First let me say, we broke the all-time snow record here in Boston yesterday, and the snow held off until the annual Boston St. Patrick’s day parade was finished. That’s how we roll here in Boston. See what happens when you finally include gay people in your parade? Everything gets better. But on to St. Patrick’s day. This is a post from last year—I still like it, and hope you will too.
I’m only Irish by way of being a Boston area resident, and Irish story telling is a hard act to follow, but what the heck. In honor of St. Patrick’s Day, here’s my Irish story. One summer when I was in college, I met a lovely Irish lass. She was in college too and had come to Boston for the summer. We slaved away at the same deli, slinging sandwiches and grilled meat, and always left the place smelling like baloney and pickles. We quickly wanted to learn about each other’s cultures, by which I mean we asked about swear words. I, being a Sex Pistols fan, made her porcelain white skin bright red when I asked her what bollocks meant. Of course, being Irish and a sophisticated Dubliner to boot (she used to make fun of her “bumpkin” Irish roommates here), she quickly recovered. She tossed her glossy short, black curls, looked right at me with her crystal clear blue eyes, and replied, “There’s no translation, but it’s like saying ‘mother fucking cock sucker.’ ”
I was delighted.
From then on we had our pet names for each other: I called her Bollocks and she called me Mother fucking cock sucker. We worked a lot, drank more, and laughed constantly. She even taught me a song called “Young Willie McBride,” a beautiful song about, of course, resting on his grave. She left at the end of the summer, and after exchanging a letter or two (how quaint, I know), we lost touch. So, happy St. Patrick’s day to you, Bollocks, where ever you may be. Ta for a very fun summer. Fondly yours, Mother fucking cock sucker.