Because most, maybe all, of this blogs’ readers are foreign to Ireland, I think today would be an appropriate time to enlighten you with the history of our patron Saint, Patrick. By all accounts he was a fine gentleman. A stick carrier, one which he was seen to wave, his story is full of prime-time drama and heartbreak. One cannot but be amazed by this tale retold countless times by old Irish nuns without a tooth or a brain cell in their decrepit, old caverns. Unfortunately many of its nuances will be lost in this retelling, as I have limited time to recount it. Some details also are hazy in my head but that is sure to make a more interesting version of events, which will no doubt be a blessing rather than a curse. But enough excuses from me. Here it is.
After threatening to punch baby heads one time too many, a young fourteen-year-old Patrick was exiled to Wales at the request of his mother. She had raised him from a foetus, which she won in a raffle in Carrig-on-Fergus while on a daytrip with her beau at the time, soon to be her husband. As a young girl, Patricks mother had lost her womb in a particularly vicious Viking attack, so, as you can imagine, this prize seemingly came as a blessing directly from the Lord Jesus.
For years she nourished and cared for the young Patrick until he was old and well enough to ride the cow into town for groceries. This proved to be a defining moment for Patrick, one that would guide his path for the following twenty years, as it was in town where he first caught glimpse of a baby and felt his punching urges awaken.
Several disturbing incidences later, Patricks mother had enough of paying for cosmetic surgery, then called plastic surgery as it involved melting Tayto crisp packets and shaping the viscous liquid into a jaw bone or eye socket as was needed. She contacted the local British chief of police, as Ireland was under British rule at the time. He agreed to take Patrick away from her in return for either a young bullock or a sexy roll in the hay. The choice was hers. The former proved too precious to her and was the means for her livelihood, so she agreed to the latter, which was tough decision for a single, Catholic mother to make but one which seemed absolutely fundamental in ridding herself of that ‘rotten boy’. After the fire in the barn was exhausted, so to speak, Patrick was ferried across the Irish Sea and dumped in a small Welsh Village, called Grrrrllllleeeuuuunnngggghhhggghhhggghhhhh.
While there, our patron Saint quickly made steadfast friends with a sheep farmer named Patrick Stewart, who is an ancestor to the famous actor and star ship captain William Shatner. The farmer and our young Saint both shared a love for whittling and would spend countless hours carving wood into silly figurines. Examples of his handicraft can be found in the Irish Museum of Art and Potatoes, located in Dublin, Ireland. They mostly include sheep in poses of a sexual nature but some are very delicate recreations of local flora.
Information of his time spent in Wales is sketchy at best but it has been said that the sheep he tended ate very well, Patrick himself partaking in their gruel on occasions when he felt too lazy to put on some toast. Nothing else is known of his time, except for when he returned to Ireland aged twenty-nine, he had a beard and carried a stick. Consequently it can be deduced that he grew a beard and bought a stick.
Undeterred by the time spent away, he returned to Ireland eager to rekindle his relationship with his mother and childhood land. In texts written by his biographer Eamonn Dunphy, it is noted that he felt a ‘pull in his soul’ to return and rid Ireland of all the evils that have blighted her for centuries. It came as no surprise then when he bought a pair of tax-free boxing gloves for punching at babies.
However babies remained unpunched, as a new problem emerged from Irish thickets with a slither. Snakes. The gloves proved ineffective against the biblical villains, so Patrick was forced to change his tactics, instead renting a plane from Aer Lingus with which to fly those arrogant bastards out of this fair green country. This journey has been exploited into a feature film starring Samuel L. Jackson as Patrick, titled Snakes on a Plane, due later in the year. This is also where the association of the shamrock to St. Patrick first took form as Aer Lingus uses its silhouette as their brand image.
His efforts a complete success, Patrick spent the rest of his life walking the roads and having babies with as many strange women as possible in preparation for the forthcoming exodus, or potato blight. Although he was never seen as particularly smart while alive, history has shown that Patrick possessed great foresight. He raised hundreds of children, all of whom were all sent to foreign countries to spread his legend and man local police forces. This tenuously explains why St. Patricks day is celebrated on March 17th around the globe.
Although 100% Irish, I have never prescribed to the unofficial tradition of going out and getting shit-faced on St. Patricks day. That’s just silly. Instead I intend celebrating the occasion with more class, so I’m staying in doors and snorting long lines of coke off dead hookers. It may surprise you to learn that getting the dead hookers was the easy bit.
Anyway, I hope you have learned something from this post about our fabled Saint and why he is celebrated yearly on March 17th. It is important to me that you have so tell your friends about St. Patrick and brighten their day for just a minute. They are sure to love it