"Welcome to New York - duck motherfuckers" (popular t-shirt slogan with gun motif).

There are two WW2 tanks outside the Armory on Staten Island. Amid snow flurries, the Irish flag flutters beside Old Glory. Jet-lagged and groggy from fizzy frogs' eye Guinness absorbed in the bar across the street myself and my colleague Dr. Skinner stagger into the heat and plonk down ten dollars apiece. Here we are at the St. Patrick's Day Parade Fund raiser.

The enormous room boils with sweat, bonhomie, alcohol, cigarette smoke and money. The place is bursting with Loyal sons of St. Patrick, Ladies of the Ancient Order of Hibernians, and such characters as Ralph Steadman dearly loves to portray. They swarm about pressing the flesh (and what a lot of it), and sprawl at trestle tables laden with lollipops, hot dogs, potato salad, chips and pizza, guzzling pitchers of Guinness, Harp or Miller Lite, talking about the famine, the struggle and the wearin' of the green.

Many citizens present look as if they'd disembowel you for a nickel. Others as if they'd forgo the nickel and disembowel you for the sheer fun of it.

I secure a pitcher of Guinness, Dr. Skinner one of Harp. The Willie Lynch Trio gives us 'Toora Loora Loora - it's an Irish lullaby' from behind their backdrop of emerald. I shake the clammy hand of Jerome X. O'Donovan, Grand Marshal. I meet Willie Lynch who turns out to have been in 'Paul And The Deep Set' all those years ago and embarrass Dr. Skinner by singing "I'm in love with the girl who lives in the house with the white-washed gables" with him.

People keep giving us free beer because we're Irish. And soon woozy and sentimental, as little kids with shamrock discoboppers and harps painted on their cheeks dance among beefy off-duty cops and kilted loons, myself and the doctor sing ourselves hoarse to 'Daydream Believer'. I lurch off for a pitcher of Lite, looking for the Grand Marshal to find out if he knows the rest of the words to a song a girl from Clonmel taught me once, 'Do you take it in the mouth Mrs. Murphy? Cost it only weighs a quarter of a pound'. But in vain, for he has left the building.

Nor can I spot the doctor. Big spud-faced Noraid enthusiasts are buck leppin' all around. A man nearby tells a twenty-stone friend about a curry he ate recently. "I don't mind tellin' you," he confides 'Me arse was like the Japanese flag next mornin'."

"Excuse me," I manage. "Have you seen a guy wandering around here without me?"

Government Health warning: Two pitchers of Lite after one of Guinness can make one sicke.

broadway

Dr. Skinner: "Look, I've got to take a piss."

The Author: "OK, let's go in here." (points to sign: TOILETS DOWNSTAIRS.)

Dr. Skinner: (As we emerge) "That was the Empire State Building. We're probably the only people in history who've ever gone down the Empire State Building."

eighty-six channels

What'll you be doing with your old antacids now that… ZAP… Welcome you to the Daily Mass Channel… ZAP… This spina bifida bride… ZAP… The seven symptoms of dry skin? Kiss 'em goodbye… ZAP… From haunted lighthouses to sheep in supermarkets… ZAP… Ironically that FBI agent turned out to be… ZAP… What we found out was that four out of five people preferred the clean taste of a potato pie… ZAP… The secret is in the micro-miniature surgery… ZAP… Helps prevent gas five ways… ZAP… Oompas from the magic world of Wonka… ZAP… Finished your meal? Now it's acid's turn to dine… ZAP… Your deejay choice, 'Venus Flytrap'… ZAP… Guaranteed to reduce the thighs and buns through the secret of sectional progression… ZAP… Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.

Brooklyn

Man with crumpled evening suit and black tie undone kissing girl on street at door of Yellow Cab. Guy in car behind honking horn through rolled down driver's window: "Hey, move it buddy. Ya didn't get it last night, ya sure as hell won't get it now."

Broadway and twelfth

As Dr. Skinner was watching football in some dive a block away I hit Strand Books ('Eight miles of shelves') in the Village. After two miles the scarf and anorak came off. It was hot. It was real hot. After another mile I went for a drink.

Two streets up I found a bar with a dark green canopy and fancy glass doors. A guy with a Sergeant Pepper suit and a big beard was minding them. He looked as if he didn't care much for my anorak. "Something the matter with your arm?" I asked. He opened one of the doors without a lot of enthusiasm.

Inside, I contemplated the prices with even less. The cheapest beer came in at $7.50. Sipping one I observed the two gals on my left who were sharing one of those Taschen photo books. They seemed to be real close friends. The photographs seemed to be mostly of girls sitting on toilets. The guy on my right explained that he was from Canada. "That's like being an American," he explained, "only without a gun." He was a teacher. "I make $60,000 a year. About the same as a garbageman. Only where they work the shit don't talk back."

On the way out the doorman extended a gloved palm. I fumbled in my pocket. "Here's a dime pal," I said. "Get yourself a shave."