This is the thirtieth Patrick's Day Parade organised in Sydney and the craic is as mighty as you would expect. St Patrick's Day isn't a public holiday here, so celebrations are held on the Sunday closest to it. They start unofficially in the early morning, when a group of Irish meet up on Sydney Harbour's north shore. They walk across the Harbour Bridge to the Rocks, the oldest part of Sydney, and hit the pubs there as soon as they open.
But according to the program, festivities begin at midday with the start of the Sydney St Patrick's Day Parade. The parade may be in its thirtieth year, but celebrations have been going on in Sydney for as long as there have been Irish here. The first recorded party was in 1810, when a dinner was organised for the convicts under the employ of the governor of the city.
It might have started with a dinner, but it got bigger. A lot bigger. In 1895, Sydney's archbishop Cardinal Moran, an Irishman himself, banned the parade because of the "tendency of marchers to gravitate to the pubs afterwards".
History doesn't record whether this stopped them going to the pub altogether, or whether with nothing to distract them they just went there earlier in the day, but it was 1979 before they held another parade. It grew yearly, and by 1992 they had over 40 floats.
There have been hiccups and triumphs. In 2002, just like occasionally in Ireland, the parade had to be cancelled due to bad weather. In 2007, the Irish Times named Sydney the best place in the world to celebrate Patrick's Day. The Parade has over 60 floats, and is the third biggest in the world, after Ireland's one and New York. They're all here today, Limerick and Leitrim, Westmeath and Wexford. Cork and Dublin's floats are judiciously separated and Kerry's float is the largest.
The Parade is just part of the entertainment with events planned all day in Hyde Park; a big stage and music for the grown-ups, a small one for the children. Hyde Park is a beautiful expanse of manicured green in the centre of the city, and normally a tranquil place to sit in the sun. But today it has been commandeered by the Sydney St Patrick's Day and Family Day committee to host a celebration of all things Irish, and appropriately enough, it's raining.
For a day, Ireland comes to Sydney. The rain adds that touch of authenticity. The fake sign posts don't. One side says 12 miles to Cork, and the other 32 miles to Dublin. Even for an "Irish mile", that seems a bit unlikely. In reality it's over 12,000 miles to Ireland from here, but you'd never guess it looking around.
There's over 20,000 people here, almost all in green. The park is full of beer tents and bars. Exotic Irish treats are available for sale, and snapped up by the backpackers and ex-patriots who haven't tasted the fare of the Emerald Isle in a bit too long. Toffee Crisps and Jaffa Cakes, Lilt and Barry's Tea, they're selling by the bucket load. Denny's pork sausages are frying up, a rare treat in a land where sausage are made of beef. Lorenzo's Paella stand looks a bit out of place, but nearby the queue for the Tayto booth is nearly a hundred people deep.
Jackie from Cork, an Irish backpacker on a working holiday in Australia, has been queuing for twenty minutes for a few bags of Tayto's finest cheese and onion. She has a beer in one hand, a Patrick's Day rosette pinned to her green bosom, and a green shamrock painted on her cheek.
How long has it been since she last had Taytos? "God, maybe three months!"
It's not just the Irish here either. Three Japanese tourists in shamrock hats are sipping nervously at a Guinness. An English backpacker, Becky, has been taught the National Anthem by her Irish housemate in honour of the day and is waiting for her chance to sing along.
She's also been taught the "real" National anthem, her flatmate says. Do they mean Ireland's Call, I ask, confused? No. They mean the Italia '90 ode to the Irish football team, "Put Them Under Pressure". She demonstrates and a chorus of "Olé Olé Olé" is taken up around the park.
Some Australians and Irish-Australians are in evidence. You can spot them a mile off. They are tanned and neat and wearing a touch of green that complements their outfit. A sparkly shamrock here, a ribbon there. They look co-ordinated.
The Irish, by comparison, are wearing whatever they could find in the all important green. There are men in green t-shirts and green grass hula skirts, and quite a few who have just given up on finding a shirt and peeled off their shirts and painted themselves green.
One Dublin tourist couldn't find anything green in his luggage so he chopped the end out of a green canvas eco-bag and wears it, straps over his shoulder, like a pinafore.
A group of girls in tiny green tops and chic green bob-cut wigs have formed a circle to the music. They effortlessly rebuff the amorous advances of a drunken man with the green and gold of a Kerry jersey draped around his waist. He tries a few times, but can't get a grip on the tightly packed mass of green. "Is there no one wanting to dance?" One final try and then ricochets off into the next group of girls.
Two groups later, he finds a little blond with a shamrock painted on her face to dance with him and fifteen seconds later, he has his tongue down her throat and is enthusiastically groping her green-clad bum. It's a sight to warm the heart of any patriotic Irish man.
The crowd and the rain have danced the ground to mud. Achtung Baby, the U2 tribute band, are sung out of encores. Called back on stage for the third time, they launch gamely into Elevation. The lead singer asking the crowd to sing it for him, seemingly not knowing all the words. He looks like Bono, with big fly-eye shades and a cowboy hat, and is trying his best to act like him too.
"Would you look at the twat in the hat!" shouts the drunken Kerry fan, suddenly single again, at the woman next to him. He is wearing a giant shamrock on his head and has "Póg Mo Thóin" spelled out, without the fadas, on his back of his jeans. She just gives him a look and keeps dancing.
The celebrations end just before sundown, with a chorus of Ireland's Call. There are calls for Amhrán na bhFiann, but the PA has been turned off. The crowd make do with singing it themselves and the park starts to empty. It looks like a riot happened here; the green grass is gone, and busted plastic pint glasses and broken sparkly shamrocks cover the mud.
The night isn't over. Most of the revellers plan to take this party on to the pubs of Sydney. A tide of green sweeps through the streets, looking for bar with space. Will they go out again on the real Patrick's Day on Tuesday?
"We have to. They'd take our passports back if we didn't." And they look offended I was silly enough to ask.
Sadhbh Warren was born in Cork, Ireland, but is living in Australia as they have nicer weather, fabulous beaches and the pubs open late. She has yet to be bitten by anything, but has been attacked by a foot-high marsupial after her banana. It was very cute.
Having variously worked as a promotions girl, professional mover, travelling carnie and one of Santa's elves, she has found life in admin may be a little less interesting, but at least there isn't reindeer poo to clean on a daily basis and the coffee is free. On Tuesdays, there’s TimTam biscuits.