The most ironic thing is those shouting Brits Out and Up da 'RA the loudest also happen to be Man United / Liverpool supporters more often than not.
Never ceases to crack me up: imagine Paddy's out on the continent/mainland for a cheap and sunny holiday, but he spends all his time in the Irish pubs drinking and then looking for fish & chip shops? The only items he packed were his Irish football/GAA/rugby jerseys, two pairs of green sporting shorts, and a half dozen fresh orange-coloured knee-socks. He's also wearing the tri-colour wrapped around him like a cloak. His green and gold '
Kiss me - I'm Irish' trilby tipped slightly forward and to the left to indicate that he's in a playful mood. His cheap gold chain sits in a bush of chest hair that's turning a mousey shade of greyish brown speckled with wispy white hairs that belie his actual age. Paddy still wants to act like a childishly destructive little brat, even if he is fully grown and matured. But sadly he only has the brain capacity of a seven year-old on too much lemonade and chocolate.
On game nights he attends
any pub showing the match, even the British ones that serve their customers flat and tasteless red English ale in Toby jugs. When it's Celtic V Rangers he even sits with his Brit counterparts, buying rounds and cheering the lads on. Seven pints and two goals later the match is won and over and now Paddy's playing darts for money and pool for rounds of drinks. By the time the night's up and they ring the last orders bell, he's so drunk his British pals have to carry him home, putting him into bed and covering him with his puke-stained tri-colour. Then they take a few shots of him lying comatose in the bed: so they lift his arse and pull off his green pants and prop him up under the belly with a couple of plump pillows to keep his arse higher than his whole head - which is buried face down in the duvet. Next morning they circulate the photo of Paddy in bed in doggy-style position with his arse in the air around all the English and Irish pubs. By the time Paddy's awake and remembers where he is, his picture has been printed out onto A4 sheets and they adorn every lamppost, wall, and bar in town. With added tri-colours and shamrocks photo-shopped into them.
Spain's had it with the tourists. I don't fucking blame them either. The British and ze Germans use it as a toilet bowl of drunken behaviour and puke-soaked dangerous fun. Not just the drinking and the doping and the fucking, but everything else that comes with their package holidays: cleaning up after them. Policing them and making sure they don't riot or smash up the local fountain on the downtown public square. Or fall in to it and drown. Paddy seems to think that the hostilities Pedro feels about '
tourists' don't apply to him: after all, everyone just loves the Irish, right?
Wrong.
Those days are long gone, even if RTE and Failte Ireland try to tell you otherwise. Ireland's a basket case, this is how everyone not actually Irish or living on the septic little island sees it. Still lost in 1916, 1922, and on into the Irish Civil War years (mad they way they never mentioned that one in school?) Paddy has always been torn in two and left hanging between two stools his whole fucking life. Everything in his world has another half to it:
Northern Ireland/Republic Of Ireland
Catholic/Protestant
Jayzus/Satan
Euro/Sterling
Northside/Southside
Culchie/Jackeen
St. Pats/Bohs
Wolfe Tones/Dubliners
Tesco/Lidl
Adidas/Wellington boots
Guilty/Not Guilty
Cloverhill/The Joy
Eastenders/Coronation St
Celtic/Rangers
Dublin/Kerry
The Isle/The Gay Bar
.. ..
and so on and on and on.. . .
