Twisty darling, I knew I wouldn’t be able to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day properly here in Los Angeles, so thank you for bringing that little taste of how it should be done.
Thankfully, I have Monday off from work, so methinks I’m going to find an appropriate place to park my ass for some beer that night
St Pat’s in five hours’ time here in Sydney.
It’s gonna be a big one here. It is every year.
Better get down to the Mercantile Hotel at The Rocks for a pint o’ the good stuff.
Lets sing some Irish Songs!
I’m a Rambler, I’m a Gambler
I’m a long ways from Home
Well, if you don’t like me
Well, leave me alone!
I’ll eat when I’m Hungry
I’ll drink when I’m Dry
If the Moonshine don’t Kill me
I’LL LIVE 'TILL I DIE!
And I’m off to Dan O’Connells in Carlton (Melbourne, Aus.) to enjoy some slante (how do you do an ‘accent’ on this board??), some green beer, and some eternally depressing recountences of ‘The Troubles’. They get a strange lot in Dan’s on St. Pat’s night, but we’ll all end up as comrades at the end of the night. However, I’ll leave after the eighth drunken rendition of ‘Danny-Boy’…a person can only take SO much after all!
Oh, and TwistOfFate, that was the best read I’ve had in a long time!!!
Give us a ‘retrospective’ when you regain consciousness OK?
(The sunnies are on because I’ve already been imbibing and I don’t want anyone to see my rheumy eyes, even though the sun has just about gone down here in Eastern Aus)
It truly, truly brings a tear to my eye that I didn’t meet any Irish Dopers when I lived in Dublin back in '98.
Of course, since I didn’t know of the existence of this Board back then, it would just have been called “drinking”, and not a Dopefest.
I’ve been listening to Celtic Thunder and the Chieftains almost exculsively for the last 48 hours (esp. The Streets of Belfast) and maintaining with nips of Jameson’s. Poor sad sod that I am, I got spoiled by the Guinness in Dublin town and can’t stand the stuff in the US. I’ll make do, though.
Twisty my good man, you’ve left out one important part to the tradtional piss-up: the obligatory late-night /early morning visit to Abekebabra. Vile though it may be, sometimes it’s what you need. Followed, of course, by drinking straight vodka in a park, stumbling home and sleeping for thirteen hours, then having a massive fry-up.
(For those uncertain about the contents of a fry-up, here’s a partial list)
fried eggs
fried bacon, back or streaky
white pudding
black pudding
potato cakes
sausages
chips
baked beans (Heinz, please)
fried tomatoes
fried mushrooms
gammon
fried bread
Cover the lot with ketchup or brown sauce depending on your perversion and dig in. Guaranteed hangover cure, if you have a wee Guinness or Buck’s Fizz with.
As for my own plans, they involve a few close friends (Arthur Guinness and John Jameson), some live people and sitting round my living room slagging the historical perfidy of the British. Sadly, there’s work Monday.
Christ. my head.
Tonight, Fat Boy Slim. Music, drink, and dancing.
I am planning on staying drunk for 24 hours tomorrow.
And Abrakebabra can turn you green at any time of the year.
My to-do list for the weekend:
Go shopping and buy the following:
-corned beef
-cabbage
-potatoes
-Guinness
Rent the Quiet Man (a family tradition)
Make some Irish soda bread and cook everything else that I bought
Watch the Quiet Man while drinking and eating
Here are bits of Irish songs from the movie:
“The Shannon we crossed in a boat
I lathered 'em with me shillelagh
for he trod on the tail of me
mush mush mush too roo li addy
singin’ mush mush mush too ri li ay
and I lathered him with me shillelagh
for he trod on the tail of me coat”
“There was a wild colonial boy, Jack Duggan was his name
He was born and bred in Ireland, in a place called Castlemaine
He was his father’s only son, his mother’s pride and joy
And dearly did his parents love the wild colonial boy”
“As I went out one morning it being the month of May
A farmer and his daughter I spied along my way
And the daughter sat down quite calmly to the milking of her cow
Saying ‘I will and I must get married for the humour is on me now’”
Incidentally, I’ve thought of naming a son (when I have kids) Patrick but spelling it Padraig. He’d probably hate me for it.
Have fun and be safe Twisty! Happy St Pat’s!
I shall celebrate with a little green of my own. 
Would someone grant me the favor of a translation?
“la Feile Padraig Beannacht Dibh.”
Well, it sorta means Happy St Patrick’s Day. But Twisty’s got it a bit garbled Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig Oraibh is how it’s usually written, and it literally means “The blessings of St Patrick’s Day to you”.
Thank you rudah, now can you help us wannabe’s with the prononciation?
um, roughly:
BAN-uch*-tee nuh FAY-luh POR-ig OR-uv.
*that’s the ch sound as in “Bach”
Looks like you took some classic Irish advice…“Avoid hangovers. Stay drunk.”
I arrived home last night from a ski trip to France.
To my utter horror, my fridge was entirely devoid of Guinness.
(Yes, the sissy widget cans. Still working on that mainline connection to St. James’ Gate. ;))
Luckily, a bottle of Jameson saves the day.
So: here’s to that weird and beautiful green island a few hundred clicks west.
And here’s to the fine inhabitants of said isle I’ve ever had the pleasure to raise a pint of stout with. And to those with whom I will in the future.
I think I’ll include my new sig. It somehow seems, I dunno, appropriate. 