Oh Finbar. Finbar, Finber, Finbar. What the finbar have you done?
I quite like my dad. I really do. I could give you lots of reasons why I shouldn't, and you'd be unlikely to blame me if I was to despise the very ground he walked on. You might try to talk me out of it, a little, but you'd understand, I'm sure of it.
We got a cheese photo in the electronic post just before Christmas, of the entire Away Team (father plus second family) all made up in maple leaves, symbolically mounted by Mounties, if you will. Grinning hugely, the lot of them, all officially Canadian at long last. I was happy for them. Better than being Irish for sure. Certainly better than being English, as my stepmother Janice has been for too many a long year. Canadan, that's okay, right? Harmless enough, like. And who knows, maybe one of these days they'll sharpen up their ice skates and invade the fuck out of the US, providing us all with a big laugh.
Let me just point out the one more upside here before it all turns horribly sour. I think this might mean that I can be a Canadian too. It will certainly ease my passage into the Canuck world should I ever decide that I cannot take even one more day of this hideous, apologetic, back-stabbing Irishness.
Oh, but Finbar, what have you done? I read the truth in Saturday's Irish Toss. To become a Canadian citizen one must take an oath. One must pledge, as it would appear that my father has done 'to be faithful and bear true allegiance to her majesty queen Elizabeth the second queen of Canada, her heirs and successors.'
'It's just words!' you cry.
'It doesn't necessarily mean that your paternal parent is falling down and licking the boots of an institution that stands for the mass murder of the Irish people, institutionalized racism and just being a pack of inbred, pointless cunts!' you howl.
Cry away. Howl on. I still feel dirty, dirtied.
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