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He didn’t do any of those things he is popularly known for – the snake thing and shamrocks and ‘remember me with a shot of whisky’.

There were no snakes in Ireland to begin with. Whisky, in all likelihood, wasn’t made yet – although I suspect distillation was well known to the primitive celts of Ireland and Scotland long before historians credit them. Pretty sure even then they suspected something that made them feel good would be forbidden, reserved for their betters or taxed to the hilt.

Life was rough then. Them scrabbling at the bottom of the pile did all the work for them lounging at the top. St. Patrick was born somewhere in either England or Wales (cause borders were more of a suggestion in those days) but kidnapped by pirates and sold into slavery. He got shipped to Ireland at that point for a not pleasant few years.

He ran away, became educated and worked his way up the ecclesiastical ladder. Returning to Ireland with some buddies, he was able to speak the language of the people and relate to them in a very direct way.

With all the other modern crepe paper traditions stripped away, it’s not surprising he is also the patron saint of excluded people. Having spent so much of his early life on the outside, it makes sense.

Much more sense than green beer and binge drinking.

Still, these days any reason to celebrate is a welcome port in this storm.