"The Irish are all mad!"

You've heard it before, and you'll hear it again. Particularly in March, and especially around March 15th. Or should that be the 17th? No matter. Whether one or the other, it raises the hackles on an Irishman.. It's so unfair, like the judging in Olympic pairs ice skating.

They are not mad. They are completely, totally, and unabashedly insane. They revel in their insanity, and they invite you to share in it. Where else can you enjoy such garbage strewn hedge rows, such dump laden vistas, such effluentially rich trout streams, such cratered roadways, such littered city streets, and a people so beguiling they'll warm the cockles of your heart and claim you as a long-lost cousin when they see you riding your yak down O'Connell Street in Dublin?

Anyway, not to put a fine tooth in it, March is the month when surfers' mice turn to Irish, and would-be-Irish, web sites. Eagerly do they flock-mice flock?--to Google, and Netscape, to Explorer and Lycos, to HotBot and Alta Vista, in search of something Irish, something to satisfy that inner yearning to cross cyber space and touch, however briefly, the spirit of the Celt as he quaffs his Guinness and Power's, free from the cares of everyday, and revels in reveries of, and reverence to, a glorious past when Ireland was known as the land of saints and scholars.

In case you haven't noticed, alliteration is the bane of Irish writers. They can no more evade it than turn down the offer of a free drink. Of which more anon.

Anyhow, sad to say, the land of saints and scholars is now the land of developers and politicians, and where each starts and ends none can tell. The brown envelope stuffed with euros-formerly punts--has replaced prayer to the saints. Hired consultants, pre-briefed, of course, take precedence over scholars.

As an aside, and nothing to do with the foregoing, has anyone noticed that our last three Irish Prime Ministers' names were Albert, Bertie, and Charlie? It's too easy. You can make your own fun with that.

One day an Irish knight, an English knight, and a French knight were drinking in a pub. An argument broke out as to which was the better fighter.

"I can beat either one of you", said the English knight.

"I can beat either one of you easily", said the French knight.

"I can beat the both of you together", said the Irish knight.

The English and French knights took this as an insult and a challenge.

All three donned their armour, mounted their horses, and adjourned to the jousting field.

The Irish knight took his place in the middle, and the English and French knights at either end of the lists.

On the signal to begin, the English knight charged the Irish knight from in front, and the French knight charged him from behind.

When the Irish knight was busy fending off the charge from in front, the French knight managed to prick him in the left buttock with his lance.

And when he whirled around to battle the French knight, the English knight pricked him in the right buttock with his lance.

This made the Irish knight mad, and with one sweep of his sword he chopped off their heads.

Asked afterwards what he thought of his two slain opponents, he replied: "They were both a pain in the butt!"

Speaking about the old cliché that on March 17th everyone wants to be Irish-insanity isn't confined to Ireland-one of ours beat the daylights out of all of yours, without lances or swords, but with his fists. I'm not talking about the great John L. Sullivan, the bare-fist champion of the world in an earlier era-"I can beat anyone in this saloon"--but about his modest modern-day successor "I'm the greatest!" Mohammed Ali. The quiet, smooth spoken Ali, who had a poet's penchant for literary allusions-"Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee", "The Thrilla' in Manila" and "Rumble in the Jungle", is, of course, a broth of a boy from Clare, a couple of generations ago.

Last month genealogists traced Ali's roots back to the Emerald Isle. Pugilism aficionados know that when Ali first burst on the scene he went by his family name, Cassius Clay. Turns out his mother was Odessa Lee Grady, the great granddaughter of Abe Grady, a native of Ennis in County Clare, who emigrated from Ireland in the 1860s, and married an African-American lady in Kentucky.

Odessa Grady, the great granddaughter, married Cassius Clay Snr, and they lived in Louisville, Kentucky where their son Cassius Clay Jnr. was born in 1942.

Cassius adopted the name Mohammed Ali when he became an Islamite.

I must confess a life-long mild interest in the boxing world, which I have described elsewhere in chapter 15 of The Friendly Town, and a remote family connection, former middleweight world champion Carl "Bobo" Olson, otherwise known as "The Haiwaiian Swede", having married a descendant of my uncle, Barry Ward of Long Island, NY.

To keep a long story from becoming longer, a web surfer's interest being calculated at seven minutes maximum, excluding devotees of www.vindicator.ca who read and re-read every last word, Ali was three times world heavyweight boxing champion. His most memorable recent appearance on the world stage was when he lit the Olympic flame at the opening of the Summer Games in Atlanta, in 2000.

Where else could Ali have got his famous gift of the gab except through his Irish genes?

A visitor to a small town in Ireland happened upon a traditional wake being held that night in the home of the deceased. Since he had nothing better to do, he decided to pay his respects to the departed, knowing there was a good chance he might be offered a drink.

In he went, knelt by the coffin, bowed his head, and when he got to his feet, a glass of whiskey was placed in his hand. Those present thought he must have known the deceased and had come from afar to grieve his passing.

He passed the usual platitudes, was passed a second drink, and a third, and all in all passed a pleasant evening.

On the second night of his stay, he noticed the wake was still in progress. Again he paid his respects, and again received the usual courtesies.

On the third night he managed to make his way, still upright, back to the wake house.

"Sir", said the widow," as she handed him a tumbler full of the hard stuff, "you must have been a great friend of my husband. Perhaps you can help us. Some of the younger ones want him cremated, but the older ones want him buried in the traditional fashion. What would you advise?"

"Stuff him, ma'am, and keep the wake going!"

Since this web page links Ireland and Canada, and this writer holds Irish and Canadian citizenship, he fearlessly begs permission to insult both races.

"What is an Irish Canadian?"

Someone with an ancestor who couldn't afford the last leg of the trip to the U.S.

"What is an Irish American?"

Someone with an illiterate ancestor who thought he was taking the boat to Canada.

"What is an Irishman?"

An aborigine inhabiting the westernmost fringes of Europe.

"What are his main characteristics, if any?"

Easily provoked when sober, or not.

"Can he be housebroken?"

Yes! Decidedly yes. Anyone who acquires one, treats him well, feeds him, meets his every wish, and acknowledges he is both magnificent and the centre of the universe, will find him to be an adorable household pet, but still easily provoked.

"What is a Canadian?"

You have performed an illegal operation. Your computer will now shut down. Have a nice day!