A lot of people have asked me why I’ve written a book called Giving Out Yards: the Art of Complaint, Irish Style. More accurately, they’ve asked me why I’ve written it now. Well, my last book (You’re Grand: the Irishwoman’s Secret Guide to Life) looked at how resilient the Irish are, with specific – though not exclusive – focus on the women who live here. I examined the fact that, no matter what’s thrown at us, we Irish declare ourselves to be “grand”. We never hope for too much; we know we’ll only be disappointed. Conversely, we never get too down about bad things that happen; misery has traditionally been inevitable for us, so what would be the point? I explored all the things we had to not be grand about, past and present, serious and trivial, but still asserted that we were. Grand. Using jokes instead of science, I tried to unearth why it is we say we’re fine, even if we’re not, and set it in a spoof self-help book frame. If we can be only-alright no matter what, why not share that life skill with the rest of the world? Besides, I’d be crazy not to want a slice of the positive-thinking, The Secret, you-can-have-it-all book pie. People seem to eat that right up.
So how do we find that even keel? What keeps us from exploding? We get it off our chests. We give out yards. It’s an art so ancient, it hasn’t even gone metric yet.
While dredging up all our reasons to be almost-cheerful, regardless, for You’re Grand, it was necessary to visit all our reasons not to. There are a lot of things we’re so not grand with that we’re happy to give out about them til the cows come home. (Cows not coming home would be a big reason to give out, in fairness.) However, our innate grandness makes us a little inert. We aren’t the greatest action-takers in the world. So, to keep ourselves sane, and possibly in a bid for connection, we give out yards to whomever will listen. Almost as if the more people who hear us, the more relief it affords.
We write moany letters to newspapers, we blog, we mean-tweet or – best of all – we talk to someone on the wireless, thereby moaning to the nation itself. Reaching out, seeking validation. Importantly, this is not about opening a discussion. Despite our obsession with “debate” and “balance” we already know what we think. Screw you. You won’t convince us of anything we don’t already believe. It’s one of our delightful quirks. It’s why so many issues long resolved in other territories are still beyond divisive here.
Very few of my own bugbears get a look in in this book. I try (and fail, I’m sure) to objectively explore both sides of issues as divisive and diverse as cyclists, the price of a pint and the Angelus. But there are a few give-outs I’d personally love to have included:
People who come sailing out of shops onto busy pavements without looking left or right: I’ve lost more takeaway coffees to these idiots than to my own rampant clumsiness. I can’t afford to be on the street at the same time as these inconsiderate loons.
The guys (it’s always guys) in big fancy cars (it’s always big fancy cars) who try to force you out of the way in the fast lane when you’re already over-taking - safely - at the speed limit: they’re going so fast that, when you make it back into the slow lane, you expect their De Lorean to take off and whoosh them back to the ’50s. They’d like the ’50s. There were no other cars on the roads then. There were no roads then.
Cinema sweet-eaters: you guys are the worst.
Numbers or sums: I can’t do them. If someone asks me the number of X people that are supposed to have done Y, I’m back at school. The figure won’t stay in my head. Budget? All Greek to me. I can’t understand why we can’t eliminate numbers altogether and just get back to the chats.
These, as you can see, are much too personal to make it in - although I, too, have little time for potholes, rude seagulls or the “Shower in the Dáil” and the “Other Shower” (who’re just as bad, being exactly the same).
If I’d included my own grievances as well as the stuff that brings us out in a national rash, I’d be writing the book for the next ten years. So I’ve been selfless, and only written about the country’s greatest recurring issues. I’m sure I’ve left something out. And I’m sure you won’t be long giving out about it, either.
Giving Out Yards: The Art of Complaint, Irish Style by Tara Flynn is published by Hachette Ireland £9.99
