It's St Patrick's Day, a day of mixed memories for me. Mainly happy ones, except for 1981 when my brother's funeral was held, but I won't go into that right now because I don't wish to be maudlin. Like many Aussies, I can claim some Irish heritage. I have memories of singing 'Hail Glorious St Patrick' when I was a little tacker at the local convent school, and picnicking by the local river. Naturally, a slime fight would ensure, and kudos abounded for any kid who managed to hit a nun with slime. There would have been a kick in the arse for that little turd who send a dank, slimy green missile right into my face, could I have caught him once I'd scraped the slime away.
As I got older, I became aware of the other St Patrick's Day tradition: going to the pub. One fine St Pat's Day, half a life time ago (and it would seem half my current body weight ago), I arranged to meet two of my multitudinous cousins at The Rocks, Sydney. They were going to stay at my flat that night for a fancy dress party, but being St Pat's Day, we were going to have a traditional drink at that haven to all Irish Australians, Irish tourists, wannabe Irish, and hangers-on for the booze: The Mercantile Hotel, down in The Rocks. Well, we got there, and there were revellers spilling out the windows and doorways, and blocking the footpath. There were Irish ditties being sung, and the only thing missing was 'faiths' and 'begorrahs'. The only way to have reached the bar would have been to have pitched a tent the night before, so we decided the best way to celebrate would be to make our way to The Orient, a little further up the road toward the CBD.
Cousin A went to the bar, and Cousin M and I waited in the beer garden, and our attention was caught by a drunken reveller staggering and lurching around. He was about our age (then mid-twenties), but we noticed was his haircut. It was beyond The Mullet. This Mullet had a life of it's own. This Mullet would have had Billy Ray Cyrus bowing. The hair was cut very close to the skull all over, but from the base of his skull streamed this tail of straggly hair. Now that I think of it, his head resembled a celestial comet. And being women of discerning taste, Cousin M and I giggled about his awful haircut, stopping once we realised he was approaching us. He stuck out his hand.
'Happy fucken St Pat's Day,' he drooled, as he shook out hands. He turned to me, and said, 'I used to know a girl who looked like you, but she didn't have your beautiful ginger hair. You have beautiful hair.' He actually stroked my hair, and I was trying not to bray laughter because Cousin M and I had been paying out on his mullet moments beforehand. Then he stroked the comet's tail at the back of his skull and said, 'I might do something with my hair.'
'Okay,' I politely intoned.
He gestured down the road, and said, 'I got really pissed and spewed me arse up down at the Mercantile, hey.'
Cousin M and I received this information in silence. Then came the piece de resistance: he pulled out his top set of dentures, and said, 'I've got no teef'.
I was stupefied, but Cousin M found her voice, and politely asked, 'Is this one of your party tricks.'
'No, just got no teef.'
He then announced he had to catch the train (nominating a suburb awash with those monstrous mullet 'dos), and stumbled away. I had to cling on to a pillar to keep my balance, because I was laughing so hard. This is a very funny St Patrick's Day memory of mine.
Now before I go, the sooky la-las are AGAIN swarming. They make me think of ants scurrying over a nest when rain is imminent. They make me think of George A Romero's zombies running and drooling, as they chant, 'I want to eat your braaaaiiiiiiins!', only these cretins are chanting, 'I want to make everyone do what I want because I'm a fucken soooooooook!' They make me think of the multitude of Indians on horseback from footage of western movies, when the Native Americans are coming over the hill on horseback. And most of all, they make me think I'd like to sit them all down and feed them a cup of cement so they can all harden the fuck UP. The latest gripe is about a band name. The band are called Black Pussy. Look, I don't know if it refers to African American women, or a cat with dark fur. I don't know what their music is like. I might have a listen to it shortly. If I like it, I might put some on my iPod. If I don't, I won't give a shit and just get ready for a meeting I have tonight. But the band have refused to change their name because some people take umbrage with it, and to this I say: good for you. Maybe the name is offensive. Maybe it's not. But music has been known to have questionable band names: 10cc, Lovin' Spoonful, and Steely Dan come to mind. I read an article that stated a band have refused to change their name after offending "everybody". Well, given I'm a carbon based life form with free will and opposable thumbs, I'm quite sure I too come under the umbrella of 'everybody', but guess what? I'm not offended. Don't group me into this set. If any of my friends are reading this, and wish to circulate the current (sigh) online petition, please remove my name from the mailing list. I don't wish to see it. Hearing about it just about did my head in.
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