRH the Prince of Wales.
My father grafted to give me a better start than he had. He took no prisoners and made no excuses. I wish the same for my English son, Ned Kelly.