St Patrick’s Day
Kidnapped, sold into slavery but bounces back. Ireland’s action hero
These days March 17th rivals New Year’s Eve in the raucous celebration stakes. In my west London primary school Saint Patrick’s Day was a more solemn affair — a celebration, certainly, but not one in which you stood on your desk punching the air as beer sprayed in all directions.
At the centre was the shadowy figure of Ireland’s patron saint and supposed snake slayer. His biographical details fall into the ‘based on real events’ school of story telling . Was he born in 493, as the Catholic Encyclopedia states? Or 460, which they concede is a possibility? Or even 461 which others have suggested?
Let’s settle on a long time ago in an era when crazy things happened. That’s the context for Declaration (aka Confessions of Patrick), purportedly an authentic memoir. According to this rollicking tale Patrick grew up in a Roman British village (Netflix subtitle Somewhere in Scotland). The son of an ecclesiastical big cheese, his tranquil rural life was rudely disrupted in his mid teens when pirates pitched up and kidnapped him (seriously, where’s your ship, guys? Can I see some ID?)
As ever, the details are vague and disputed but the executive summary is roughly as follows: the pirates take Patricke to darkest Ireland they sell him into slavery. There he becomes a shepherd (don’t ask!) and experiences a sort of conversion (though he is already a Christian) which brings him closer to God. Soon after he has a divine revelation via a voice in his head.
Get out of Dodge, Pat! Head for the coast … Where? About 200 miles or along. There’s a ship waiting for you…you’ll recognise it when you see it.
It’s not the most precise escape plan but it does the job.
This is all just a prequel to the main mission — Patrick’s return to wild Ireland to convert it to the True Faith. This noble work included clearing the island — yes, all thirty-two counties — of it snake population.
N.B. other explanations are for the snake shortage are available
So that was our patron saint — a proper action hero. The least we could do in tribute was to come to school with our shamrocks pinned to our blazers. “The three leaves represent the Trinity,” our teachers earnestly explained. “Which is what Saint Patrick brought to Ireland through his conversions….”
The theological stuff was way above our pay grade. We stuck to the formula: converted Ireland/slung out the snakes/celebrate March 17th.
A mysterious Vatican edict — never quite sourced — declared St Patrick’s feast a ‘day off’ from Lent. I think it is something to do with Sundays not counting in the forty days but have no looked up the fine print. Anyway, the exemption was keenly taken up by us kids. It was also cited with even greater gusto by those gentlemen abstaining from Guinness for the good of their souls.
Most of us didn’t reach for hip flasks at break-time but the chocolate flowed. The manic dressing up in wacky hats was not yet a thing, nor was green face paint. And there was only so much you could do with shamrock.
So we did as kids do and improvised. The boys enthused by vague Irish nationalist/WW2 triumphalist sentiment marched around the playground. Holding imaginary rifles the length of broomsticks aloft, we chanted: We won the War/in 1964.
Why 1964? A celebration of The Beatles conquering America? Or because four rhymes with war? Put your money on latter.
If there was a war between England and Ireland, who would you fight for?
Boys frequently asked each other this. I once said, Well I was born here and my cousins say I’m English and they can’t understand my accent. So I’m English I suppose.
That didn’t go down a storm. Team England was the out group in our little school where the minority was the majority.
What would Saint Patrick have said?
Patrick was ahead of the game when it came to the whole identity thing. He was Roman. He was British. He was Irish. He wanted everyone to live in Christian harmony but was not averse to picking up his smiting sword if the circumstances required
My screenplay has him thoughtfully scratching his chin.
British or Irish? That’s like asking which leg would you prefer to keep.
CUT TO BOYS WALKING AWAY DEEP IN THOUGHT
