THE madness that engulfs Sauchiehall Street on Saint Paddy's Night is nothing short of breathtaking.

On a chilly Monday night in March - when usually there would be, oh, ten clubbers at most on the stretch between Charing Cross and Blythswood Street - it resembled a Saturday night like one of those in a BBC documentary.

All that was missing, mercifully, was the racism,

I've literally never been out to celebrate Saint Paddy's before, so I headed for the eye of the storm: O'Neill's, Sauchiehall Street's Irish cultural hub.

I was immediately awash in a sea of tricolours and Irish rugby tops, but this was no "post-match doon the Gallowgate" affair.

There were punters from across the country out toasting Saint Patrick: fresh-faced students and grizzled oldies danced shoulder to shoulder.

There was a jovial, convivial spirit that was overwhelming.

The DJ was awful, mind: The Cranberries followed by bland chart toppers would usually be enough to ruin my night.

The arrival of an Irish folk trio was a welcome sight indeed.

I've no shame in being a bandwagon-jumper: sometimes it feels good to check your pretence in at the door, strap on a giant shamrock hat and sing along with The Pogues until you go hoarse. Being authentic's overrated.