The former British Prime Minister John Major once said: "If anyone says to me that schooldays are the happiest days of your life, I suggest they go away and lie down until they feel better. It certainly wasn't true in my case."
I agree. I spent my school days like the prisoners in Mountjoy, plotting to get out. I was no Einstein or Hawking and spent my incarceration sitting in the back row, looking out the window, watching the seasons changing, and waiting to escape into the university of life. I couldn't wait for class to end each day so I could rush out on to the playing pitches. My whole life revolved around sport.
Nobel Prize
Many a fine young priest came back from the Missions, exhausted and worn out, only to face a much bigger ordeal in trying to instill some knowledge into my head. They begged, cajoled and threatened me, but I stubbornly resisted all their endeavours. Of course, I knew I was only biding my time. I was waiting to write my first book and win the Nobel Prize for Literature, an award that has still eluded me.
Nevertheless, in spite of my lack of honours, Blackrock College recently got in touch and said there were no hard feelings. Would I like to attend my class's 40th reunion? My name had come up on the computer and they were trying to trace as many of my buddies as possible. Very grand, indeed. My name on their computer? When I was there, computers were seen only in sci-fi films. We were living in the age of the quill and inkwell. Television hadn't arrived; Elvis and the Beatles hadn't appeared on the scene; the Nelson Pillar was still the focal point of Dublin; emigration was a plague; Neil Armstrong hadn't walked on the moon; there were no one-way streets or parking meters. Yes, it was a long time ago.
I decided to accept the invitation.
It was an emotional rollercoaster experience, a real jolt to the system. All those smiling cherubic little faces had metamorphosed into a bunch of late middle-aged humans. If any of us had notions of immortality, we were brought down to earth as rapidly as a Richard Branson balloon. Guys I used to know when they were cheerfully running around in short trousers were now grey or bald, an awful lot heavier, walking slower, talking slower. They had become less aggressive, more gentrified, venerable, patient, humorous.
Luckily, we all wore special identity tabs with our names in big print. This was a huge benefit to those of us who are now half-blind or senile. Not unexpectedly, every sentence seemed to begin with: "Do you remember the time. . ?" But memory is one of the first things to suffer the ravages of time. We all ended up tilting at windmills. It was fascinating and amusing.
Armistice Day
We stared at each other in amazement. "God, you're not so and so from such and such a place. . ? God, you are." We shook lots of hands. We talked and talked. There were a lot of gaps to be filled in after four decades. We were like the veterans of a World War and this was our Armistice Day. It was emotional bonding on a big scale. We had been through a lot together. We laughed at old stories and smiled out of politeness at the many others we couldn't recollect. Sometimes it was like being on a psychiatrist's couch being swept backwards in a time machine, trying to remember every little detail.
I particularly want to thank the man who walked up to me and said: "You haven't changed a bit." It was a nice gesture, for which I am grateful, but even my wife wouldn't flatter me with a compliment like that and she has known me for only 30 years.
The night also had its sad side. Nine of our class had passed on. This was hard to grasp when you could still remember them, carefree, full of energy, running around the corridors, laughing and shouting uproariously. Now their race was run. I especially miss Kevin Marron, who, like myself, went into journalism. He was a lovely man who died in a plane crash with a number of other journalists about 15 years ago.
Our most successful colleague was undoubtedly Lochlann Quinn, who went on to become a multi-millionaire - chairman of AIB and deputy chairman of Glen Dimplex, a private company which he partly owns. He also has investments in other businesses. The Sunday Times's rich list has valued him at £95 million. That is exactly, to the penny, £95 million more than I have in my AIB account. Where did I go wrong? Same college, same class, same teachers, but wrong result. I mustn't have been listening the day the maths teacher explained how you become a millionaire.
Small account
Even to this day, I'm still envious of Lochlann Quinn. This isn't because he earns a few million quid a year more than I do, but - if I remember correctly -he deprived me of my only chance of winning a prize at school. He got first prize for some subject or other. Muggins was second. Nobody ever remembers who came second. That's probably why they never asked me to become head of AIB. Instead, I simply hold a very small deposit account in his bank.
We went on a tour of the college and looked at all the improvements that have been made. We walked down the oak-panelled corridors and gazed at the pictures of the various football teams hanging on the walls. There was a special Mass concelebrated by some of my former classmates who had become priests, believing it was an easier occupation than risking the day-to-day hazards of married life.
Then we had a souvenir picture taken of ourselves. This was followed by a dinner and some witty, nostalgic speeches. It was a wonderful occasion and I can't wait for the next 40 years to pass so I can spend another memorable night with my former buddies.