It's always a relief to get past March 17th. Always.
Don't get me wrong. I like a weekend's boozing as much as the next man. (And in London we get the day itself, plus the nearest Sunday. It's a double whammy.)
I also like an afternoon spent watching some sporting dramas unfold. (When I lived in Dublin it used to mean going to Croke Park to watch the All-Ireland Club Finals; these days, of course, it's - Jesus wept! Who saw this coming?– the emerging Irish cricket team.)
I also also like spending time in the company of my fellow gaels making conversation dense in references and allusions our friends from around the world will never get. (That's not as impressive as it sounds – "D'ya remember tayto? I do! D'ya remember Bosco? I do ! Imagine what bosco would look like eatin' tayto! Mad!")
I just find the whole week leading up to it more and more claustrophobic, as well-meaning punters suddenly start to address me solely in terms of the three facts they have in their head about Ireland, three facts that, as time goes by, obviously bear less and less relevance to the Ireland I'm from.
For example, if one more fucker asks me if I'm enjoying the Cheltenham festival…
It's not a rude question, of course, but you won't believe the reaction if you say no. Particularly if you then explain that loads of Irish people don't actually give that much of a fuck about Horse Racing. (And they don't; I've told stories onstage about horse racing to Irish crowds. Blank faces all around. Per capita, we gamble less than the English).
I'm telling you, I have almost been assaulted for saying that lots of Irish people don't care that much about the horses. By English people, this is. Assaulted. I've had people roaring "of course you love horse racing", and no amount of patiently explaining that I grew up in a commuter belt suburban town, a long way from horses of any kind, just like they did, seems to get through to them. It's just hardwired into their brains.
And it's a week of that.
I suppose you'll be watcing the horse racing? Well, er, …
I suppose you'll be knocking back the Guinness this weekend? Actually, um… I don't really like the taste of.. eh…
That Rugby team of yours, eh? I know, they're great, but I don't really understand the game because I didn't go to one of the twelve schools that play it in Leinster and so… oh fuck, I give up…
The English are always going about identity, and how they need one. Take it from us, everyone has an image of "irish identity" and, at times, it's flung at us like a strait-jacket.
p.s. All of this doesn't explain how I ended up last Sunday afternoon on the stage in Trafalgar square, in front of 20,000 people, doing an Irish dance while holding a pint of Guinness.