Pull up a stool, will ye and let me tell ye how St Patrick’s Day really gets into a man’s bones.

They’ll tell you it’s a day for parades and plastic hats and shoutin’ “top o’ the mornin’” like they learned Ireland off a cereal box. But the truth of it is older… older than the first pint pulled in a proper snug, older than half the stories men swear are true after midnight.

My old fella used to say Patrick didn’t just banish snakes, he chased off the bad luck, the misery, the long winters of the heart. And whether ye believe that or not, there’s a reason the day still pulls people together like a tide. On the seventeenth, even the hard men soften. Strangers become cousins. A quiet bar turns into a roaring kitchen. And somehow, some way, the night always ends later than anyone planned.

I remember my da and ma on St Paddy’s, Jaysus, they’d be dressed like they were goin’ to Mass at six and then still laughin’ at sunrise. The auld lads would start with “just the one” and end up tellin’ the same story three times, each version gettin’ wilder. My ma would be tuttin’ at them, “Ye’re a shower of eejits”, but she’d be smilin’ into her glass, because she knew the secret: there’s a bit of magic in the air on St Patrick’s Day, and anyone who says otherwise hasn’t stayed long enough.

And that’s what we’re doin’ at Invergordon Bar for St Patrick’s Day 2026, not some stiff, staged carry-on. We’re doin’ it the way it’s meant to be: a warm room, good people, and the kind of craic that builds itself.

We’ll have Guinness flowin’ like it’s a holy duty. Kilkenny lined up for the smooth pint drinkers. Magners Apple Cider cold enough to bite. And Jameson sitting proud behind the bar, ready for the toasts, the sensible ones early on, and the reckless ones later when someone starts talkin’ about “the old country” with a mist in their eye.

Now listen — we’re not puttin’ on live music. No stage, no act, no fuss. But if you’ve got a fiddle, a tin whistle, a bodhrán, or any other instrument that belongs in a pub when the mood is right… bring it. That’s the real way. The kind of session that starts accidental — one tune, one chorus, one lad tappin’ the table — and before you know it the whole place is singin’ like they’ve known each other since childhood. Keep it friendly, keep it respectful, and sure we’ll let the night do what it does best.

And if you’re the sort that believes in the little folk, well, I’m not sayin’ there’ll be leprechauns in Docklands… but I’ve seen stranger things happen once the Guinness settles and the laughter gets loud. There’s always one fella swears he saw a gold coin on the floor. Another insists the lights flickered when someone mentioned a banshee. And every year there’s a brave soul claimin’ they’ve found the “luck of the Irish” at the bottom of a glass. (They never have, the poor devils, but it doesn’t stop them lookin’.)

So come in, one and all, Irish born, Irish bred, or Irish for the day. Wear a bit of green if you’ve got it. Bring your mates. Bring your stories. Bring your voice for the singin’. And if you’ve had a rough run lately, bring that too, St Patrick’s Day has a way of liftin’ a man up when he needs it most.

Because this isn’t just a date on a calendar. It’s a night for belongin’, for laughin’, for rememberin’, for toasts to the old ones, and for carryin’ on like your da and ma did — right through till mornin’… or close enough to it.

St Patrick’s Day 2026 at Invergordon Bar.
Come for the pints. Stay for the craic.
And if the luck finds ye while you’re here… don’t be tellin’ everyone, alright? Sláinte.