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This was a nightmare of a day for me growing up. My Irish blood was currency in Canada and I was always summoned to the front of the class on St Pat’s to give a presentation about the history and nature of Ireland. I was nervous and shy, so from about seven years old I was doing the presentations smashed, having become adept at sneaking bottles of Jameson’s from my father’s hefty collection. Teachers thought it was cute and endearing, remarking how I affected a slur and a stagger while crashing around the classroom. At the age of eight I showered the class with a multitude of grass snakes, a collection I had begun acquiring seven months before. Out of Ireland, you fuckers! I cried, flinging the terrified reptiles at equally queasy Grade Fours. When I was nine I punched out a class mate who pointed out I had urinated in the cloakroom. By the time I was ten my presentations were angry and incoherent, but I was giving them in the auditorium in front of the entire student body. I would rage against the English, bad weather and overcooked sausages. The rose was off the bloom by the time I hit twelve and had just flunked out of my first stint in Alcoholics Anonymous, juvenile division. The charm had disappeared and now I was just wild and bloated, incorporating savage curses and passing references to James Joyce into crazed invocations to both our Druid forefathers and King Clancy. When I turned thirteen I was advised my talents were no longer required. I was washed up. Morose and sour reminiscences of what I fondly recall as the “good ole days” now mark my St Pats revelry. If you see me in the pub today, spare a moment and ask me the meaning of St Pats. God help me but I’ve a grass snake or two to lob in your direction…