ST. PATRICK’S day. Everything’s coming up green but the economy.

This day brings me to Malachy McCourt. Raised in Limerick, he has children named Siobhan, Conor and Cormac. He’s on Radio Free Eireann. The man’s written books on life in Ireland, on the Irish ballad “Danny Boy,” and his latest is “Malachy McCourt’s History of Ireland.” St. Patrick Himself wasn’t as Irish as Malachy McCourt.

He and his late brother Frank once talked to me about the charms of March 17th. What he said was: “God bless Ireland. First thing I learned was to get out of there and come here. In those days, ‘there’ meant poverty. ‘Here’ meant you could write books about poverty and make a fortune. Their poverty made me and my brother rich.”

I remember saying, “But people like Pierce Brosnan tell me they love time in Ireland,” to which Frank replied, “Sure. Because he’s rich.”

So, now, comes again St. Patrick’s Day. He said: “Look, a saint is only a sinner who has been severely edited. If he’s known as St. Pat, I want to be known as Sinner Malachy.”

OK, OK. Is he at least eating Irish food today? “Lord, no. I don’t subscribe to Green Ghetto time. One year I went to an Italian restaurant. Irish food is awful. Ever eat tripe? It’s the lining of the sheep’s stomach and the sheep’s head. I’d rather eat Albanian food.

“You know what the real WMD is? The Irish brain. I want my people to return to the old archaic druidic pagan days when poetry was king. Anyway, I’m not even here March 17th. I’m in Florida where they’re performing one of my plays.”

You mean you’re going to miss St. Patrick’s Day?

“I never do. What I won’t do is march. First of all, I could never be sure of my placement. I’d have to be walking way in front because I wouldn’t trust anyone behind me. It’s a joyless colorless parade. No floats. They walk up Fifth . . . looking for Sixth.”

One little Malachy story. His first movie was “The Molly McGuires.” Edited out, all that remained of him in the film was one line. Said star Sean Connery: “If I got paid as much per minute as you did, I’d never have to work again.”

A St. Paddy’s P.S.: Centuries ago in the aulde country, pub frequenters had a whistle baked into their ceramic cup handles. When needing a refill, they used the whistle to get service. Inspired by this practice comes the phrase “Wet your whistle.” You’re welcome.

RECENT health issues haven’t curbed Placido Domingo‘s appetite. He lunched with his son at the Upper West Side’s Arte Café . . . Told if that opportunity ever arose, Morgan Freeman would like Don Cheadle to play him, Cheadle replied: “Love to. But I’m not tall enough.” . . . Steve Forbes on Is America in Decline: “No. We have huge problems, but we’ll still grow 3 to 4 percent. Imagine if our government did to clocks what they’re doing with the economy. If they raised the hourly number of minutes from 60 to 70 which is what they’re doing with the dollar. The new retirement age would be 97.” . . . For a coming B’way show, a call went out for 9-year-olds. One hundred kids showed. They start at age 3 with agents and managers. Each got 30 seconds. If picked, these 9-year-olds get $1,600 a week plus extra for the parents . . . Angela Lansbury: “One role I always wanted to play was Norma Desmond in ‘Sunset Boulevard.’ I even went to Andrew Lloyd Webber‘s house in London to lobby for it.”

THIS is not my business. I’m sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong. So presumably I should shut up now. But I can’t. One calling herself Martha Stewart‘s longtime forever best friend of 20 years — and then that friendship went poop over the insider trading mess — has now gotten even. Written a kick-and-tell. Telling insider nasties that shouldn’t be told.

With the, naturally, possible exception of myself, naturally, we all have parts of us we’d rather the world doesn’t see. We’re human. We all need to feel we can trust someone. I don’t mean people like that amoeba who pretended he fathered presidential candidate John Edward‘s illegitimate baby and then vomited all over him. Who cares what anybody does to John Edwards. He deserves this baby’s mother — who, incidentally, has an interesting background — peeing on him accompanied by raunchy magazine shots. A lady of refinement would hardly pose that way. So they deserve each other. And who cares about him.

I have no horse in this race. I’m not a buddy of Martha Stewart. We’re not at each other’s houses for Thanksgiving or Passover. But I believe in loyalty. For any friend to take your innermost private soul and expose it to make a buck is the lowest. It’s filth. And, possibly only in my small limited thinking, so is this lady.

The only saving grace? In 20 minutes nobody will remember her, while Martha Stewart will continue as one of America’s most successful women.

TWO ladies: “I know this sounds stupid, and I don’t know how to check it, but I just heard New York City has a law that says going topless in the subway is OK.” Said the other lady: “Oh, my God, it’s bad enough when you catch your scarf in the door.”

Only in New York, kids, only in New York.