Despite being always full of great good wishes for all the Irish on the feast day of their patron saint, I have too much integrity to stoop to the low trick of pretending to be Irish, when I’m obviously not.

So to keep the discussion at the high level of authenticity it deserves, I have instead asked for a guest column from a true Irishman beyond suspicion, Father Ailill, Erling Skjalgsson’s priest:

To all the elect within the range of this message, whether Irish or Norse, or even Scot or English, yea even unto the barbarians of distant lands, wherever you may be, scattered about the islands of the earth,

Greetings.

I, Father Ailill, have not been unaware of doings among men since my Elevation nearly a thousand years ago. I have paid some attention to the course of the world, and to the state of the Church, and I have but one word for all of you, small and great, learned and uncouth:

Stop it.

I mean it. This has gone beyond a joke.

Where does one start? The excesses of your generation would make scrap enough to fuel a thousand bonfires, but in view of the day I’ll just draw your attention to the way you mark—I’ll not say observe—the saint day of Patrick of Ireland.

Now I happen to know Patrick myself. He lived far before my corporeal time, of course, but since my Elevation we’ve become fairly chummy, and I’ll tell you, just between you and me and the hearthstone, it’s best not to raise the subject of St. Patrick’s Day in his presence. If it’s all a joke, you may as well know the guest of honor doesn’t get it. He said to me once, “If I’d known they’d honor my memory by getting drunk on green beer and puking all over policemen, I’d have gone to Frankia and become a hermit. I’m not kidding. St. Augustine never lets me forget about it. And I’ve taken to avoiding Boniface altogether, because he never sees me but he starts singing that ‘Frosted Lucky Charms’ jingle, and then gets to giggling.”

I mean to say, take some pity on the man. He’s 1500 years old. Hasn’t he earned a little good manners, if not respect? If you’re convinced you need a day to lower yourself to the level of the beasts, call it Bacchus Day, or Falstaff Day, or Ted Kennedy Day. Even St. Olaf Day. He liked his tipple well enough.

My thanks to Lars Walker, who in spite of being (as best I can determine) a schismatic and a heretic, has given me a forum in which to have this word with you. I must now take my leave. It’s time for supper. Shortcake tonight!

If you wish to read more about Father Ailill, you are directed to Lars Walker’s novel The Year of the Warrior, e-book available here, and West Oversea.