An alternative guide to Paddy's Day (SPD) in Ireland. With best wishes from Queenie in Dublin. Beannacht La Fheile Padraig libh!

Achill Island, west coast of Ireland. The setting for many miserable SPDs for Queenie, watching Atlantic storms hurl themselves sideways against the windows of some dilapidated summer home she's rented. In March. With a three mile walk to the warm pub to watch the returning emigrants get beaten up by the locals.

Boston, next parish to Achill, also celebrates St. Patrick's Day. Why? Also beer, which is green on SPD.

Cheltenham, they speak of nothing else on SPD. And you thought it was Christianity. No, no, it's a racing festival in England, upon which thousands of Irishmen and some women descend annually to back horses, win money, lose money, launder money, hatch tax evasion schemes involving horses, play poker, sleep in their cars, sleep in their clothes, throw up on their shoes, and generally have what is known as 'a good time'.

Drinking, what St. Patrick's Day is really, really all about.

England, the reason we cry when we're drunk.

Feck! The twenty first century Begorrah! From the comedy show Fr. Ted. As in what Fr. Jack roars when he's drunk. Which is always. You know it's St. Patrick's Day when perfectly normal, uptight, circumspect English people walk up and shout FECK into your face.

Green, the colour of Ireland, the colour of money, the colour of the Hudson river on SPD, the colour of the McDonalds milkshakes, the colour of Glasgow Celtic football club, the colour of shamrock, the colour of Yankee tourists' trousers. There are forty shades, but on SPD, there is only one, lurid emerald.

Hibernians, Ancient Order of. Queenie would just like to point out that they're American. And apologise to all gay people on behalf of her race.

Ireland, Hibernia, ancient kingdom of the Celts. Oh wait, that's Wales. Being Irish, priceless, for everything else there's Mastercard. And VISA. And MBNA. And the mortgage. And the car loan. And the personal loan. Irish debt spirals out of control as we enjoy riding the Celtic Tiger.

Joviality, it all starts off well enough when the parade kicks off at midday.

Kicking the drunken shit out of each other on the streets of Dublin, by about 4pm generally. The Mayor begged off licences to open later this year, to reduce the mayhem, but they laughed at the idea as they boarded the plane to Cheltenham to spend last year's takings.