4) The Irish Male Believes He Is Good At DIY
YOU know the story. You have seen it unfold. Normally your adult Irish Male cannot be roused to vacate the sofa, except if the house is actually on fire. If he gets off his backside to dander down the end of the garden, he nearly sends you a postcard saying "Wish You Were Here".
But once in a while, a strange thing happens to him - do not argue. It is the call of the wild. There is nothing you can do, this is something quite primal. (It is often brought on by the vernal equinox.) He will start expressing a frightening desire to repair or refurbish things around the house. If that occurs, and it almost certainly will, you should move children or pets off the property immediately.
Yes, you are confused, and you are right to be. He knows nothing at all about manual labour and precious little about labour of any kind. The phrase "Good With His Hands" was not coined for this man. (Not in any sense, if you know what I mean.) But all of a sudden he is rummaging around in the garage for a hammer, borrowing a bricklayer's hod from a chap across the road, speaking with the authoritativeness of Isambard Kingdom Brunel about joists and flanges and lengths of four-by-two.
You point out that you only need that dodgy bookshelf in the living-room straightened. Really, you can do it yourself. But look at him, the monster, as he reaches for his spirit level. Observe the patronisingly understanding smile. "If a job is worth doing, dear, it's worth doing properly. So off you toddle and make me a sandwich. And don't be worrying your pretty little head. This" - he brandishes his tool - "is men's work."
Away to the kitchen you retreat with the children. You try to distract them but the poor wains are crying. The terrible thudding, the whine of the drill, the shrieks, imprecations and dark Satanic oaths - it keeps them awake for several nights: you would swear he was building the ark in there. Finally, a week later, he flings open the door. Bruised, bleeding, bog-eyed with exhaustion, his arm in a tourniquet improvised from a cushioncover, he looks like he has undergone ten rounds with Mike Tyson.
"Woe-man," he grunts. "Must come. See my work. Ungh."
You enter what used to be your livingroom. There is a large star-shaped hole in the gable wall. The ceiling has collapsed and the carpet is in shreds. A drumlin of rubble has obliterated the sofa. The floorboards have been ripped up to serve as scaffolding. Water is gushing down the chimney. You have bribed the children not to cry, but when they see the devastation they just can't hold back. By now he is standing beside the bookshelf fingering his spanners and screwdrivers and pliers. He raises the drill and coolly blows on the bitend - the gunslinger who drove Wild Bill from the town.
"That's a nice piece of work if I say so myself," he avers. "And when you think of all the money we've saved." He runs his fingertips lightly along the shelf. It immediately collapses, sending the Waterford Glass bowl you inherited from your grandmother into a spin across the room, where it shatters into a thousand shards, one of which takes an eye out of the cat.
"Of course," he continues, "the drill was defective. And anyway, Tiddles had it f--king coming."
5) The Irish Male Will Not Communicate Openly
Even his stoutest defenders will concede that communication of deep emotion is something at which the Irish Male does not excel (except about beer). He is a person of many strengths and qualities - although just at this moment I can't think of any of them - but in the great Eurovision of emotional openness the Irish Male tends to score nul points.
Here is an all-too-typical scenario. The Irish Male will come in from the pub, sit down and immediately switch on the television. For him, the television has replaced the traditional hearth of his infancy. Note how he actually holds his hands out towards it and rubs them together.
His unfortunate wife glances across from her book and says "Well, dear, how was the pub tonight?" But by now he has found a tremendously important football match (Falkland Islands vs. Chad Reserves) and is engrossed in it. "Grand," he mutters. She looks at him and tries again. "Any of the usual crowd in?" she inquires brightly.
"Hmm?" he responds. His eyes focused intensely on the screen, as though he would actually burst into flame were he even to blink.
"I asked who was there? Anyone interesting?"
". . . Where?"
"In the pub of course."
"Oh . . . Mickser Mulligan."
"Oh great. How's the bould Mickser these days?"
"Grand."
"He's out of the Mental Hospital then?"
"Yeah."
"And he's in good form?"
"He's grand."
"He's not too upset? About his father?"
"Hmm?"
"You know, about his father becoming a transvestite? Going around the shopping centre in a ballgown and telling everyone to call him Victoria Beckham?"
"He's grand."
"That was all he said for the whole night, was it?"
"Hmm?"
"That he's grand?"
"Basically."
"But you were out for six hours. He must have said something more than that surely?"
"Not really. [burp] But he's . . . [shrug] y'know . . . he's grand."
You try to read another page of your novel. Really you should just let matters lie, but you find yourself determined not to be defeated this time. You look up at him again - the father of your children. He has his paw thrust down the front of his trousers, thoughtfully scratching his flute as he ogles the screen.
"How's that wooden leg he had to have fitted after the accident?"
"Hmm?"
"You know. When the psychopathic crocodile attacked him."
"Oh. It's grand."
"Is that really all you have to say to me?"
"Hmmm?"
"That everything's grand."
"Well . . . everything is grand though . . . isn't it?"
"Don't you ever feel like opening up?"
"Opening up what, pet?"
"I mean, you know . . . sharing your needs? Your inner desires?"
"Whoah, fantastic save! Ah, come on, ref, are yeh bleedin' well blind?"
"Because I really feel we don't talk enough any more. In fact, I've been thinking about filing for a divorce. And you may as well know I've been sleeping with Mr Delaney from the butcher's shop for six months and he says he wants to move to Bermuda with me and the kids."
"Mmm . . . Any chance of a cuppa there, love?"
Women can get upset about this kind of thing. But then women are biologically programmed to see slights where none are intended. They simply don't understand the basic facts about men. For example, there is really no point in asking an Irish Male to share his feelings with you because a lot of the time he doesn't have any. Frankly put, he couldn't be arsed. Like a small, confused, semi-extinct woodland creature he is quite content just to mullock along, unencumbered by any emotion that does not involve his belly or adjacent areas. Feelings would only get in the way of his happiness. He doesn't need them. He can't afford the luxury.
In his ground-breaking study, Towards A Psychology of Being (1962), the great psychologist Abraham Maslow, expounded his theory of "the hierarchy of prepotency" as a means of explaining human motivations. Observing that "man is a wanting animal" he argued that "one desire is no sooner satisfied than another takes its place". To give his theory graphic force, he famously represented human needs as a pyramid. At the broad bottom of the triangle he placed absolutely essential physical requirements such as shelter, food, water and warmth. Higher up the narrowing pyramid he represented the higher yearnings, such as love of beauty, appreciation of the arts, spiritual awareness and so forth, leading finally to the apex - complete self-actualisation.
But Maslow ran into trouble when attempting to apply his theories to the Irish Male. Indeed, as he wrote to a renowned colleague, Dr Rollo May, on June 9th, 1948: ". . . even my `Human Pyramid' itself becomes totally inadequate to explain the basic components which the Irish Male requires for a fulfilled existence. I believe, old friend, that I shall have to construct another diagram, especially for him."
Sadly Maslow died before he could publish his research on Irishmen. But here, the first time, is his previously unknown representation of Irish Male needs, which the great scholar labelled "The Irishman's Christmas Tree":
Beer. The lads. The Mammy. Sandwiches. Sky Sports. Occasional ride. Pub football team. Clean pair of drawers of a Monday. Old re-runs of Starksy and Hutch. Acute and frequent hypochondria. Porn stash under the floorboards. The budgie. The dog. The kids. Navel fluff. Oh yeah . . . the wife.
The third of Joe O'Connor's humorous books on the Irish Male, The Last of the Irish Males, from which this extract is taken, is published by New Island Books (£9.99)