In pretty much the same way St. Patrick once stood on top of a hill and with just the help of a stick made of wood had all the snakes of Ireland banished, I wish I could have seen today the brilliant image of the saint descending from Hampstead Heath with a shamrock in his hair, a sandwich of corned beef in one hand and a lustrous, heavy glass of dark Guiness in the other, to erradicate all the drunkard vulgarity in which this beloved holiday has turned into in London and, I suspect, in many other places.
Ok, I know, I know that I know nothing, but no much healthy party I have seen tonight, no much music either.
The true St. Patrick festivus (as Franz Constanza, the character of Jerry Stiller in Jerry Seinfeld show, used to say) might be something like this. I have seen something very similar in Huntsville, AL, years ago, in an Irish pub in Memorial Pkwy South, where every Thursday night (or it was Tuesday night), a group of Irish or friends of the Irish used to gather to play. Well, I guess they still do it today... .
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