Begorrah

It's been some weekend. On Saturday, the Map Twats went to Stafford and bought artisan cakes and ale, and oatcakes (proper Staffordshire ones mind, not those crunchy Scottish things), then went for a glorious walk on Cannock Chase, avoiding the doggers and visiting a barrow near the delighfully-named Milford. A quick pizza-break at Dan and Georgie's then on to Brewood for real ale to celebrate Phil's birthday, having witnessed some classic street theatre - teenagers being actually frog-marched by the scruffs of their necks for a secluded beating.

Come Sunday and it's off to Brum for St. Patrick's Day parading (not restricted to our Orange brethren). I went with Emma (from Limerick) and Neal. It was everything I hoped (and remembered from last year): ramshackle charm, as though the event was organised by Father Ted. The floats were all on loan from construction companies, reinforcing the preception that the Irish in Britain are all navvies. The music rarely strayed from the Dubliners' Greatest Hits, though some pipe bands were pretty good (silence greeted the West Midlands Police pipe band, unsurprisingly).

Best of all, the participants were a random collection of people who wanted to be in a parade. I didn't notice anything distinctively Irish about the stream of Volkswagen camper vans (Volk Music, anyone) or tractors, one featuring a stunt driver dressed as a priest. I did appreciate the irony of the Abstinence Pioneers of the Sacred Heart marching on St. Patrick's Day (though looking back, their banner didn't specify from what they were abstaining.

I loved it. Despite a sea of people waving and wearing the usual tat, there was a complete absence of irony or glamour. When the Celtic Tiger is officially declared extinct, we'll be left with the authenticity of red-faced men wearing Mayo or Galway GAA tops straining to control serious beer bellies, women dressed in dowdy, comfortable clothing and smoking furiously, all suspicious of glamour, style, fashion, and the activities of the jet-setting élite which has taken over the country. Celia Ahern, the Smurfit billions and U2 (tax-evading scum) can go feck themselves. This is the real Ireland (perfect illustration to follow when Emma sends me the photo I took on her mobile).