Happy St. Patrick’s Day.

You would be hard-pressed to find someone more Irish – and more proud of it – than me.

But I’ve never been one to go crazy on March 17. I prefer to celebrate it the way my mother – whose maiden name was McIntyre – and father, as well as their ancestors, did.

In much of Ireland, St. Patrick’s Day is more of a religious holiday than a cause for reveling.

Maybe it’s because it always falls in Lent. Every year I manage to astound myself by giving up beer for these 40 days. And every year I wonder what exactly I was thinking when I do this.

So, no, I will not be imbibing any greed suds tonight. Not that I would anyhow.

I do don a very special tartan tie from Ireland that I wear exactly once each year.

This weekend I likely will sit down and watch “The Quiet Man” for the millionth time.

And I will try to finish off Tom Coyne’s golf novel, “A Course Called Ireland.”

Sounds like a party to me.