GLOBAL PADDIFICATION: HOW MUCH CAN I BUY MY HERITAGE FOR?
“I’m not like other Brits” Words by Ciara Cassidy
The Irish have always been cool if you ask me, but what’s changed is that everyone has gone a bit mad about it.
It’s great to like Irish culture. It just wasn't supposed to become a personality trait for people who've never set foot in Connacht.
Last summer, it peaked. Plastic Paddies flocked from far and wide to Finsbury Park to see the Fontaines. It was to be the event of the year. After Belfast-based rap trio Kneecap took a stance against the increasingly Orwellian British state, they placed themselves on the world’s stage as anti-establishment, pro-Palestinian, republican icons. Tickets were going for as much as £300. Clearly, they were popular amongst us Brits.
Oh, the irony, as thousands of born-and-bred Londoners, dripping in claddagh earrings and Celtic scarves, bashing against each other, chanting “Get your Brits out”. Surreal. Maybe no one cared about the irony. Maybe it was just all a big joke. Maybe it doesn’t really matter that much anymore, so long as you’re sound?
It all felt a bit weird.
Having Irish roots, I’ve always had one foot in the culture. So, it felt strange to watch my London contemporaries catch up with the craze.
British boys love to talk about Dublin. The grin on their faces when they’d ask me, “Does the Guinness actually taste better there?”, as if they were in on some kind of secret. I hate to break it to you, babe, but that question is extremely boring.
To be honest, I’m not sure where I stand in all of this, or if I’m even entitled to an opinion. But something isn’t sitting quite right with the British people’s fancy, verging on a fetish for, with the Irish.
And to be even more honest, the worst culprits are the Brits who have Irish parents. Brits like me.
Growing up in London, I have a weak claim to the Emerald Isle. But I have felt an affinity for the place my whole life.
My best memories from childhood, the memories I ache to recapture most, the ones that hurt a little to think about, all come from my summers in the Irish sea.
As a teenager, I took time to read up on my heritage. I answered my own questions and filled the gaps left by a neglectful British state education. I think that counts for something.
Yet this affinity of mine only felt validated once I studied at university in Dublin. Finally, I actually lived there.
Now, the more I feel connected to Ireland, the more I grow tired of speaking about it with those who have never lived there.
Since I graduated, I’ve been to many parties where a fellow Brit with Irish parents has approached me to discuss at length where their family are from in hopes that their fickle roots can plant themselves in the tribe. This is pretty annoying and boring. Though, I've found myself doing this too.
A friend of mine from Dublin told me recently, “Immediately after arriving in London, it quickly became clear how shockingly uneducated an alarming number of people were about Ireland and Irish identity.”
I asked some brilliant, Irish friends of mine who can offer a nuance I can't give, what they think about this new surge.
Is it now cool to have been colonised?
“I think that people want to be Irish because of our colonised culture, and I think that is very fucking weird. People are talking about colonisation and genocide now more than ever, because Palestine has been such a televised war, and now, suddenly, being Irish is cool. It's almost like people are envious of that.” – Kate Brosnan, 26, Kilkenny.
To understand why this moment feels so charged, it helps to understand where it's coming from. Irish identity has a long tradition of socialist values and anti-colonial struggle.
There was a time, not long ago, when being visibly, authentically Irish was something young people actively shied away from.
It was less than 50 years ago when my grandfather was told, “I would never hire you because you’re Irish and you’re Catholic. Even if you were the last man alive”.
For anyone who wants to learn about the splitting histories of the Irish diaspora and the Irish on the mainland, I encourage you to read Noel Ignatiev’s How the Irish Became White.
He argues that in the 19th century, the Irish were not considered "white" in the way we understand it today. They were often referred to as "white Negroes" or "smoked Irish," occupying the same low social and economic rung as free Black people.
Speaking to my friends, they can acknowledge that the Irish hold a dual identity. They are the only group that is widely recognised as both formerly colonised and currently politically white.
As my friend Aofie puts it: “I think it’s nice that people think the Irish are cool, obviously it’s handy for me, but I also think it’s a very safe way to be like ‘Irish people are different’, but we are still white people that get a lot of privilege”.
My friend Eimear explains why she thinks this is happening: “In certain media and social spaces, particularly among middle-class young people, there can be a negative framing of straight white men as oppressors. I wonder if, for some, leaning into Irish identity becomes a way of navigating that, aligning with a history of colonisation and oppression, and therefore distancing themselves from a more generalised sense of being part of a dominant or oppressive group.”
Irishness is a floating signifier of a unique identity that is still white enough to be safe but oppressed enough to be interesting.
This duality is exactly what makes Irishness so marketable. So cool.
Many Irish themselves are aware and, frankly, pretty peeved, that their current popularity rides on the back of a complex colonial history.
The Irish Aesthetic: Who reaps the benefits of this rise in popularity?
“When you look at fashion and culture, a lot of the renewed interest has relied on a vintage vibe, leaning into nostalgia. I wonder if that risks either intentionally or unintentionally over-romanticising an Ireland in which quite a lot of people experience quite a lot of abuse and oppression, and it is slightly revisionist for me. Is it rewriting what Irish culture was back then, to try and celebrate it now? - Jeaic Conneey, 26, Dublin.
The Fontaines, Kneecap, Jessie Buckley, Paul Mescal, Sally Rooney. The Irish are everywhere, but they always have been. From Sinéad O'Connor to the Cranberries and Christy Moore, Irish musicians have always gained global recognition for their talents.
What is different now is that everyone wants to be part of the tribe.
Irish nationalism, inextricably linked to colonialism and good craic, has become brilliant marketing. Fashion brands, bands, and Guinness have all jumped on this moment, launching products aimed at international audiences.
Perhaps no brand exemplifies this more neatly than Pellador. The Dublin-founded label has built its entire aesthetic around working-class Irish identity - Aran knitwear, Celtic motifs - and is selling it back, at £300 a jumper.
It is an interesting brand. But who is buying it? And what do they think they're buying into? There is an argument that Irish designers profiting from Irish culture is precisely what reclamation looks like. But there is an equally strong argument that, at £300 a pop, reclamation has a very specific postcode.
I asked my friend Jeaic whether this surge in popularity is a good thing, and they asked me in turn, “What stories are spun or re-spun when we rely on old stories of our nation and our culture? Who does that include or exclude, and does that further cement or confirm stereotypes in a negative sense?”
What does commodification leave behind?
There’s no place like home: It’s all marketing, but it’s not all bad.
After a stint in London, many Irish people end up going home.
“Ireland naturally feels like a safe space to reconnect with that private, authentic sense of culture, where its core cannot be easily appropriated and sold off. We may have lost a few bands, Guinness, and some actors whose influence feels somewhat diluted broadly, but there are countless outlets back home that can remain sacred and protected.” – Ethan Ryan, 27, Dublin.
Fed up with being in a city that doesn’t fully understand them, and perhaps a little homesick, Irish people long to refresh the authenticity of their national identity.
Meanwhile, right now, someone in East London is wearing a £300 knit with some Celtic motif across the chest. They’re cracking open a Guinness. They're not taking the piss. They're genuinely enthusiastic. Maybe they've even been to Dublin.
But Jeaic's question keeps nagging at me: what gets lost when a culture becomes a commodity? When the aesthetics are extracted and sold back at a premium, who profits and who gets quietly edited out of the story? The Irish people I spoke to aren't asking for the world to stay away. They're asking for a bit more honesty about what's actually being consumed, and why.
I started this piece unsure whether I was even entitled to an opinion. I'm ending it in roughly the same place. But, after some thoughts from my friends, I think it’ll change the question.
Does the version being sold to us have anything left in common with the thing it claims to be?
That might be worth thinking about before the next round.