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 honour of Saint Patrick and the wee island he adopted as home. They spit-take their libations—a shameful waste; they wring their flat caps; they clutch their camáin that little bit tighter; and the cailíní rua glow their familiar shade of rage.
The source of this terrible distraction?
An onslaught of superficial, dyed-green references to Saint Patrick’s Day as Patty’s Day. Like nails on a chalkboard. 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: the source of those mysterious, emerald double-Ds.
Patty is the diminutive of Patricia, or a burger, and just not something you call a fella.
There isn’t 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 Saint Patrick used shamrock to teach the Trinity. Give it a bit o’ thought before ye slap a lucky four-leaf clover on yer plastic leprechaun hat.
Irish Car Bomb isn’t a cute name for a drink or a cupcake. Cut that shite out.
Those of us that have lived their lives punctuated by car bombs aren’t giggling along with you.
Paddy, Mick, and Taig / Teague / Tadhg have long been used as slurs but they are still names.
However stereotypical it may be, it isn’t a slur to call you by your actual name.
Banter on the Twitternets
Do your Irish great-grand-uncle proud and let these tweejits know that it’s Paddy, not Patty…