In theory, I like St. Patrick’s Day. In practice — the practice of others, that is — it’s usually something else.
In Ireland, “Black and Tan” more readily conjures images of a the Royal Irish Constabulary Reserve Force, a paramilitary group (nicknamed for the colors of its members’ uniforms) that gained notoriety for its attacks on Irish civilians during the Irish War of Independence
And, well, you know, there’s the whole Irish-are-drunks thing, which is just straight-up horrid.
Oh, and let’s not forget one of the most popular drinks of the day (and apparently now also a cupcake), the charmingly named Irish Car Bomb.
As this guy in L.A. says:
As someone who grew up in the UK during the 70’s 80’s and 90’s, the phrase ‘Irish Car Bomb’ did not mean a drink or a cupcake; it meant terror, death and destruction. Where I lived in Wales, ‘The Troubles’ were just across that short strip of water called The Irish Sea. When violence came to the mainland, it normally came to our other neighbor England, leaving us sandwiched in the middle
I suppose this may say something positive, such as that being Irish is something one can freely make fun of, because there’s no stigma to it, but still.
And I didn’t even mention green beer.