Oh No, Ireland Is Going Up Its Own Arse Again
Oh no, Ireland is going up its own arse again.
Good times are coming back again, before they get even get even gooder, we should be warned about how close our heads are getting to our arses. As we reach close to full employment and see companies expanding and foreign investment increasing, let’s take stock of what money does to the Irish psyche.
What does surplus money do to Irish people? The answer is obvious, it turns them into arseholes. This is not a statement of begrudgery or spite, but an unequivocal statement of fact, backed up by a range of empirical research (references available upon request). Irish who have come into money (especially those who haven’t really earned it) turn into boring shites. Those who have encountered vast sums of money seem to be mostly concerned with how to spend it. If you don’t have money, you don’t talk about it, my lazy layabout friends read more, they think more about things that matter. If I were to choose between sitting down and having a chat with a homeless beggar or an investment banker, I know who I would choose.
Actually, the most interesting Irish people are the homeless. There’s something about struggling that makes Irish people more interesting, talk of success is boring, we thrive on hearing other people’s troubles. Every narrative must contain some conflict or effort, nobody wants to hear a story of perpetual success. Our greatest story-tellers were destitute drunkards. Cultural movements are borne out of times of poverty and unemployment, if we are entering a period of prosperity, it can be assumed that the arts will suffer.
Nobody wants to see poverty and mass emigration again, but didn’t it do Seánie and Maureen the power of good to get out to Australia and earn millions, have the craic and come home again with full pockets and supressed guilt about how much they spent on a single night out in Sydney.
The businesses and products that were the first to disappear as soon as the recession hit are again cropping up in abundance, we don’t need them, because being Irish is class. Don’t reject your affection for a ham and cheese sandwich instead of a falafel and gorgonzola wrap, embrace a pack of Tayto over hummus, avocado and sun-dried tomato infused potato chips, feel the burn of a simple Paddy instead of some fancy gin mixed with water from the waterfalls of Papua New Guinea, juniper berries plucked from the arsehairs of a Greek Goddess served in a glass that looks like something Indiana Jones searched for.
When we gain wealth we tend to lose the run of ourselves and forget what made us one of the most culturally rich and progressive nations on earth. So what can we do? We need to check ourselves and others. The next time you see your friend buying a mochafrappalattafuckinchino that cost them €10 grab it off them and pour it slowly into their underpants while making them recite Patrick Kavanagh.
Saint Patrick didn’t invent Leprechauns and Guinness just to have us turn into a freakish amalgamation of Yanks and Brits due to our overexposure to their shite, comparatively banal popular culture. He would vehemently shake his bigbrownstic at our materialistic, consumeristic, capitalistic carryon.
This Saint Patrick’s Day let us not forget how feckin’ great we are and hold our heads up high lest they drift between our legs.
