The St. Patrick’s Day parade in New York is an embarrassment. Decent Irish people should shun it.

Last year, Mayor Bill de Blasio and a majority of city councillors stayed away in protest against a ban on gay Irish groups taking part. Unless there’s a late, late change, there will be a boycott this year, too.
Says council majority leader Jimmy Van Bramer: “Until all New Yorkers are able to represent themselves freely and march as proud members of our city’s vibrant Irish and Irish American LGBT community I will continue to boycott this parade.”
March organisers, the Ancient Order of Hibernians, responded to last year’s boycott by offering a ‘concession’. Irish gays and lesbians could march with an ‘affinity group’ comprising gay and straight employees of corporate sponsors NBC Universal. But there was to be no separate contingent identifying itself as both Irish and LGBT.
It’s said sex between women was never banned in Britain because Queen Victoria didn’t believe such a thing possible. Now the Ancient Order of Homophobes has conceded that it’s safe to brush shoulders with homosexuals – as long as there’s no suggestion that deviance might have an Irish identity.
One member of Irish Queers commented: “It’s ridiculous in this day and age for anyone to think they can lay down conditions for LGBT people taking part in an Irish event. It wouldn’t happen back home.”
The idea would be laughed to scorn from Dungloe to Dingle.
Yet, at the time of writing, it seems Enda Kenny intends to travel the Atlantic to join the parade. It might be thought he has a political death-wish. But there’s no shortage of precedent for Irish leaders embracing intolerance so as to keep onside with elements of Irish America, whose backing they believe might prove useful in future.
Taoiseach-in-waiting and nude trampoliner Gerry Adams gave Irish gays and lesbians short shrift a few years ago when they pleaded with him to speak out against their exclusion. I don’t think he’ll be taking that line this year. The Provos are far better than the Blueshirts at thumb-checking what way the winds blow. You can tell that from the polls, which it is breaking the Sindo’s heart to have to put on page one.

It’s not only gays who have offended the homophobe zealots of Paddy’s Day. Once upon a long time ago, I was in New York to speak about connections between the civil rights movements over here and over there. I went along with a plan hatched in a pub in Queens to block the parade as it passed St. Patrick’s Cathedral, in protest against a refusal to allow placards pointing to a parallel between the two struggles.
As the marchers came into view along Fifth Avenue, about half a dozen of us hopped a barrier, scurried into the middle of the road and plonked ourselves down in dignified array for at least 20 seconds before the NYPD descended in a flurry from the steps of St. Patrick’s and tossed us unresistantly into a van.
As I landed on the metal floor, I heard one of my comrades on the side-walk yelling, “I’m with you, Eamonn!” – to which I had the presence of mind to respond, “No, you’re fucking not.”
One cop in particular gave me a hard time by use of the elbow as the vehicle (I’d call it a Black Maria or a Paddy Wagon if I could work out whether either designation is allowable these days) lurched towards the jail-house. “Thirty years and finally I get a spot on the steps,” he seethed. We’d ruined his day by forcing him to abandon a prized position alongside the cardinal, just as the parade hoved into view.
We spent the night in a cell with six or seven other random citizens – as polite a bunch as you could wish to spend time with, behind bars. They included the gayest-looking person I have ever set eyes on. Black, beautiful, slinky bum, crinkly hair dyed red and eyes full of alluring mischief, he had been pick-pocketing the spectators, allegedly.
They hauled us up in the morning (I’m subbing it down here) to stand in front of the judge. “This all to do with things going on in Ireland?” We nodded, yes. “Get out of my court then,” he sighed.
At this, our new friend was brought forward. “I don’t suppose you are part of this Irish protest,” enquired the judge. “Oh, I surely am,” exclaimed our guy on the instant, speaking in a register that indicated outrage at his credentials being questioned. “Ain’t that so?”
Yes, we chorused, he’s with us. With a weary shake of the head and a vague wave of the hand, the judge told us all to just go away. Slinky-bum sped sinuously off without a backward glance. If we’d been in for another couple of hours, I might have written a song.

Attentive readers may have detected that Paddy’s Day isn’t my thing. I take my stand with Sarah Silverman who responded to a guy who suggested they hang out together amid the maudlin drool and projectile vomiting with the explanation, “Look, what I do on St. Patrick’s Day is lock myself in my apartment and spend the time until it’s over laughing at Angela’s Ashes.”
What a sensible woman!