The Day...

...or rather perhaps the night of St. Patrick's Day. A mighty day, or night.

For 'twas on that very night some 'x' years ago that H and I first met at an Irish pub in South London.

You'll be wondering at that I'm sure, neither of us striking the regular reader as soi-disant wild Irish rovers in sentimental alcohol-fuelled search of our ancestral homeland - the only sorts ordinarily drawn to such a place at such a time. And you would not be wrong.

H is about as pure bred English as they come - generation unto generation of Woldean ancestors with a direct line back to King Canute on the distaff side. My own lineage is more mixed - a large portion of English, but with some Scots and Swedish thrown in to liven the mix. Not though a drop of the Irish (or even the Oirish) to be found anywhere in our bodies or souls.

So why 'The Swan' at Stockwell, that most Irish of Irish pubs, that night? From the simple cause of a mutual friend - my Great Irish Mate - asking us, separately, to join him and others there for the mighty craic. Happy was I - and it seemed H too - to comply.

It being though a time of history for there to be terrible tensions between England and Ireland [see The Troubles passim] I was heavily briefed in advance as to how to 'protect and survive' the night.

On no account go to the bar and order "Three light ales my good man and look lively about it." Just point to the Guinness tap holding up the requisite number of fingers denoting the pints required. (All that most people were capable of doing, it transpired anyways, the dark side of nine pip emma.)

Keep a low profile throughout, but for the love of God and the safety of one's life stand up when everyone else did - 'twould be and 'twas for the Irish national anthem. On no account attempt to fake knowledge of the words, as that inept Tory chap down in Wales those years ago. A stiff, silent stare into the middle-distance, as if in wonderment of all that Ireland might mean to one of its dear own sons would suffice - though a tear or two in fond recall of 'Mammie, God save her good soul' would be the icing on that particular cake.

Loo breaks were acknowledged as being particularly perilous. Away from sight and safety, any intimation of English pee descending from the English parson would at best be met with a wet pocket (if you don't know you don't need to) and at worst a smacked head.

Not that there would be any danger of my initiating conversation in such circumstances naturally - it is not what one does in that or in any other public convenience - but should a befuddled soul opine there that the evening was a fine one or the Pope a genius, no verbal response at all could possibly be allowed lest covers be blown and consequences occur.

A slurred sub-lingual 'Ershallyer', or somesuch muttering, might be assayed if a response was clearly expected, though safer perhaps - and entirely in accord with the established mood of the night - would be launching into the fellow with a great sobbing hug as if overcome by the emotion of it all. (You can see quite how far one was from one's comfort zone here, being urged to hug strange men in strange toilets for the sake of one's well-being!)

Above all one was cautioned about not being noticed by - and Heaven forefend intruding upon - any table where The Man might be holding court with his family, friends, cronies, supplicants and simply massive bodyguards as courtiers. (The latter indeed were a mighty and handy clue as to which tables to be giving a wide berth.) The Man was as like as not to be retired, and most certainly Official not Provisional, but even if the blood on his hands were dried not fresh, it wouldn't be doing for any insane English dolt to be asking "And so what do you do for a living?"

There was - one now recalls - another evening at a Parish Dance elsewhere when one was actually invited to meet THE Man. He was terribly elderly - went right back to the Easter Uprising - as harmless as a flea and as charming as a potentate in touch with his inner child. Dear Father X, of the Papist persuasion, had asked one to attend the 'do' as an ecumenical touch to the occasion, though reckoning not that THE Man was to be there too.

On principle one did though spurn the invitation. Each table in turn being requested to pay homage, when my turn came I simply declined. Not perhaps a wise move, and certainly one not unnoticed. There are though times when one must make a stand by remaining seated.

If this all sounds a little over-wrought, teetering even on the racist, all I can say is that that is how it was back then. No Englishman was particularly welcomed in an Irish pub on St. Patrick's Night, nor indeed would any Irishman have enjoyed a pleasant pint or ten in, say, The King's Arms, The George Inn, or other such spot.

And returning to the very night in question, did H and I, as it were, immediately spot each other across a crowded room and so forth? Hardly, as we were seated next the one to the other, albeit that the smoke laden atmosphere made even such proximity appear pretty distant. But peering through the fug and bellowing above the din we must have made some kind of contact. We danced, we chatted, we drank in tolerable moderation.

Then, for the moment at the end of the night, we parted. All persons seemed somehow miraculously to disappear leaving good self to act the Good Samaritan for the Great Irish Mate, who could do little more for himself at that point than be draped semi-comatose over a low wall, singing all the while sentimental tribal lyrics.

H and her crew simply legged it into the darkness leaving just the one to manage the matter. GIM and I did eventually make it back to my place, though details of the journey were vague even then and totally beyond recall now. Not being an entire ingenue in these matters, I do remember finally placing GIM in the standard 'recovery position' - draped over a low loo still singing sentimental tribal lyrics - whilst I passed out on the sofa, not bothering to move the cat beforehand. (Some short hours later, as dawn pierced the sky, the cat was still seething and GIM was still singing, which were both of them positive and sufficient signs of having survived the night as a whole.)

And thus we have the essential tale of how PP met H, or H met PP. Some months passed before any further assignations were considered, but something must have clicked and here we are some 'x' years later still celebrating St. Patrick's Night together.

Not quite though with the same liberality of place or spirit mind you. E is out at a St. P's party, H is weary and taken to watching home designs programmes, whilst I am reduced to essential sobriety waiting the midnight hour to fetch E home. (Must check with E later if she even knows who St. Patrick is. Apparently few do these days, which is both shocking and sad.)