How things are at 50

The Tommy Tiernan column

I’m going to be 50 in June. Time to take stock.

First things first: the body. I have a head of hair that can be best described as a Franciscan doughnut, and a beard that’d remind you of a lad who used to be in the IRA, but now runs a workshop on dealing with conflict in the community.

Me teeth are starting to spread out — slowly but surely separating from one another like an All-Ireland winning team from the 1970s who once stood shoulder to shoulder, but don’t see too much of each other any more.

Parts of me neck are beginning to look decidedly scrotal. In fact, there’s an argument to be made that me whole head has a very definite testicular aspect to it, what with the short fuzzy hair and the general all-round uselessness and vulnerability of it.

My eyes can’t seem to decide what exactly to focus on. The left one likes things close up, but the right one prefers stuff far away. I spend most of me time with one or the other of them shut, depending on the task in hand.

My ears have split up entirely. They used to work in tandem, but now the left one has gone off on retreat somewhere, and can’t be contacted at all. I might put something else there instead. What’s the point in having an ear that doesn’t work hanging off the side of me head? I’m going to take it off and graft a bar of Walker’s Toffee onto meself. People could just come up and lick me.

I’ve always rolled me shoulders round as if I was trying to guard me heart from hurt, but I’m noticing lately that I’m straightening them up a bit more defiantly. I’m not getting braver, I’ve just started to wear a bra that’s a bit too tight at the back.

You see, my torso is changing, too. Me nipples seem to getting bigger, or at least moving closer to the mirror every time I have a look at them. They look sad. Perhaps my body is becoming feminised and I’m turning into a mother. No harm. If a man doesn’t have a mother, maybe he has to become his own.

Pillow for the weary

My stomach is a wonder. A pillow for the weary. I’ve struggled for years with the softness of it, but now see that very quality as sign of great generosity and playfulness. My stomach will not judge you; my stomach says all is good, rest easy and play.

Down below in the meat-packing plant, there are changes afoot. The

fear ban is a restless creature almost wholly unrecognisable from one minute to the next. Clitoral at times, and then, all of a sudden, a pleasure weapon made of Grecian marble. He goes through so many costume changes of a day that you can never quite guarantee who’s going to open the door when you knock.

My legs are still doing the Trojan work of bringing me here, there and everywhere. Running in the rain, leppin’ on stage, and going upstairs yet again with a drink for the child cos he’s thirsty, even though it’s half 10 at night and he should have been asleep ages ago.

Inside of me… well… the heart is always full of hope. Bright and daft as a baby, full of wonder, love and good intention. He is, of course, locked into a lifelong battle of persuasion with body and mind, and he hardly ever gets his own way.

In terms of kidneys and liver, spleen and lung, well, I haven’t got a clue how they’re doing. They’re a lot like grown-up children, in that you only ever hear from them when they’re in trouble. I am testing them though, with cigars and whiskey, caffeine and cake, so if they do resign one day, I could hardly say that I blame them.

Psychologically speaking, I’m detecting a sharper and more ruthless edge to my thoughts these days. This might be my tough cowboy phase. I’m grizzled and cranky. It’s a state of mind born out of relentless pressure. Like Sam Shepard, I’m gazing into the wilderness, lighting matches off me stubble and smoking up a rollie. There’s Apaches on the horizon and goddamn wolves are stalking the sheep. The soil is turning to dust, and the notorious Goldman gang are back in town. That kind of life hardens a man. And I think that’s what’s happening to me.

The future doesn’t seem to be as rich as the past, even though the past seemed fairly grim at the time. I suppose by that strain of logic, the future will be mighty once it’s over, and we can look back on it.

All in all, that’s how things are. 50. Not beaten, not tired. Full of fire… careful now.