Every St Patricks Day I pretend to be Irish by dressing in green, getting really drunk and joining the IRA. It's always so embarrassing looking at the photos the next day.
It's re-hash Wednesday and St Patrick's Day is nigh, meaning that fifth-generation Americans will suddenly announce they've been Irish all this time and go out to Samuel Becket readings or stay in to argue passionately about which among Joyce, Heaney and Yeats provided the world with the most literary description of the potato. See? That was one sentence. It's called brevity, Joyce.