Random play: The jig is up

GRAHAM REID says celebrating all things Irish this far from Ireland is just a fiddle.

Tomorrow being St Patrick's Day when everybody, to paraphrase Thin Lizzy's Phil Lynott, "has a little Irish in them," it's timely to consider how much we've been charmed - conned perhaps - into all things Oirish. Like Guinness. I mean, what's that about? Why order a drink you have to wait for?

For years people have been telling me I'd love Ireland, it's scenic and green, the pubs are great, and "you'll really like the music".

Well, no, actually.

It's not like we lack scenic and greenic here, is it? As for Irish pubs, which are so generic you rent a space and overnight leprechauns arrive bearing horse brasses and old wooden boxes for instant atmosphere, sometimes I go to a pub to be left alone, not to hear some winking yarn, shaggy dog story or a fiddle player.

Irish music? Sorry, don't get me started. I believe what Gertrude Stein said: "A jig is a jig is a jig."

For years I went to Irish music festivals in the Town Hall and while there were some wonderful musicians (Donal Lunny, Christy Moore, Mary Black) when it comes to jigs let's be honest: they're all the same.

In primary school I was forced to learn a song which went something like: "She was spruce, she was spry, and always would try, to help the poor folk in the villages by, and there in the evening they'd sit by her door and hear tales of washing and Rory O'Moore."

Now. You can sing those lyrics to every single jig, whether it be from County Clare or County Money.

Oh, and the penny whistle isn't an instrument, other than one of torture. Much like Enya, come to think of it.

Irish music is either mindlessly cheerful, or unremittingly grim. No middle ground, other than those godawful Corrs and Cranberries who all sensible Irish people would disown.

There's an Irish bakery somewhere on the North Shore. The mere thought makes me want to locate that potato bread. Yum.

So really what have the Irish ever given the world? Okay, other than towering literary figures, moving poetry, U2, Van Morrison, Thin Lizzy and the Pogues, a tax haven for artists ...

As I see it St Pat's Day is just an excuse - if anyone needs it - to go out and drink too much. (A tip: order a beer to drink while you're waiting for your Guinness). You get to sing a dozen songs that all sound the same, and it's the only day of the year red-heads get to feel good about themselves.

Charming, to be sure.

* Graham Reid was born in Scotland.