The 17th of March marks the date of the death of St Patrick, the patron Saint of Ireland. St Patrick was actually born in Britain but, when he was 16, he was kidnapped and taken to Ireland as a slave. It was about the year 415 and there was no kids helpline or social media available to send out a cry for help.

So he planned and plotted and eventually managed to escape. Alas, Paddy was no Houdini and he was sent off to France where he was introduced to Christianity. 

He escaped again and managed to return to Ireland, which he now accepted as home. Converted to the Christian religion, he set about spreading the Word throughout Ireland.  Perhaps the most well-known legend of St. Patrick is that he explained the Holy Trinity (Father, Son and Holy Spirit) using the three leaves of a native Irish clover, the shamrock.

What is the luck of the Irish?  Many people think it is a good thing to have. I asked one of our commenters ( Paddy ) what it meant and he said to me " Well, my old Gran used to say that if it was raining soup, we'd be carrying forks. "

Imagine a world where the forecast predicts a downpour of steaming soup instead of rain. While most people would be scrambling for umbrellas or ducking for cover, the Irish would be out in the streets, forks in hand, grinning like they've just discovered a new national pastime. But joking aside... 

The Irish have been renowned for their gift of seeing the funny side of life during times of adversity. They have borne the brunt of many a joke at their expense and seem to take it in their stride. Something that gays, lesbians, transgenders and left wing activists have not been able to do. 

In fact, being offended is almost a badge of courage these days. It is the catch cry of so many and the art form of being offended has been crafted into a political statement. 

The Irish have long been celebrated for their uncanny ability to turn life’s hardships into laughter. Centuries of navigating adversity,  from historical struggles to everyday challenges, have given rise to a rich tradition of witty storytelling and self-deprecating humour. This knack for finding levity in the darkest of times isn't just a coping mechanism; it's woven into the fabric of Irish identity, celebrated in literature, music, and even casual conversation. In essence, the Irish approach to adversity is a masterclass in resilience, proving that sometimes the best way to face a storm is to dance in the rain, with a joke and a smile.

So what has happened? 

Dusty Gulch Emporium

March Catalogue – Special Release

The SRT-10 Widowmaker Ride-On Mower

For those who believe ordinary lawn care is an act of cowardice.

The engineers at Dusty Gulch Emporium are proud to unveil the most unnecessary and therefore most desirable ride-on mower ever unleashed upon respectable grass.

Introducing the SRT-10 Widowmaker Tactical Lawn Dominator™.

Designed for the rugged conditions of Dusty Gulch and surrounding territories, this magnificent orange beast combines modern lawn care technology with the sort of agricultural overconfidence normally reserved for rocket launches and election promises.

On the 13th of March each year, we mark World K9 Day. The day that the world is supposed to celebrate the gift of loyalty and dedication that our four-legged friends have given to our Military men and women.  Our canine friends have fought beside us and stood beside us and comforted us in times of trouble and we are increasingly, as a species, forgetting their dedication and love and consigning them into the same bin that we place our unborn children. 

We are reading more and more stories of heartbroken and dispirited Veterans who are taking their own lives. 

It saddens me that this Worldwide day of tribute often passes without a mention on mainstream media. Let us ensure that does not happen this year.

Panic at the Pumps

The Great Diesel Stampede of ’26

A Special Dispatch by Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble, Senior Correspondent, Dusty Gulch Gazette

Dusty Gulch awoke yesterday to a most troubling development.

Your humble correspondent had barely finished his midnight patrol beneath the floorboards of the Gulch Fuel Depot when whispers began spreading through the timber beams and grain sacks of town.

Two words.

Diesel shortage.