In my teens, I had the whole thing worked out. To be Irish was to own a continuum of complaint. Nothing much could be expected of a nation with so many strikes against it, so when "poor little Cat'lic Ireland" came through on any front, we expected a kudos upgrade. We might not be much, economically, but look at Tintawn. Tintawn was a gruesome distant cousin of carpeting. It had the sensual appeal of a distressed sack, but it resonated with self-sufficiency and frugal patriotism.
Every area of Irish life had its Tintawn story of survival and triumph over adversity. Bord na Mona's early peat briquettes, each like a long damp brick encased in a hairy old sock, exemplified sturdy independence of overseas fuel suppliers. Every salmon lashing up the Shannon via the ESB's weirs demonstrated the skill and vision of those manly engineers portrayed by Keating. The Abbey Theatre, with its riots and fire, its legendary actors and writers, not to mention its Irish language panto at Christmas, was best of all, because it had achieved international fame, thereby giving reflected glory to its home territory.
While you could be proud of these things, being Irish precluded enjoying them. And boasting was completely out. The best way to handle praise was with self-deprecatory humour. Shrugging, smiling, self-serving self-dismissal allowed us to gain even from the restrictions of a closed society.