This week, I have mainly been busy being both married and Irish. Being married is, after all, the greatest accolade for an Irish person. The only thing more acknowledged, more prized than being married would be to be a priest, which I can’t be because (a) I’m a woman and (b) I don’t believe in it.

I believe in priests themselves. I’ve seen some. Some have even touched me (on the forehead, with ash or holy water or some other mumbo-jumbo paraphenalia). I know they’re out there. But I don’t believe in all the stuff they push, or the fact that they throw away half-eaten joints of roast meat when they preach poverty and humility. (For a time, my parents lived behind the parochial house: keeping our dog’s weight down was a huge problem. She’d disappear to the holy bins and drag home half a wildebeest, chucked out having had only a few chunky, priest-sized slices removed.) Besides, I’m vegetarian: the Catholic Church doesn’t believe in me much, either.

The quintessential Irish day was, of course, this week. We celebrate being Irish through the prism of having been converted to Catholics by a man who may or may not have existed and may or may not have disliked reptiles. (In that respect, he and St. George had a lot in common: why can’t we all just get along?)

I did a show on St. Patrick’s night, in London. It really is way more fun to be Irish on St. Patrick’s Day outside of Ireland. Sure, they hang our flag upside down but at least they hang our flag from every available hangy-thng. Everyone’s happy to see you, nobody ignores you, or stops ignoring you only to ask if you “got Mass?” I’ve never got Mass, but that’s not what they’re asking.

No need to worry about that here in reassuringly questioning, considerably more Godless England. There are no Holy Days of Obligation here. Your religion may suggest that you could choose to take in an old Mass on particular days, but you don’t get people feeling obliged to walk up to you and revel in the fact that they believe you’re going to roast in hell like a priest’s half wildebeest because you haven’t done so.

I’ve only been married since Saturday. I wonder if Ireland’s attitude to me has changed yet? Oh, I’ll still be the scathing heathen who doesn’t eat meat, asking questions like “how can vegetarians take the communion host if it’s been transubstantiated into the actual body of the Lord?” I wasn’t trying to be smart. I was genuinely intrigued. I was soundly thrashed and smugly filed under “Hades express”.

But at least, now, I’m a heathen who’s not after everyone else’s husband. I’m a safe bet. The fact that I don’t eat wildebeest is still a bit dodgy but at least, since Saturday, the assumption will be that I know how to cook it.

I am so pleased to have become less suspicious. I want my country to be proud of me. Tonight, when my husband gets home from the office, I will roast some nuts.

This entry was posted on Friday, March 19th, 2010 at 8:35 am and is filed under Blog. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.