I remember when all I knew about Ireland was that leprechauns and a shadow called Gerry Adams that could throw its voice came from there. In fairness I was 6 at the time. Years later, I met the guy who did your man Gerry’s voice on British TV during the late-80s and early-90s. He claimed his income dropped by 60% when the ban was lifted. He later went on to star in Emmerdale, so it’s fair to say his career only got more controversial. 

My first time on Irish soil was arriving in Dublin to review a Beyonce gig at The Point before it was scrubbed, fumigated and given a ferris wheel to become the O2. My memories of the experience are getting lost on a bridge and seeing a disturbing number of motorists leaning out of their cars to sing the “to the left, to the left” refrain from Mrs Jay Z’s hit Irreplaceable. Whenever I hear that song now, I have a flashback of stepping in a discarded kebab. Happy days. 

The next time I returned was again for musical reasons. In 2009, I flew over for Electric Picnic having given away my +1 to a random girl on Twitter. As Jane Austin might say if she were a pale English bloke from Norfolk: reader, I didn’t marry her but I did move into her apartment and desperately attempt to get her cat to like me. And so began my ongoing education in the ways of the Irish. 

My early lessons were in language skills. I learned to recognise “knackers” and after much “giving out”, I stopped calling the press a “cupboard”. Soon I moved on to cultural studies and have developed a growing fascination with the Rose Of Tralee. Who knew Father Ted was so inspirational that the Lovely Girls Competition would get turned into a real, annual event? It’s so kind of RTÉ to give that special lad Dáithí something to do with his time. 

Recently I watched the Late Late Toy Show for the first time and realised that my English childhood was a sham. Deprived of the experience of watching Gay Byrne gently interrogate kids about their gifts, I had to make do with seeing Ryan Turbridy interview the singing baked potato Olly Murs. As if that wasn’t enough, I was  then haunted by flashbacks of my parents’ refusal to buy me a Mr Frosty. It’s a trauma that endures even now, 20 years on, despite realising that a novelty ice crusher and some flavouring isn’t really the stuff of Xmas joy. 

I’ve also learned about politics in my short time as an Irish resident. After getting shot of Brian Cowen, a terrible Taoiseach but unfairly forgotten as the model for Churchill the insurance selling bulldog, Ireland went ahead and elected Michael D Higgins, who appears to be some kind of friendly animatronic owl, as President. A fine choice as long as he doesn’t propose to read his poetry too often. 

Being at one with the graffiti artist who scrawls “U2 why u no pay tax?” on every poster in Dublin 8, my Irish musical loves were once confined to the two good Boomtown Rats singles, Sinead O’Connor before she started picking up men off the internet, and sheepishly singing along to the Fields of Athenry in the Irish Working Men’s club I frequented at university. That’s changed. 

I have now expanded my library of Irish musical luminaries to include The Frames, Retarded Cop and, of course, The Rubber Bandits. As beautiful as Amhrán na bhFiann is, Ireland should seriously consider switching it out in favour of Spastic Hawk, if only to ensure Enda Kenny will have to solemnly intone “I’ve got a hawkery – that’s where you keep hawks” in public. 

Of course, my Irish education is ongoing. My attempt at doing the accent sounds like Graham Norton having electrodes applied to his testicles (coincidentally on the list of TV pitches I’ve had rejected, next to Orphan Slingshot and specialist dating show Have I Got Jews For You) and I occasionally require a sherpa and translator to guide me around the north side. 

An accident of birth left me with the horrible affliction of not being Irish and I wouldn’t know the good craic if it came labelled in fun-size packets with an easy open tab. But these are afflictions I am working hard to get over. And if I really can’t master that Irish accent, I know a fella who does a great Gerry impression who can dub my conversations in for me. The work’s been thin on the ground since Emmerdale killed him off.