In praise of the company of men and friends made in childhood

In a world that often disregards the value of human life, cherish the joy of being with your old pals,

Iremember my first day at school and the separation anxiety it involved but by the time I got into high infants or high babies the next year I was a dab hand at rolling the marla and I liked school. I have a vision of a boy arriving at that classroom and looking around. He was a new lad. I found out that his family had just moved in one door down from us in the square in Edenderry.

They had bought the Mace supermarket so we walked home together and I met his mother, who people called Mrs Mace but she was actually called McDermott. His father was called Andy and I would come to spend a lot of time in their house over the next 15 years or so. Two weekends ago in London, myself and that same boy Kenneth went to the Ireland England match at Twickers with six other Irish men.

It is one of the great joys in life to have a friendship that has lasted that long. Over 50 years and there is something amazingly grounding about being totally comfortable and feeling really accepted by someone because they have known you that long.

The weekend was not the boozefest of yesteryear involving having three or four before the match, a couple during it and about eight after it.

This was steady drinking with a meal and a few pints after kind-of drinking. I was not drinking at all because of a medical condition. But the company of men, spending time like that in an all-male environment, is a great thing. Something to be celebrated.

This group included an architect, public servant, retired pilot, Fianna Fáil councillor, and three who live and work in the US — an accountant, a lad who has his own flooring business and a consultant — and then there’s me the writer.

This group of very diverse individuals knew how to operate, though. Everyone got the group dynamic. Nobody hogged the limelight. Each man entertained with a story and then passed the ball to the next lad.

Eight of us sitting around telling stories and we laughed long and hard and it was a therapy and a tonic and we slagged, but never cruelly… and we never ganged up on anyone except maybe just a little on the one lad who supported Trump.

Myself and Kenneth relived old times. Going to the Saturday matinee in the local cinema and re-enacting the westerns we saw and later re-enacting the FA Cup finals of Manchester United in 1977 and in 1979.

The riot in the square in Edenderry when it all kicked off one Sunday night after a soccer match between ourselves and a team from inner-city Dublin. Windows smashed on the team bus. Blood, fighting, roaring and a few “hold me back” lads desperately declaring their willingness to pull heads but hoping that their friends would continue to restrain them.

Kenneth’s father was in their shop with an Alsatian and Dobermann pinscher, and nobody came anywhere near it. We recalled the days of going to the Offaly football matches in the early 1980s, five lads stuffed into a Ford Cortina, arses and legs numb from the circulation being cut off. Every year us lads got bigger, but the Cortina stayed the same size.

Myself and Kenneth recalled our college years when I got a bit art studenty and smoked dope and found a new tribe and we maybe drifted apart a bit, but the friendship would always be rekindled, and we talked about the ghosts of girlfriends past and the struggles to find our place in the world.

We recalled the night his father Andy died suddenly in New York.

They had eventually sold the Mace and moved back there in the late 1980s.

We sat up and drank whiskey and told stories of Andy’s barbed wit and his distaste for my days of teenage long black coats. “You look like a beatnik; they’ll have to get Paddy Fenlon the vet to come down and give you an injection and then get a garden shears to cut the f **kin’ coat off ye.” But he was a very kind man who barracked you as a sign of affection.

Like a true Catholic Irish US emigrant of the 1960s he had photos of the Pope and John F Kennedy on the mantelpiece above the fire.

We recalled the days of five lads stuffed into a Ford Cortina

The day after the rugby match and to get over the disappointment of the loss and the loud chorus of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot still ringing in our ears, we decided to go to the Tower of London to view the crown jewels and other treasures that the empire captured over the years.

It was kind of extraordinary how the place seemed to legitimise colonial plunder. How the British view their history is extremely weird. Of course, there was lots about kings and Henry VIII and his wives and you could view the rack and other torture methods although a placard on the wall assured us that there had only been 80 odd actual victims of torture in the tower.

Yeah right. Don’t think any of us quite believed that.

There was also a row of photographs and images of people who had spent time in the tower, including Roger Casement. An extraordinary man who was a part of the establishment, so they were never going to forgive him for turning against them.

Casement worked for the British Colonial Service but soon became deeply disenchanted with imperialism and while filing a report on the evils of the rubber trade in the Congo his eyes were really opened to the horror of the torture and exploitation of the native people.

He gathered extensive eyewitness reports of enslavement, mutilation and torture which helped to end the practice.

He did the same in Peru before focusing on Ireland and its fight for freedom and eventually he was sentenced for treason and hanged.

He was a complex man, gay when being gay didn’t have a name, accused of inappropriate relationships with younger native men, so Catholic Ireland wouldn’t regard him as a martyr.

Casement was incredibly brave and did extraordinary service in highlighting the complete disregard for human life of the colonial project.

Back at the hotel we watched the news and saw more disregard for human life as the horror of Gaza continues to unfold.

We watched and then switched channel and then felt guilty because we do it all the time. Scroll down, see the wounded children and scroll on.

We get overwhelmed and feel powerless and we are accused of standing by and doing nothing.

How can we go to a stupid rugby match and enjoy it when all this is going on? But you have to feel alive and celebrate what you have or the actions of the few completely dominate and crush all the joy in the world. That is not to ignore or attempt to see what is happening as normal. It is not.

Continue to engage and show up in whatever way you choose to, but it is also important to celebrate things like having old friendships and not give into despair and hopelessness and anger which usually ends up with us taking one side over another and so the cycle continues.

By accident of birth most of us have never experienced the kind of terror that the people of Gaza are going through. Here’s hoping sense can prevail in the world.

Maybe sleepy Joe can just say no more to the Israelis and actually back it up by not supplying them with arms. But in the meantime cherish your older friends.

Give them a shout. Keep in touch.