THE LAST STRAW: This has been not been an easy week for men. The Roy Keane affair has illustrated painful truths about the traditional male approach that non-males have long complained about, and over which they could now be excused for gloating. Indeed, I would like to take this opportunity to thank the great majority of people from the female community, who have shown admirable restraint at this difficult time.
Events in Japan have proven the axiom that, whereas "men are from mars", the leaders of the FAI are from an unknown planet. But the saga has also undermined some traditional beliefs about gender difference, and one in particular. This is the idea that, faced with a problem, men will always seek an immediate solution, whereas women prefer a more circular approach. The classic female method involves discussing how everybody feels about the problem first before moving slowly towards consensus, a process which accounts for an estimated 94 per cent of the average domestic telephone bill.
Yet rarely can the feelings of two women have been discussed with such circularity by so many as the feelings of the male protagonists in the week's events. Even at the end, when the issue boiled down to whether one man could swallow his pride and phone the other, the traditional male problem-solving technique dictated an obvious compromise: text message! But as we know, there was to be no solution, instant or otherwise. And in an ironically defining moment for a team sponsored by Eircom, the crucial phone-call was never made.
In other respects, however, the saga confirmed classic gender differences. It's well-known, for example, that women are more inclined to apologise for a confrontation, regardless of who caused it. They don't consider this a defeat; they're just sorry the argument happened. If Roy and Mick were female, not only would there have been a phone-call, but it would have gone on so long they would have forgotten who made it.
Of course, the whole mess might have been avoided if men placed the same emphasis on emotional skills as we do on physical ones. Having said that, as a traditional male I felt the low point of the week came during Monday's RTÉ interview when - it seemed to me, anyway - Roy was being put under strong pressure to cry. There was a moment when it looked like a tear might well come, and I found myself pleading: "Don't do it, Roy. Nothing's worth that." Then, as he so often does on the pitch, he seemed to spot the danger and cut it off, before launching a counter-attack.
There's always something to spoil the World Cup, and the Saipan debacle brought back memories of 1978 and Argentina. I was really looking forward to that tournament too when, suddenly, the bloody Leaving Cert broke out. It also dragged on for days on end, and among the many exams I was emotionally unprepared for was English, in which the curriculum included Shakespeare's Coriolanus. The Keane affair has been called a "tragedy", which is, no doubt, a slight overstatement. But in the theatrical sense, at least, it could be true. And any theatre brave enough could adapt that play to recent events.
Consider the parallels. Coriolanus is a general (in the Roman army rather than midfield sense) and a man who lives for combat, an arena in which he has no equals. But the fierce pride that makes him a great soldier also makes him contemptuous of the demands of civil society, with its scheming politicians, fickle mobs, and meet-the-press barbecues.
After winning yet another battle against the hated Volscians, he is to be rewarded with the title of consul - not unlike Roy's honorary doctorate from UCC. But first, according to tradition, he must win the support of the people by going into the marketplace and displaying his wounds (obvious parallels here with the Tommy Gorman interview). He hates the public-relations stuff, yet he tries to play along.
His pride has made enemies, however. And to cut a long plot short, Coriolanus finds himself accused of treason. Stung by the suggestion, he lashes out in all directions, securing his fate. And finally banished by the Romans, he retorts memorably (I say memorably because it's the only line I can recall): "I banish you!".
The analogy breaks down in certain areas, most notably when he then changes sides and leads the Volscians in an attack on Rome, which is about to be sacked when the hero's mother intervenes, with fatal consequences. I'm not sure what or who would be sacked in the contemporary version, and obviously the plot would need to reflect results from Japan, the first of which should be known by the time you read this. But whatever happens, I'm pretty sure the play will still end badly.