Tommy Tiernan
On male friendship
My daughter asked me recently who my best friend was, and I told her, after much deliberation, that I didn’t have one. She seemed a bit shocked, but ’tis the truth of it. I have many pals, scattered all over the country; men I’d do anything for; but to be dependent on any of them intimately is not how I roll. It’s not how they roll, either.
We can have chats — sad, sorrowful conversations on the mess of life, and how we might be floored from time to time with what’s happening around us. And we listen to one another, intently — but it carries the air of the occasional about it. I might swing in to Phil, living down in Wexford. We went to school together in Navan, and any time I’m down that part of the world, we organise to have porter. He might lean into me, in a bar with no TV, and tell me, “Tom, I’m near worn-out with worry”.
A muscular love
And over the course of 20 pints, I’d be by his side and throw me love around him. We’d say goodnight and I might text him the following day, and he might reply, but that’d be it for a year or two. Next time I come back, he may be in jail or the psychiatric; six feet under or cushty.
I have such tremendous affection for the men in my life. It is a muscular love. We have the camaraderie of cattle. Shoulder to shoulder whenever we meet, but we mightn’t meet together that often, but when we do, I have to confess it sweeps me off my feet. I took the wife for a weekend away, years back. Time to spend time with the person you spend most time with.
We checked into a remote mountain lodge, and who should I meet coming round the corner with his missus, but Packy O’Brien? Another one of me old school pals from Navan. I hadn’t seen him for 15 years, and it delighted me to lay me hands upon him and chat.
Well, we met for porter that night, Packy and I, and before we knew it, it was Monday. We talked and talked and talked and laughed and talked. M’lady bore it well, thank God, but she took persuading before we went on the next one.
My father and my sons have a gift for friendships, but it’s quite different in nature to mine. I depend on the loose arrangement of bumping into people all over the world, whereas they seem able to be woven tightly into other people’s lives where they live.
I’m amazed at the confidence they have in needing one another. I’d be too embarrassed to ask that of any man. I’ve been hurt too much by that kind of thing in the past — platonic love affairs with men that burned brightly and then fizzled out. Full of jealousy too, they are. I’ve gotten close to men, only to read a signal from one of their friends, as if to say, “Hands off, he belongs to me”.
Better to be in for the long haul, stand back and take her handy.
Is it lonely ? Perhaps. Hard to tell at this stage, I’m so used to it.
Crack and sadness
Is it unusual? I don’t think so. What makes male friendship so rewarding is the freedom in it and the amount of laughing. No situation that can’t be relieved with humour. When my mother died, a host of pals turned up in Navan for the removal. I stayed in the funeral home overnight by myself the night before the burial. Just me and the dead mother in the coffin. Silence and wax.
The boys went out on the lash. Their way of supporting me through the vigil was by sending me photographs of themselves in various states of inebriation.
Do I love them, these men in my life ? Yes. Fergal, the posh boy, not afraid to be emotional and eat cake. Jimmy, the entrepreneur, who may yet die from empathy and wishing well for others. Scally, the drug dealer-turned-poet whom I haven’t seen in years, but don’t need to.
Can they call on me to do anything for them? Without a doubt. Would I call on them? I’d rather not, to be honest; they’ve enough going on in their lives without the hassle of me. We’ll meet for crack and sadness, but it’ll be random and unpressurised.
“Next time I come back, he may be in jail or the psychiatric; six feet under or cushty”