Tá mé go maith.
I have been busy recently, well drunk, celebrating the birthday on February 1st of Irelandia’s patron saint of February 1st, St. Brigid of Kildare (or as Gaeilge, Poll Uafásach). What a remarkable honey she was. According to legend, this magical woman covered Irlandia in Abscesses. Not only did she give her name to a day of the year, she also created an emblem for the fascist society of Irlandia, An Schwasticha Gaeilge. As a young monkey learning the ways and peculiarities of the mongrel country I was zooed in, I remember Fascist class well. We would all be given a few rushes and told to make a cross and every single time, we would accidentally create the Schwasticha Gaeilge. The teacher said it was God working through us and would show us pictures of God which were hidden in the pockets of his long black leather coat. In later life, I learned that the man in the photo was not in fact God and that our teacher must have confused him with another famous man from the late 30s. I also learned that our teacher could not speak Irish and was living in a small chalet in the Curragh. Very odd.
Anyway, BridgieFest 2009 was held in a small holy house near Kildare town and local Irish musicians like the Frames, Paddy Casey and Gemma Hayes danced up a storm in the three-man tent that was erected for the occasions. These musicians weren’t actually invited but turned up anyway. My friend Fuckface noted that these itinerant minstrels seem to show up at every festival in the land. Since Metallica didn’t turn up, these would have to do. It was a big crowd, if you were extremely claustrophobic. Now-single singer (not my fault, I think) Glen Hansard sang some of the classics about St. Brigid for the crowd like “Bridgie in the Sky with Diamonds,” the Kenny Rogers ditty, “It’s the wrong time to leave me Bridgie” and of course “Papa don’t Preach.” The little sprite, Paddy Casey, came on stage, announced that he was a talentless asshole and left to a standing ovation. Gemma Hayes couldn’t remember if she was Gemma Hayes or any one of about 20 wispy weak-limbed Irish female singers and promptly collapsed from lack of food or oxygen or who cares what? Another standing ovation.
In the small hours of February the 2nd, the crowd drifted away and I sat with a few friends, strumming idly on my guitar and whispering quietly my tribute to this most holy of holy fascists, Bodycount’s “KKK bitch,” with its beautiful sean-nós chorus,
“I I I love my KKK bitch, she loves it when I treat her bad,
I I I love my KKK bitch, muthafuck her dear old dad.”
Sweet dreams, Saint Brigid. Till next year. Anyway, speaking of religious entities, thanks to Jenny for sending me this. Christian Bale will always be Patrick Bateman to me.