Moving effortlessly into ambassadorial role, we explain to the not-very-tall American couple that the theme of the parade is: “Imagine If . . . dot dot dot”.
“Oh yeah. Like, imagine if dot dot dot ,we could actually see it,” laughs Matt from Pasadena, straining all 5ft 6in of himself in a futile attempt to see over the barrier running alongside the GPO.
He has no objection to the 6ft-high barrier “per se”. The problem is the barrier’s ugly, forbidding black lining that blocks any view at all. “So that must be where where your president sits, right?”
We have no idea. Since Matt has gone to the trouble of buying shamrock antennae to celebrate our saint, we ask a garda. He thinks the chosen ones in there applied six months ago. Matt turns his mouth upside down and bends his shamrock antennae to render them less bouncy.
Meanwhile, Sun and Dong, originally from Shenyang, China, are doing it their way. Sun has hauled a sturdy 10ft ladder all the way from his car in Capel Street. He, Dong and their two small children are now perched slightly precariously above the barrier and can even see the occupants inside. Strewth! Will he get away with that at the Easter Sunday ceremonials, asks Kevin, a Tallaght man, assessing the ladder for weight, height and general portability.
A giant tongue sticking out of a massive pair of lips glide past at a great height, generating some excitement among the groundlings, all of whom speak in an extraordinary variety of accents , mostly non-Irish. Nonetheless, many have honoured us by showing up in green tutus, red beards, shamrock spectacles, tricoloured Apache wigs, and many, many bishops’ mitres.
The mitres seem to be gaining on the old reliable, giant leprechaun hats.
A small dog waddles past wearing an IRFU flag with a pink rose in its collar as three Bavarian lads hove into view. Michael, Hermann (“the German”) and Andy are resplendent in dazzling green suits, ordered off the internet for €60. As well as that, they are sipping stuff from small, plastic ice-cream glasses that bears no resemblance to ice-cream. In fact, it looks a lot like . . . no, it couldn’t be . . . oh Lord! It’s Guinness. Served at a fiver a pop by an obliging cafe nearby.
And Clery’s clock yet to strike noon. You, young men, are breaking several sacred codes relating to the serving and drinking of Guinness, plus a slew of bylaws. “We think so too,” says Andy, with a giggle.
Economical elegance
Sartorially, they are outdone only by Tjim and Sebastiaan from Holland, whose green suits (€70 apiece off the internet) boast the additional, authentic detail of large shamrocks.
Over on the Clery’s side of the street, the bulk of the crowd has given up the battle for a view and is facing south, en masse, towards the big screen. Michal, an 11-year-old down from Northern Ireland via Poland, with his mother and four small siblings, says dolefully they can see nothing and reckons the problem could be solved with a fleet of open-top buses.
A young Mexican woman in a green wig is slugging some hideous yellow liquid from a Club soda bottle. That is not Club soda, observes The Irish Times astutely. No, it is not, she says gleefully, it is Lilt. And whiskey.
Her friend Michael’s tipple is at least natural looking since the Coke and whiskey cocktail is contained in a large Coke bottle. Their interest in the parade is waning rapidly. Where next? “We’re going to a friend’s house to drink,” says Michael. “It’s a fine tradition – who am I to stop it?”
An evangelist approaches, wearing a billboard that reads: “Jesus Christ is coming soon. Are you ready?” He will have his work cut out.
Nearby, nine Austrian males of various ages are conspicuous for the fact that they, all nine, are in a kind of uniform which is not green. They are wearing traditional Carinthian suits – brown with green lapels and trouser trim, complete with pretty 12-button waistcoats – passed down through the male line, altered and re-altered through the generations, some older than the war.
They are reserved for special occasions such as church, Sundays, funerals. Where will you be going next?
“We are in Dublin to go for a drink,” they say politely. A fine tradition indeed, we say.
Ben, a genial Californian in Ireland on a three-month contract with a multinational, is just grateful to see the sun “for the second time”, and even bought a green scarf to get into the spirit of the day. But he too is stuck with viewing the parade on the screen. “It’s too narrow, it needs to be opened up a bit,” he says, as someone hurls a can in the vague direction of a grievously overflowing litter bin. It is 1.30 pm.
All the litter bins on this stretch are overflowing. Worse, they are surrounded by festering piles of drink cans, bottles, a lot of plastic coffee cups, burger cartons and festering bits of food.
Some Irish attendees wonder if the day is a kind of rehearsal for Easter Sunday. “If it is, maybe In the name of God and glorious St Patrick, we could get a few extra bins and a few men to keep them emptied,” says Christine. “Ah, but look at the horses . . . sure isn’t it great all the same?”
