I am typing this while sitting on a speeding train en route westwards to the place of my birth, Cardiff. Yes fellow West Londoners, I was actually born and bred in Wales.

You might not be able to tell this from my dulcet, home-counties tones, but the first 11 years of my life were spent developing a rather decent South Walean twang. (Which was subsequently orally beaten out of me when the family upped and moved to Sussex.)

Today I’m off to Cardiff for a lunchtime speaking gig and this time it’s a quick in and out, courtesy of First Great Western. So sadly I won’t get to meet with any of my family or friends, but will arrive, go to the venue, eat lunch, give my talk to 150 ladies, answer a question or two, and get straight back on the train home. All of which is a great shame because not only is Cardiff a lovely city, but whenever I am there, memories of my childhood come flooding in, the accent starts to slip back, and my patriotic fervour is re-invigorated.

It’s interesting that although I’ve lived in England for the last 37 years, I continue to feel very strongly Welsh. And never more keenly than during the Six Nations championship. Tragically, (for us leek-eaters at least!) this year Wales didn’t manage to retain the winners’ trophy for the third consecutive year, but on Saturday we did regain our deserved respect by slaughtering the Scots with an impressive 51-3 win in our last match of the championship. I was watching the game in a pub by the river in Chiswick and I, along with the one other Welshie in the place, managed a pretty impressive two person ‘roar’ every time we scored.

So, the Welsh have a passion for rugby and the Scots go potty for a bit of caber tossing, but the Irish are deservedly renowned as the leaders in Celtic patriotism, regardless of the reason. Most people in the pub on Saturday were of course there waiting for the big game – Ireland versus France – the game that was going to determine the championship winners. There were many Irish in the pub (from both the North and South) and of course they really got into the swing of things during the thrilling final match. And it was made even more exciting for them because it was also St Patrick’s Day weekend.

Today (as I write) is St Patrick’s Day itself and I find it amazing that while every other country celebrates its patron saint’s day to one extent or another, the Irish seem to have taken things up a notch or seven. Every year, the revelries seem to grow and now seem to last a good week. The day itself is a bank holiday in Ireland, there have been parades not only there, but elsewhere including London and New York, the UK’s pubs are covered in green and I couldn’t count the amount of people I saw this weekend in Irish hats. So why is this day celebrated so much more zealously than the similar days of George, Andrew and my very own David?

Is it the fact that the Emerald Isle is in fact an island and therefore has always stood up for itself rather vociferously? Is it the fact that the decades of troubles have forced the celebrations to be even more widely enjoyed now that things are so much more peaceful? Or is it perhaps that as a strongly religious nation, the patron saint has much more significance than elsewhere? Any of these are possible, along with my favourite reason which is that the Irish just love any excuse for a darned good party.

The joy of a United Kingdom (how long will that last my friends north of the border?) is that we have diversity in each of our countries, each has its own personality and there is healthy competition between us all. But maybe the English, Scottish and Welsh need to step up to the mark and challenge the Irish for the Party Grand Slam - rejoicing in all that is great about each individual nation. Now that would make a Four Nations Championship definitely worth watching!

NOTE TO SELF: Lá fhéile Pádraig sona dhuit!