A press photographer takes a picture of the world's largest beer can in a Sydney park, made to help celebrate St.Patrick's Day in 1999. Photograph: Rick Rycroft/AP
I remember fondly St Patrick's days of my childhood. A package would arrive in our north London house from grandparents and aunts in Ireland with fresh shamrock lovingly wrapped in damp tissue paper. We would troop off to school with this green badge of pride pinned to our lapels, and there, because of the large Irish population of the area, the day would be marked with a special assembly, and sometimes even a popish Mass. And while it's true that our father would often arrive home early in the evening in royal (republican) high spirits, I don't remember the whole event being as inextricably linked with Guinness marketing campaigns as it is now.
As I cycled through London this morning, every single pub had its St Patrick's day window display - as provided by Guinness, begorrah. Tonight, to go by previous years there'll be silly hats, loyalty cards and promotional exercises of all description capitalising on this saint's day as a branding exercise for (whisper it) an unremarkable mass-produced stout.
There are several reasons to object to the Guinnessification of Ireland's national day. One is that it contributes to perpetuating a parochial vision of Irish identity which is unhelpful and encourages those of my fellow Englishmen who might be inclined to think patronisingly of the old country. As we all know, Ireland is now a hi-tech multicultural society with economic growth rates that even History's Greatest Chancellor Gordon Brown would envy, and net immigration. It's not all tweed, moss, thatch and stout. Another is, more simply, that Ireland produces plenty of other beers (to say nothing of whiskies) which make equally appropriate toasts. The San Francisco Chronicle today sensibly recommends Smithwicks, a golden ale. My recommendation is Bushmills whiskey, especially the Black Bush. Sláinte, in any case.
