It's not that easy bein' green/Having to spend each day the colour of the leaves/ When I think it could be nicer being red or yellow or gold/Or something much more colourful like that, so sang that great tragic figure of our times, Kermit the Frog.
Such lyricism and high levels of poetic sensibility are rarely achieved but will probably be aspired to tonight wherever green is borne.
Yes, in thousands of hostelries around the world, Irish and would-be Irish will become possessed of enthusiastic conviction about their vocal ability, and more alcohol than would float a Titanic by any iceberg, anywhere, as they celebrate how easy it is to be green.
Then there is tomorrow when it will be very easy indeed to feel green as Kermit, with every bit as much unease.
But if Kermit felt he had problems he might try being Patsy! He would then know what it is like to suddenly turn on the street as someone calls out your name only to discover they are calling “. . . taxi!” And how, no matter how often it happens, you will turn as though a long-lost friend shouted “. . . Patsy”.
Or feel that twinge of embarrassment every time someone is described as “. . . a patsy”. As in “butter wouldn’t melt in that guy’s mouth but he’s nobody’s patsy”. Meaning , according to dictionaries, someone easily taken advantage of, easily cheated/ blamed, stupid, a scapegoat. (as if!)
Then you could be forever receiving letters/emails/texts, etc addressed to “Pasty”, which can be close to green.
But worst is America. On my first student summer there I worked at a New York apartment complex as a doorman. An old lady who sat in the lobby all day discovered I was Irish.
She called to all the other residents coming from work. They formed a semi circle around my 19-year-old melting self as she came to me and said: “Okay. Talk!” I just wanted to die and muttered a few syllables of gibberish. She turned to the others and pronounced “ . . . O my God. Isn’t that just beautiful?”
She then asked my name and, shocked, said “I can’t call you that. It’s a girl’s name.” For the rest of the summer they all called me “Pat”.
Happy St Patsy’s Day! And here’s to burial of the Sasamachs (Brexiteers) at Twickenham today.
Patsy (after my grandfather), derivative of Patrick. From Latin Patricius, a patrician, noble (of course!)
inaword@irishtimes.com
