I hadn’t intended to say things about St Patrick’s Day, not being Irish, a fan of Guinness, or small men with ginger beards, but when I saw the effort Stickman had gone to, I couldn’t really ignore it.
Just look at him.
I am a little concerned that he’s started drinking Guinness so early, as it’s well-known that Stickman can’t really handle his liquor, but I’m hoping he’ll remain sensible and we won’t have to go through the ridiculous palaver that St Patrick’s Day always turns out to be.
Listener, last year I took him to see Riverdance. He got so drunk in the bar beforehand he stormed the stage, tried to join in, and passed out. I was literally mortified.
Then the year before we went to a house party, and needless to say Stickman got stuck into the black stuff. After several pints – which is several more than he can handle – the following incident occurred. (Unfortunately, I was unable to intervene as I myself had got rather inebriated and was gorging on the host’s secret supply of crumpets, as I am wont to do.)
Needless to say I was very embarrassed when a fellow party-goer rushed into the kitchen, where I had my face in a plate of hot buttered crumpets, and relayed the whole sorry episode to me. I took Stickman home and put him to bed with an Aspirin. I suppose it’s my fault for not having the ‘leprechaun talk’ with him at a younger age.
Then of course there was the year that Stickman went totally over the top with the whole wearing green clothes thing, and unfortunately several dimwitted Sunday drivers mistook him for a giant green light.
Not forgetting the year I took him to the largest collection of four-leaved clovers in the world, and, due to the fact that Stickman was feeling a little down on his luck – he had squandered a considerable amount of money on gambling, drink, drugs and stickwomen – he thought it would be a good idea to eat the entire collection of priceless four-leaved clovers.
Now, listener, I don’t know whether you’ve ever consumed fifty kilograms of clover. That’s a lot of clover. Even a dainty nibble on just a couple of leaves can leave a bitter taste in the mouth, so can you imagine what fifty kilograms of clover does to a man? And, moreover, a man made of stick?
I was scooping him off the walls for eight hours, listener. And I had to pay the owner of the collection £3,000,000,000,000 in compensation, which is a fair old amount, and I don’t have that sort of money lying round, listener; so I was forced to sell my body and within two weeks I had made £50, and then I robbed a bank, so was able to pay up.
Fortunately, stickmen heal quickly, and even though he was a rather sickly shade of green for several months, he made a full recovery.
So, hopefully, this year will be different. I’ve planned a nice day out at the St Patrick’s Day parade, followed by a hearty bowl of Irish stew at a local pub, and lots of jolly folk dancing and singing, and we’ll all be in bed by 11pm, happy, a little tipsy, and thoroughly delighted with how well the day went.
Come on then, Stickman, let’s get you out and…
Oh for feck’s sake.