Each and every year millions of Irish, Irish-ish and amateur alcoholics are needlessly distracted from their Holy Tradition of drinking themselves into a stupor in the name of Saint Patrick, a Roman Briton slave holding the dubious honour of bringing Christianity to an island that would use it as another convenient excuse to blatter the hell out of each other for centuries.
The source of this terrible distraction?
An onslaught of half-hearted, dyed-green references to St. Patrick’s Day as St. Patty’s Day.
It gnaws at them. It riles them up. It makes them want to fight… you know, more than usual.
Paddy is derived from the Irish, Pádraig, hence those mysterious, emerald double-Ds.
Patty is the diminutive of Patricia, or a burger, and just not something you call a fella.
There is not a sinner in Ireland that would refer to a Patrick as “Patty”. It’s as simple as that.
WHILE I'M BENDING YOUR EAR…
Shamrock isn’t just any auld piece of clover: it’s three-leafed. Tradition holds that St. Patrick used shamrock to teach the Trinity, so give it a bit o’ thought before ye slap a four-leaf clover on yer plastic leprechaun hat. While I’m at it: Shamrock Shakes are boggin’ and will make you boke unless you like drinking mouthwash.
Irish Car Bomb isn’t a cute name for a drink or a cupcake and, if you are pushing shite like this, cut it out. Those of us that lived their lives punctuated by car bombs aren’t giggling along with you. 25-year-old Ronan Kerr was murdered in April 2011 by an Irish car bomb and he can’t join you for a drink. If nothing else, for Christ’s sake, stop putting money into cans for vague causes.
Paddy, Mick and Taig/Teague/Tadhg have been used as ethnic slurs for centuries—sure—but they’re still just names. However stereotypical it is, it isn’t a slur to call you by your actual name. Nonetheless, some folk are under the impression that “Paddy” is terrible but changing a couple of letters will make it magically OK. They don’t know their arses from their elbows.