Irish Bars are a scourge upon the world, making the citizens of earth believe that all Irish people do is drink Kilkenny beer, collect Guinness ads from the early twentieth century and watch English soccer on TV. When in fact, only the last of these is true.
It’s hard to find a village these days anywhere on the globe that does not host a Bridie O’Reillys Irish Pub. They are as endemic and culturally accurate as McDonalds and yet on one day a year, it seems that there are not enough. 17th March is a day that when the world kindly allows the Irish to drink, urinate and vomit in public. It is probably the only national day on earth that is recognised and celebrated by people from all countries. The only national day where getting drunk is considered to be the best tribute you can make to a saint and the only national day where parades are allowed to be more flamboyant than Gay pride marches.
As I stood in the queue for PJ O’Briens on Melbourne’s south bank (the promise of “curry chips” had encouraged me to wait in the 40 degree heat) last Monday, the thought struck me that any enterprising bar in the City should have the sense to throw up a couple of green balloons and they would benefit from the overflow from the City’s over stretched fake Irish pubs.
I decided to investigate and low and behold just 40 metres down the bank, the World Bar had decided to get in on the action. They had the full balloon quota and had hired a rinky dinky little Irish band to entertain the patrons. They say that Guinness deteriorates the further you get from St James Gate. Well the same is true of Irish music. The best I’ve ever heard was in Connors Pub in Doolin in County Clare. The worst I’ve heard was in the World Bar on St. Patrick’s Day 2008.
As I entered, I spied the singer crouched over the mike with a hand clasped to his ear like Van Gogh on the way to hospital. He looked to be in so much pain that I was sure I was witnessing the first male child bearing act. My mind analysed the available data and I assumed that they had opened up the karaoke early for patrons who had been drinking all day. I settled in to try and figure out which song he was murdering when it became clear to me that he was the actually the official lead singer (and the only Irishman in the group as it turned out) and was managing to sing “Dirty Old Town” in a more drunken and incoherent manner than Shane McGowan had ever managed.
By the third or fourth song, it became clear that his approach was to sing each song in the voice of the original singer. Creativity was clearly not part of their plan. They did try something funky for “Molly Malone” but maybe this was only because there is no original voice to sing this in, unless you want to imitate South Dublin rugby tossers. The singer dropped his voice for the sad verse at the end of “Molly” and hugged the microphone like a drunk clinging to a lamppost on his journey home.
The verse would have had a better impact if he hadn’t just song it as the verse before. For that is the greatest fault of Irish bands that ply their trade in the Southern Hemisphere. Not only can they not sing, but they don’t know the bloody words. Like the guy in the kitchen at parties who knows the first verse and chorus to every song in the world but doesn’t know the second verse of any.
But the old folks who were there seemed to appreciate it. They got up to waltz to the “Green Fields of France” and for a moment St Patrick smiled benignly upon the exiles in Melbourne.
Then I saw another Guinness hat in the shape of a Shamrock and saw what St Patrick’s Day had become. Another human sacrifice at the altar of consumerism. Another opportunity to globalise, homogenise and standardise. Guinness are doing their best to buy the rights to St. Patrick’s Day and turn it into a global advertising campaign. When we were kids, we wore green rosettes and shrubs of shamrock with healthy portions of mud attached. We watched the Fire Brigade and Boy Scouts march down Main Street and we guiltily consumed mid Lenten sweets.
Now it seems impossible to celebrate without wearing a Guinness advertisement on your head, all of which are designed to perpetuate a cultural stereotype. Sure aren’t we all leprechauns at heart.
Not to be outdone, Heineken were keen this year to get in on the act. They are a Dutch brewing company but who’s going to complain when they’re handing out funny green hats. Some whiz back at head office had come up with the novel idea of giving out scratch cards with each purchase of their fizzy beer. The possible prize on offer was a green paper hat with the word “Heineken” liberally emblazoned upon it. No doubt they are still laughing in the board room back in Amsterdam at the thought of drunken Irishmen buying more and more of their tawdry product in the hope of becoming a walking advertisement for their beer.
I left as the band chose Van Morrison as their next victim for the firing squad. The river bank was crowded with drunken backpackers and the more established Irish community. Green was the dominant colour with the figure hugging rugby jersey being the most popular. In Sydney people tend to wear their County GAA jersey on St. Patrick’s Day. Melbourne has an older, more established Irish community and as with everything Sydney is brasher and more in your face.
I like the fact that Melbourne is more reserved and cultured. Unfortunately that means we didn’t get a parade whereas Sydney did. That seems a shame and next year I’d welcome one, even if it had to be sponsored by Guinness and Heineken.
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