Romantic Ireland's dead and gone yadda yadda yadda...

For the first time in a few years Saint Patrick's day saw some fine weather and it was in a sprightly mood I headed over the town to catch the Kells parade.

I shouldn't have bothered. It was a fuckin disgrace.

In retrospect, I might have heeded the omens. As I neared the town, Mundy's execrable 'Galway Girl' drifted over the air from some far off hell. It was about then that I began to realise that the ginormous traffic jam of white vans full of sweaty gombeens I was walking alongside wasn't waiting for the parade to pass by. It was the parade.

Now, normally the Kells parade is nothing spectacular. We are not exactly the most cultured town, but we always manage to rustle a couple of marching bands (trucked down from the north in cramped containers) and get some weird 'oul local fella dressed up as St Patrick to throw a few green chupa chups to the kids. Because, really, what is a parade if not for the children? Sure, there might be a few local businesses advertising their wares, normally through handmade signs on the back of floats otherwise decorated. And you wouldn't begrudge them, because there would be enough colour and pageantry to amuse the youngsters elsewhere.

Not this year though. Nuh huh. This year the kids were treated to a grim, crawling procession of local small business fuckwits desperately advertising their soon to be defunct Celtic Tiger effluent. Van after van, truck after truck, all carting gigantic digitally printed signs offering us (and repeat after me in a North Meath monotone) Cavihhhy Wall Solushions, Timber management, Seweherage Disposaahl, Vehicaal Recoverrrrrreeeeee.... Most of the shameless cretins didn't even run to a green balloon or ribbon hanging off the aerial - the budget was obviously blown on the 20 foot hoarding behind the van. It was naked, cynical opportunism and a sickening reminder of aspects of Ireland of which none of us should be proud. St Patrick's day is our national holiday for fuck's sake, not a five minute commercial break on City channel.

Imagine, for a minute, that you are on holidays in some small European town. You find out that it is their national day and you'll be lucky enough to catch their parade. What do you expect? A bit of colour? Music? National dress? Or a never-ending cavalcade of dumpy little men offering the best value in septic tank management/solutions/recovery/delete as appropriate.


local businesses had been working on their colourful floats for months


this bright creation from Oristown Vehicle recovery was a particular hit with the kids.

The little fella next to me asked his mother if that was all there was this year? I wanted to grab him and say "No my son. No, that is not all there is. Because later, you can follow your dad down to the local pub and watch these scaldy buffoons take part in another age old Irish tradition. The one where they drink 8 pints of lager and bellow along to Journey's 'Don't stop believing' with the spit hanging from their chins."