Irish pride

I wish I was Irish.

That's nothing new. Everyone wishes they were Irish, whether they admit it or not.

For the most part, it's more a vague longing for such a famously laid back, funloving culture. It surfaces once or twice a year, usually around St. Paddy's Day, or whenever one of my old roommates took it into their heads to dig out a copy of Boondock Saints (I don't care what anybody says, that's one of the greatest movies ever made).

This year, though, I've actually identified a specific Irish clan to try weasel my way into, Clan Barry. Here's why:


There's just no possible way that's their actual slogan, but I think it's something we can all get behind.

That shot's from the families parade. Basically everyone in Miramichi with an Irish surname (i.e.: All of them) sends a group to one of the high schools, then they march around town before heading to the arena for an afternoon of Irish music and Gaelic mingling.

It's like Carnaval, only with less dancing and only slightly less skin.



Guh. Talk about giving Irish "pride" a new meaning. The things I put up with for the public good.

Some things were less offensive to look at.



From car accidents, to Journalism School lessons, to small-town Irish parades, puppies make everything better. Sweets too, and these three kids were among the most popular:




And to give you a general idea of how bloody Irish things were, we had like three of these things kicking around:



And, of course, there was always a few special guests lying around, like the lieutenant governor and the premier, all decked out in his green tie:



As far as weekend assignments go, it wasn't too bad. My one regret? Not being able to get shitfaced when a bunch of my workmates turned up and had at 'er. Stupid work. Stupid Irish.

Ah, who am I kidding? The Irish are awesome.