Dublin is a city of endless pacing. You could walk the same roads day for day, seeing the same faces and hearing the same conversations take place. I would be circling the streets, as I usually happen to do, yet, suddenly something has come upon the great city of Dublin.
I have found my habitual traversing interrupted by ungodly sights: Men. But this time in those dumbass flat caps – presumably trying to look like JFK Jr . . . Green. Everywhere. So. Much. Green: Green berets, Guinness sweatshirts, cringey t-shirts, headpieces with shamrocks . . .
Only one event could explain these sightings: St Patrick’s Day is upon us.
There are many ways to approach this momentous day. Some delude themselves into thinking that standing in the cold and watching a parade of American high school marching bands is the best use of their time. Others wisely place themselves in their local pub from the wee hours of the morning, getting whipped on pints with the auld, bald fellas of the parish, reaching a state of peak inebriation before the sun has set (which allows for the perfect bedtime of 8pm). Then there are the fortunate few who have the privilege of escaping the doomscape of Dublin altogether, flocking to their local hometown to spend the day in a more pleasant atmosphere.
As for myself, I will be pacing the godforsaken streets, frowning at the hordes of hooligans who have made my city their playground for the long weekend; then placing myself square in front of Dicey’s ready to flick peanuts at the morons paying 100 quid to enter the worst place in the world. If getting hit on by blacked out 18-year-olds is your goal for the night, be my guest. Just know I will be lurking in the shadows, judging you, ready to pounce like a seagull and shower you with perishable projectiles.
Oh, the month of March sees such frenzy take over this city. It is only in the past two years that I have noticed the true devastation. My first year at Trinity Hall, I was sheltered by the serenity of Rathmines. The 140 protected me from the crowded streets, placing me in front of College unscathed by the motions of the inner city.
Since moving to the Liberties, however, there has been no escape. My daily walk to College now takes me through Dublin’s most apocalyptic sites: St Patrick’s Park, the Caribou/Bambino’s/Fade Street Bermuda Triangle where neither pint nor pizza are seen for more than five seconds before inexplicably disappearing, and lastly, Drury Street — or as most people have come to know it — the one street in Dublin where you are sure to see every Hinge match you have ever ghosted.
These hotspots have always been, well, hotspots – there is not a day of drinking where the inner city could be considered anywhere near deserted. But as I was shoving myself through walls of flesh this weekend, it seemed that something was different. Fighting desperately to burrow my way through the city, I was attacked with an obscene display of Paddy-mania. Balloon wreaths are covering damn near every arch in the city. Every store has been canopied in paddy-galia from top to bottom. O’Connell Street has outdone its previous level of tourist catering: in front of the infamous Dublin Portal there now stands a huge light up shamrock only exceeded in gauche-ness by the insanely large, twinkling “Dublin” mural. Then there is that carnival in front of the Custom House, which reminds me of a wannabe London Eye, and the “D(insert shamrock)ublin” sign in front of Dublin City Council.
Somehow, this year, the city has got . . . tackier? I do not remember it being like this, but perhaps it is a post trauma reaction? Has my brain erased the cringey displays of Paddy’s past? Or maybe it is the sad result of the five year tourist plan . . .
I should have known it would be like this the moment they swapped out the eternal Christmas lights for shamrocks and erected the Colossus of Pados at the Temple Bar. The sight did not stay long. A whole 24 hours it took for the Dublin City Council to come to their senses. I am still confused as to their reason – as far as I can understand, it was not the patron saint himself that caused the stir, but rather the black painted Guinness he was equipped with. Perhaps they feared the Brits would try to drink it.
When I saw it at first, I could not lie, I was shocked. But upon further reflection, I have come to a new conclusion. “No wonder all the snakes left”, writes District Magazine – but I say he has got more scaring to do! Consider this my official petition to bring back The Statue of Paddy-ty to Temple Bar with an improved feature: the jump scare.
There is only one way to bring down the cost of a Guinness from €10.95 – it is as simple as supply and demand. If the price is low enough, even the most easily scared tourist will be encouraged to cross the great Paddy for a sweet €5 pint. Perhaps this will make the city habitable for the locals who have to budget for pint drinking every day of the year and not just for the long weekend.
Ah, lads I am only joking. Or am I? I guess you will never know. All I can say is that it fills me with the fury of a thousand fires that I have to pay €7 just to have my pint flung across the room by a Republican (American kind) donning Carroll’s finest printed t-shirts.
Oh how I loathe tourists, their obnoxious yelling, their gleeful expressions, their idiotic standing around, how they always find a way to stand right in the spot I am supposed to go and instead of moving out the way, they just keep standing and I do not want to be rude so instead I just end up being the classic meek, spineless worm, politely saying “Excuse me, I am sorry”, while I smile delightfully at the loud man and his posse of equally loud minions. I hate having to be pleasant, I hate that they are in my way, I hate having to make myself small as I squeeze through, holding my bag tight, I hate this street, this city, this damn, this damn… wait what is that? What is that sweet sound inching toward me? Could it be . . . the melodic ring of a certain Scandinavian language?
BY JOLLY IT IS! COMRADES, FELLOW DANES, MY LOVELY PEOPLE!
Oh, how sour I have become! How could it come to this! I, after all, am an immigrant too – who am I to judge the people partaking in the same hospitality that I have availed of? What have I even been saying?
Maybe that carnival is not THAT bad. Perhaps, the balloons and shamrocks are quite nice after all. Is there, maybe, a sense of pride in owning this part of Irish culture, no matter how commodified and extractive it has become? The colour green IS, at the end of the day, so lovely. And I love Ireland, I love Dublin . . .
For better AND for worse, St Patrick’s Day has dawned upon us. There is little to do, at the present moment, about the hordes soon to line up for the parade, little to do about the schools of boozers flooding the streets with their loud yelling.
Maybe, I have let my ego get the best of me. Perchance, this year, I will forgo my hateful judgement for just one night, sit down with the people I love and indulge in the finest Ireland can offer: drinks, music and great chat.
Happy St Patrick’s Day – do not let me regret coming to my senses.
