I did St Patrick’s Day…sober

God help me

| UPDATED drink sober st paddys

Ginger hair, the name Grainne and the ability to pre on nothing but vodka and water- I’m pretty much a walking stereotype for Irish people.

However this St Paddy’s I was going stone cold sober– drinking nothing but lime cordial and the occasional shot of Fanta. Even as I agreed to do it, I could hear a voice in my head screaming “WHAT ARE YOU DOING!? YOU IDIOT.”

However, I did  manage to convince myself that it couldn’t be that hard – after all I was unlucky enough to be working the majority of the day.

This meant I had already dodged the massive temptation to go to any bar and drink myself into a state of oblivion like every other sensible person in the world.

A flaw in this particular train of thought was that by the time night came, the entire population of Belfast had probably been drinking for approximately 9 hours straight and Jesus did I know it.

Facebook was incredibly depressing as picture after picture, status after status revealed just how bollocksed everyone was getting in the name of St Paddy. Videos from the Holylands nearly broke my heart, so desperate was I to join my fellow Irishmen in their madness.

Preing was particularly tough- with rum, vodka and (randomly) sherry a-flowing I couldn’t help but regret making the decision not to drink.

Yet I resisted and it is further testament to my sobriety that I VOLUNTEERED to sit in the front of the taxi. Much like a mullet, a taxi is all party in the the back, strange and uncomfortable in the front- especially when there’s four inebriated people crammed in the back that you keep having to apologize for.

Shout out to the barman who gave me a look of disgusted disbelief when I ordered my a drink “yes, just a coke”. Feeling like a blood traitor I did all that one could do- pretended I was blocked. It’s far easier to get away with dancing like a weirdo when people are convinced you’re blootered- not that there’s ever any need for an excuse when “C’est La Vie” comes on.

Escapes to the smoking area were also a massive necessity, yep, I may not have touched a drop of drink but took one step closer to lung cancer. Hurrah!

Outside I met all sorts of tricolor-draped characters, my favorite new friend was Michael from Downpatrick who told me, in great detail, how the parade there is “better than Dublin” and actually got quite passionate about his hometown. Very touching, full marks for St Paddy’s Day pride, and thanks for offering me your novelty shamrock glasses, they really were very nice.

However there is only so much drunken babble one can stand, and once you’ve heard one remix of a Westlife song sober, you don’t want to hear any more.

There was also the fact I was terribly conscious of being shoved around by over-excited boys with sweaty armpits and more than once my eyeball came dangerously close to a shamrock deely-bopper. It just wasn’t safe to stay sober…

Eventually, with the day all but over anyway, I decided enough was enough and ordered a quadruple vodka and smirnoff ice. I couldn’t hack it anymore, it takes a stronger being than me.

Besides, I’m pretty sure I would have never lived it down had I went a full St Paddy’s without a little drink- it only comes but once a year after all. Couldn’t let the good day go by without raising a glass to the snake-chasing, shamrock-using man himself.

One thing’s for certain, I’m never fucking doing it again.