Shamrock, sheep, leprechauns: how we'll be remembered?

If souvenirs are a visual shorthand of a culture, what do shillelaghs, arse-baring leprechauns and 'Irish Today – Hungover Tomorrow' T-shirts say about us, asks ROSITA BOLAND

IN THEIR SIMPLEST form, souvenirs act as a kind of cultural shorthand. Most of us only have to glance at an Eiffel Tower snow dome, a Statue of Liberty figurine or a stuffed koala to instantly recognise the countries they represent. Souvenirs act as a visual code: the cruder the image, the easier it is to understand. They are distilled representations of places; insights into what various countries select to say about themselves to the rest of the world.

Ray O’Connell is the managing director of Carroll’s souvenir shops, made distinctive even from the threshold by the sea of kelly green that washes floor-to-ceiling within them. There are nine shops in total – eight in Dublin and one in Belfast. Last year, the combined turnover was €25 million. Their largest and busiest Dublin shop is on Westmoreland Street, which wraps around onto Aston Quay. Like the other shops, it pumps out Irish music all day long. The morning I’m there, The Irish Rover appears to be playing on a skull-thumpingly loud loop.

If I had to guess how many different Irish-themed products are in this shop, it would be far short of the actual figure, which is a staggering 10,000. “We have 150 different kinds of key rings alone,” says O’Connell.

The busiest time is the period before St Patrick’s Day, the high-season tourist months of July and August, and the week after Christmas, when Irish people home for the holidays take back items for themselves and others. “We’re constantly meeting with our buying team. That’s probably the secret of our success – our extended range.”

As an Irish person, to wander around the aisles seeking the essence of Ireland is a curious experience. It’s like being inside a cartoon, shot through a green filter, with repeating motifs of shamrocks, sheep, leprechauns and alcohol.

The first thing I notice is close to an entrance, where footfall is highest, and where the most popular items, such as furry leprechaun hats complete with red wigs, are displayed. It is an Indian Chief Headdress, its feathers dyed green, white and gold. It is without doubt the most baffling memento of Ireland that I see in the course of the next hour or so, when I peruse the shelves so closely that my head begins to pulse a jig and when I close my eyes, I see relentless green.

According to O’Connell, their biggest sellers are shamrock you can grow in a pot, novelty T-shirts, “your traditional Irish bear”, chocolate, and leprechauns. “At the beginning, our difficulty was sourcing products,” he says. “The range was limited.” The biggest change in the souvenir market, he says, is the range of T-shirts they now offer. “Novelty clothing is a huge seller. We have some beautiful T-shirts now. They all used to just have a big ‘Ireland’ on the front of them. People want to be more discreet now. Logos are definitely more subtle. There’s everything from T-shirts with ‘The leprechauns made me do it’ to lovely Celtic designs. Something for everyone, even for babies. T-shirts have to be chic, fashionable. You have to be innovative to survive.”

None of these T-shirts are made in Ireland. “We don’t manufacture cotton here any more, so we buy in blanks and work on them here,” he says. The T-shirts are bought in from a number of Asian countries. “It’s like the Irish tea we sell. We know tea doesn’t come from Ireland. It’s the slant we put on the product.”

THERE ARE A number of Irish companies constantly working on new designs and lines, and supplying these to Carroll’s. The shops themselves collectively employ up to 180 people in high season (and have not yet had to make anyone redundant). They have about 110 suppliers, either modifying goods for the chain, or supplying wholly Irish-made goods, some of which O’Connell identifies as chocolate, sweets, perfume, ceramics and crystal.

A very popular seller used to be outsized ceramic figurines from ballads or folklore, such as Molly Malone with her cart, the Children of Lir, and leprechauns. In recent years, the numbers of tourists buying these large figurines has dropped drastically. “I blame the budget airlines,” O’Connell says. “When they reduced the weight of hand luggage, people stopped buying the big Molly Malone, which used to be a bestseller. They weren’t able to bring her on the plane with them.”

The items with the most variety are probably T-shirts, of which there are scores of different kinds. Some are tasteful and many – such as “Drink Until She’s Cute” – are definitely not. Most of them allude to drinking: “Irish Today – Hungover Tomorrow”; “If found, please return to the pub”; “Drink is my religion – will you join me for a prayer?”

AMONG THOSE examining the T-shirts are three college friends from Austria, Nikolas Franz, Lisa-Marie Auer and Onur Arslan. Arslan is already wearing a “Four Seasons of Ireland” T-shirt, which he bought in Galway. It depicts rain falling during each season, onto a sad, wet sheep. What are they considering buying?

“Definitely not that,” Auer squeals with disgust, pointing to a T-shirt that depicts a buxom headless female leprechaun (one’s own head substitutes), with the motto “world’s sexiest leprechaun”. The two boys cannot stop laughing. What would they not buy? “That,” Franz replies promptly. He points to a furry green leprechaun hat, complete with red wig. “It is funny but not useful. You could never wear it.”

Anna Bleakley and her mother Nina, from Armagh, are looking at the leprechaun headware and “head bobbers”. Anna, a student at Glasgow University, is holding a hairband with a miniature green leprechaun hat sewn prominently onto the middle. Is she going to buy it?

“Yes,” she declares. “It’s for St Patrick’s Day. Everyone wants to be Irish in Glasgow that day, and I actually am Irish.”

I ask Ray O’Connell what kind of customer buys leprechauns, that kitsch symbol of Ireland. “Everyone does,” he says, while admitting that most of the ceramic leprechauns, figurines and snow domes actually originate from the end of a rainbow called China.

“If you ask for a symbol of Ireland, it doesn’t get any more Irish than the leprechaun. For a lot of people, Ireland is about folklore, and stories. The leprechauns are in all the stories. If you want to come away with a treasure of your journey here, you buy a leprechaun.”

I spend some time keenly examining the leprechauns. I admit to a weakness for the absurd little green men, and have a tiny one for a phone charm. I also possess one trapped in a snow globe that sings Danny Boy when encouraged. (I know, I know. Send for the doctor.)

There are stuffed and ceramic leprechauns of all sizes, variously clutching shamrocks, shillelaghs, harps, toadstools, fiddles, bodhrans and crocks of gold. One instructs me to “Clap your hands to make me laugh and shake”. I clap briskly to activate the motion sensor. A startled tourist nearby turns around to look at me. Nothing happens. The leprechaun obstinately refuses to either laugh or shake. I clap again. The tourist openly stares. An assistant comes over to help. “Ah no, we turned those lads off, otherwise they’d be going at it all day,” she explains.

Even I can only look at so many novelty leprechauns at any one time. My nemesis proves to be one made of chocolate, that is mostly composed of a large bare arse. “The craic’s mighty!” says the box. I hastily move away from the chocolate leprechaun. It’s like looking at a rude picture of a close relative.