It was the great Leo Nikolayevich Tolstoy who wrote: "All Irish Males can be a pain in the ass; but each Irish Male can be a pain in the ass in his own way." Women readers will sadly concur. They will know that living with an Irish Male is on very rare occasions not the blissful paradise it customarily is. He is by nature a solitary beast - really he lives inside his own shell. If the Italian is a stallion, the Irishman is a tortoise. (Witness his remarkable fondness for hibernation, especially on mornings when the bins must be taken out.) Not that there is anything wrong with that either, for as devotees of the fabulous Aesop can attest, even the tortoise may gain in the end. Mainly by cheating and lying, but that's another story.
But yes, the Irish Male finds it hard to converse in an open fashion. Compared to him, a brick is eloquent. Thus he finds sharing his thoughts and emotions almost impossible. This reticence came home to me forcefully a short time ago when a close friend I have known since my difficult childhood confessed that he had fallen passionately in love with me. "But you can't be gay," I said in amazement. "We used to go out to night-clubs together looking for girls."
"Jesus," he said. "I thought we were dating."
You see what I mean? The Irish Male does not notice silent signals. His social antennae are not finely tuned. Misunderstanding is the sea through which he haplessly paddles, with only his bafflement and incomprehension for armbands.
If confusion and lack of empathy were his only real crimes, the Irish Male might reasonably ask for the benefit of the emotional probation-act. But alas, there are several more additions to the charge-sheet. When it comes to the business of courtship, for example, the Irish Male has a lot to learn. It isn't that he is unromantic, as such. It is just that your average Irishman, when pursuing a woman, is a bit like a dog chasing after a car. He wouldn't really know what to do if she stopped. (Perhaps slink away in dejection and pee against a lamp-post.) Yes, as they age, they gain a bit of experience. It is a well-known fact that older Irishmen can keep matters going for longer in bed. But then again, when you really think about it, who wants to shag an old man for a long time?
So, Ladies, if you must live with an Irish Male - and please do ask yourself whether there are not real alternatives, such as emigration, lesbian separatism or entering a convent - there are a few points which are well worth remembering.
1) The Irish Male Is Always Right
IT is a surprising but well-established biological fact that the part of an Irish Male's brain which admits to making mistakes (the cortex maximus apologeticus) actually shrinks during early adolescence, finally disappearing around the age of fifteen. How this happens we don't quite know - and obviously if we did we wouldn't tell you - but by his midteens the cortex has been entirely replaced by the frontal rationalisation lobe and the cranial utter-denial node (cerebellia non mea culpa, honestus). Parents can tell this has begun to happen to their teenage sons when they start saying things like "It wasn't my fault I burned down the school" or "I know I tattooed the baby, but she was asking for it."
As the Irish Male achieves what is euphemistically called maturity, a new sponge-like tissue called the evasionary gland develops (glandus irresponsibilius et molto stupidissima) until it fills almost half the cranial cavity by the late-twenties. (Its growth seems to become much more pronounced immediately after mating.)
Again, there are a number of tell-tale verbal signs, e.g. "Look, I don't see what we're doing as going out together. As such. We're just having a large number of consecutive one-night stands." Or "All right, so I slept with your mother and showed the photographs to my friends, but I only did it twice and it didn't mean anything."
For an Irish Male at this stage of development to admit he might be wrong is to concede that the world is fundamentally flawed, that God is dead and life is pointless. It would be a statement of existential failure. It is something that simply cannot happen. For him to fess up to even a minor error, such as stealing your wages or selling your underwear to perverts over the Internet, would mean this goodly frame we call the earth would spin off its axis and out into interstellar space. Yes, by now he is a believer in the wise maxim first coined by the great novelist, Eric Segal (brother of Jonathan Livingstone Segal); "Love means never admitting you're sorry." Or something like that.
As the years roll on, the evasionary gland swells even further. By the time the Irish Male is 30, it will have expanded to fill his whole head, resulting in his widely noted inability to listen. It's not that he doesn't want to listen, it's just that his ears are under severe pressure. By now he is biologically programmed for utter pomposity and self-righteousness and may even have embarked on a career in the church or literary criticism. Once this happens there is really no cure, although a stake through the heart at a crossroads at midnight may be worth an attempt.
So now you women can see why we Irishmen have a problem admitting we're wrong. That's right. It's not our fault. In fact it's probably yours. So really, you should show a bit more understanding. We Irish Males are victims of our own biology. And it isn't as though we're not making an effort. Take myself for example. I often point out to my wife that whenever I am wrong I immediately admit it. It is just that I am never wrong. But even if I were, I would be right to be wrong. And she would be wrong for questioning that. And I would be right to point that out. And she would be wrong if she didn't agree. And we find this approach works quite well for us. At least we did, until she divorced me.
2) The Irish Male Is Fond Of Cursing
OK, OK, you have a point here. If they took the four-letter words out of the English language most Irishmen would be f--king speechless. But this love of effing and beeing shouldn't be taken too seriously. It is only a form of affectionate punctuation.
I remember once being a pub in Dublin - all the other times I don't remember at all - where I witnessed an extraordinary scene. A man was sitting alone at the bar, deep in mystical contemplation of his pint, when the door opened and another fellow, bedecked from head to toe in black, entered the premises unobserved by the former. The new arrival crept up to My Nabs at the bar and quickly tapped him thrice on the shoulder. The philosopher turned, a smile of surprise and delight playing about his lips.
"Would yeh fook off, yeh fat fookeryeh," he happily cried. "I haven't seen yeh in blaydin ages!"
Only in Ireland do men greet each other thus. Although even making allowances for local cultural idiosyncrasies, I thought it was a bit much to talk to an Archbishop like that.
3) You Will Never Ever Compete With His Mammy
Look at her, the fossilised old reptile. You hate her, don't you? With a pure, clean, white-hot kind of hatred. Look at her thoughtfully stroking her beard. Making little comments about the dinner you've cooked. Sitting there in her Christmas party hat. Frightening the children. Frightening the dog.
Hallelujah.
Behold - His Mother.
God in heaven, look at the state of it. Face like a bag of rusting spanners. You wouldn't say she was ugly exactly but last time you saw her she had potato-sacks over two of her heads.
And it's all her fault, what you have to put up with. It was she who raised your so-called husband to be the incapable dweeb he is. She's as bonkers as he is anyway. Bloody madwoman. Treacherous cow! When she finally dies, there'll be one minute's violence. Smile at her. Offer her some gravy. That's right, have some more, you vile ugly hippo. Oh? You think it's a bit lumpy, do you? Dear, oh dear. How very sad.
You hope it bloody chokes her, the vicious troglodyte.
Remember the second time you went out with him? What did he say when you asked him back for coffee? That's right.
"Oh . . . urm . . . The Mammy wouldn't like it."
"I wasn't asking your Mammy," you pointed out.
That was your first-ever row, wasn't it?
Look at her, the evil conniving baggage. Pretending she "doesn't really drink" when she'd get down on all fours and suck the amontillado out of the shag-pile if you spilled a drop. Remember how she ruined your wedding day? Had to be the centre of attention, didn't she? Had to have everything her own way, despite the fact that you paid! Because he - her useless, brainless gom of a son - spent all his wedding savings on gravelling her driveway.
You know she gives out about you behind your back, don't you? When he's driving her home, when he's taking her shopping, when he's painting her house, when he's mowing her lawn. She doesn't like how you bring up the kids. Doesn't like the shirts you buy him. Doesn't like the fact that you work. Doesn't like anything, ever.
And you know what's coming next, right? Oh yes you do, come on, don't pretend. He wants her to come and live with you! Yes, he's been building up to it, bit by bit. You know that sneaky way he goes on, the low coward. Can't bear to say it out like a man, just tries the occasional pluck on your heartstrings. How she "isn't that bad when you get to know her". How you'd "have to laugh at the way she goes on". How lonely she feels now his father is gone, kicking around by herself in that house full of memories. (Not that his father's dead or anything. He's just bloody gone. And who could blame him?)
Well, she can get a bloody tenant in, because she's not coming here. No way. Over your dead body. You'll even help her put the ad in the paper. You've thought up the wording already. Room mate wanted - must be heavy sleeper with poor sense of smell.
Oh? Surprise, surprise. She doesn't like the way you've done the parsnips. Go on. Pick up the turkey and brain her with it. The judge will understand. You'll get time off for good behaviour. Go on. Right in the kisser. You know you want to. Yes. Do it now. Drumstick the witch!!