The Trouble is, I Love the Craic Too Much

I’ve been in Dublin for the past week, enjoying the craic, learning all about the production of Guinness, staggering around Temple Bar, seeing Motion City Soundtrack and Gwen Stefani, not sleeping, failing miserably to reach the Cliffs of Moher despite spending all day on the train and not stressing about anything.

As I was on holiday, I largely managed to suspend my general ill-will towards humanity for a few days, but found my gears being ground by the way ‘the Irish’ are held in such global reverence. The very fact that you are Irish is for many people a virtue in itself.

Nationalism alone is enough to make me want to kneel in front of the oven and cook my own face, but getting all misty-eyed with vicarious patriotism is insane. Where your poppa impregnated your momma had nothing to do with you. The history of your country of origin, be it bloody or beautiful, has nothing to do with you. It’s bullshit. Being Irish does not mean you are automatically gifted in the areas of both the gab and the harp any more than being American automatically makes you a grossly obese simpleton.

Gwen Stefani’s show in Dublin was awesome, but I found her ‘My gran’s maiden name was Paddy’-esque audience-ingratiation skit nauseating. Hey, I’m a bit Irish! I love da craic and fancy a pint of da black stuff. Now follow me as I dance down the cobble-stoned lane singing about a green-eyed lass I used to know back in Derry.

I don’t know what I’m trying to say as I’m still fatigued from lovin’ the craic, so let’s take a break and enjoy the criminally under-rated Monkey Dust express what I’m too thick to in animated form.

Anyway, I’m off to spend my Friday night watching Motion City Soundtrack and drinking beer neither my wallet or liver can afford. A.S, who could’ve been the plus to my one, is instead seeing Rich Hall, who coined the word Sniglet. I nominate a ‘snaglet’ as a sniglet, being someone who paradoxically wants to nominate a sniglet, but isn’t feeling creative enough.

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