Cones and giant insects carry fun through the city

There’s stilts, stars and scrambling eggs and, apart from some high prices, we love it all

PEOPLE STOOD and eyed the heavens suspiciously. Sun! Heat! Was it real? Had the national patron finally clocked that when his devotees sang Hail Glorious St Patrick, they were not actually inviting him to send hail (or rain or snow . . .)? Would it provoke a heavenly tantrum if we removed our coats?

Disbelieving crowds flocked to the city centre and dawdled happily around the face-painters for “100% Irish” face-painting jobs, bought huge shamrock-shaped shades and antennae, leprechaun hats with “Who’s your Paddy?” on the brim, and fake bottoms inscribed with “Pog mo Thon”.

Two little girls, Meabh and Roisin Ni Churrhin, were splendidly turned out in Tricolour dresses, crocheted by their grandmother, Maureen Wall, but in the explosion of greenery, the native Irish were thrown into the shade.

Every nation in the world seemed to be strolling towards O’Connell Bridge, along with a multitude of second- and third-generation Irish from the UK, battling the tragic exchange rate and the price of food and drink (a big talking point) to honour the country of their forefathers.

Filipinos, Brazilians, Americans, Chinese, Japanese, Poles and Germans entwined themselves with green tinsel and Tricolour feather boas, stocked up on whistles and flags, sallied forth for the big parade and began by asking who was the man standing in the vintage car with his wife?

What with a television interviewer (assuredly not his wife) bouncing up and down beside him in the passenger seat like an over-excited six-year-old, Packie Bonner’s attention was clearly elsewhere as he cruised past the President, the city Mayor and hoi polloi in the vintage car.

Still, who better to represent the current spirit of the nation as grand marshal than “Safe Hands” himself? As a national motto, it may be four or five years too late but we are where we are, we were reminding ourselves maturely, just as a horse of the seven-strong Garda Mounted Unit relieved himself of a mighty poop, right at the centre of the marching route, directly outside the sacred confines of the GPO.

One could write an entire essay on the metaphorical meaning of it all. But then, as we gazed in horror at the approach of a barely-sighted slew of giant eggs on legs, a man ran out and scooped most of the dung into a little cardboard box – but left enough behind to cause a great frisson of dread, as a dancing egg slowly backed into it, furry little heels first, drawing a marvellously theatrical gasp from the crowd.

It was just a tad more eggciting than the massive, evil-looking, crane-operated mantis, which hovered menacingly over spectators before moving in with enormous snapping jaws.

But probably not as thought-provoking as the repartee between Joe “Voice of the Tribunals” Taylor and actor and playwright Elizabeth Moynihan, who had the tough gig of keeping the crowd informed and entertained. “And now we have some unicorns on stilts,” announced Elizabeth. “I think they’re ice cream cones,” said Joe. Cones? Horns? Who cares.

That’s the thing about parades; you can make what you like of them. My over-literal notion of sinister, deep-blue sea creatures may be your exploration of light and colour co-existing with the shadow of darkness.

After maybe 90 minutes of vibrant, multicultural swirling, stilt-walking and symbolism, you may well decide that what separates the merely good from the great is not so much the scale and creativity of the floats as the vigour, joy, menace and – above all – FUN conveyed by the participants.

A rocking singer in a giant frying pan, serried rows of giving-it-all drummers, the 12 tubas of the swinging North Carolina State university marching band and their inimitable college chant, the hip-swaying spirit of the Inishowen Carnival group, the heart-lifting reggae sounds of Muleketu from France, the bafflingly attractive noise produced by dozens of bagpipes played by Spanish group Lume de Biqueira.

And yet. There are, believe it or not, people who see “only” two majorettes (with the North Carolina band) and long for the old days when you could count on dozens of them at the parade. Is there a direct link between St Patrick and Irishness on the one hand and giant eggs, insects and unicorns on the other?

Muriel, a 74-year-old Mayo-born woman who has lived in Leeds for 50 years, is fairly sure there’s not. “It’s very multicultural,” she says sadly. “I think it’s losing its character”.

Alvaro, Graciela, William and Gabriel, all twentysomething English-language students from Brazil, all green paint, tinsel, stetsons and feather boas, thought we could do with a samba group or two in “enormous” cars, like they have at home.

But Molly Campbell, a 21-year-old American student, kitted out in shamrock-emblazoned toe-socks and flip-flops, topped with a T-shirt, inscribed “Irish Today, Hungover Tomorrow”, was in heaven. As was her friend Kyle Molyneaux McMahon from Iowa: “We love the beer.”.

Closer to home, it was difficult to have a conversation with a Scots or English visitor without veering into the old, familiar world of rip-off.

“We paid €3.50 for can of Coke in a Temple Bar pub . . . and €5 for a pint,” said David McKeown from Glasgow.

Claire Hollings and her husband, from Harrogate, looked defeated by it all. “We can’t believe the prices charged here for a main course . . .”

But Muriel from Leeds smiled wistfully and remembered the best thing about being Irish: “It’s still lovely how the Irish will just turn and chat to you casually. In England, if you try that, they think you’re up to something . . . There are things I still miss, even after 50 years.”