Another Great Irish Tradition Dies, One Migrant at a Time

A grand Irish tradition dies with every migrant who sets foot on this island.

Tragic stuff altogether.

Our countryside customs are fading away, mostly because there simply are not enough Irish lads left to keep them going.

Last time, we talked about the noble winter ritual of burning plastic in the fireplace, a scent as familiar as wet turf, one cherished by communities where over half the houses still refuse to use the bin collection.

Some have turned it into a personal crusade, none more than Bradley O’Orf, local fascist, part time sheep botherer, and full time gobshite, who proudly holds the national record for “most plastic packaging burned indoors in a single winter”.

Brad refuses to use those nasty “return” bins, insisting on holding the line for this ancient custom that gives Ireland its distinctive olfactory charm. For Brad, stopping the habit of inhaling melted Lidl bags is “exactly what’s turning our young lads into trans blue haired gays”.

But enough about the nostalgic perfume of molten plastic drifting through damp turf smoke. Another cherished rural gesture is now under threat.

If you wander through the countryside, you’ll see it everywhere, at every crossroads, in every village square. Let me paint the scene. You’ll know instantly what I mean:

A white Irish male, anywhere between the age of 24 and “should have died three winters ago”, walks out of the local shop. He performs a deep, guttural rake, a heroic heave from the cavernous depths of his lungs. In one glorious motion he drags every bit of mucus from his chest to his sinuses, forming a single, mighty mass in the front of his nose.

His hand comes up, ready for action.

And with the sound of a brass band warming up, he expels the entire content of his respiratory system straight into his palm. In the final flourish, a manly one at that, he flings the snotball to the ground, where it lands on the footpath with a wet, dignified “splash”.

This entire ritual, usually preceded by hours of loud sniffing, is now on the brink of extinction.

Soon, you will no longer risk slipping on the 400g of virile mucus deposited daily outside the pharmacy by Bradley, Kevin, Seán or any of their inbred cousins.

You will no longer have to yank your children to safety as a half litre of green phlegm comes hurtling past their heads.

Not only are there not enough white Irish men left to sustain the tradition, but migrants, the absolute monsters, use tissues.

And so, centuries of proud cultural transmission of pneumonia, flu, TB and God knows what else will die with the last “virile men” of Ireland, those brave guardians of the rural snotball.

Gone, but not forgotten, mainly because their legacy is still stuck to the pavement outside Spar.