Guinness is not good for you
I hate St Patrick’s Day. I hate the proliferation of patronising and retarded cartoons of ginger-haired leprechauns clad in green. I hate the fact that every year hordes of English people take it as an excuse to get wasted – after all, no one should need an excuse for that. And above all I hate the way that if it didn’t already exist, Guinness would have had to invent it rather than just conveniently appropriating it for their own ends (see also: Coke and Father Christmas). It has nothing to do with Ireland or the religious celebration of a saint’s life, and everything to do with a cynical marketing ploy calculated to make money.
In my experience the worst place to be on St Patrick’s Day is without a doubt London. When it fell on a Saturday two years ago, I had the misfortune to get caught up in the swarm of morons wandering around Leicester Square wearing soft Guinness top hats. Read my lips, dipshit: I am not “up for the craic”. So, maybe you’ve just discovered you’ve got traces of Irish blood – well, why don’t you bugger off over there if you’re so proud of your ancestry? At any rate, get the fuck out of my face.
Let me make one thing very clear: I’m not a killjoy – far from it. I just see no point in celebrating something that has no connection to my life whatsoever, and I refuse to enjoy myself in such a way that has been promoted by a beer company in order to line the pockets of those in the boardroom.