Esther McCarthy: Are manners outdated? Is it ever okay to play loud music in public? 

"Perhaps a subtle social cue will suffice. I make like Granpa Simpson and give them the glowering of a lifetime. But damn my fabulously oversized sunglasses! They render my stink eye powerless!"

Existentialist philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre must have been after a day at the beach, or a stressful aircoach ride, when he came up with his observation that ‘Hell is — other people’.

A gang of us land on to a beach in west Cork last weekend; we are on an extended family weekend away, from toddlers to teens to retirees.

After the hubbub of setting up, exclaiming at the sun, slapping on sunscreen and the doling out of the Brunches (they're gone fierce tight with the crumbs) subsides, I sink onto my blanket with a book and a little contented sigh. Then it starts.

“Oh I, I just died in your arms, tonight It must’ve been something you said...”

What the...?

The group next to us are blithely blasting their Spotify playlist. It’s a curious set, prog rock interspersed with cringey rap, power ballads, and that beloved beach classic, Demi Lovato’s ‘Remember December’. 

The scants haven’t sprung for premium, so we’re forced to suffer through ads for Herbal Essence and Kerrygold. Feck it, now I’ve a hankering for a shower and a bit of buttery toast.

We all look at each other. Is this OK? Should we say something? They’re too naturally tan and good looking to be Irish, so maybe it’s a cultural difference? Perhaps a subtle social cue will suffice. I make like Granpa Simpson and give them the glowering of a lifetime. But damn my fabulously oversized sunglasses! They render my stink eye powerless!

We huddle. One cousin reckons it’s fair, and if we don’t like it we can just move. His sister disagrees. “It’s disrespectful,” she says. 

“We may be doing something that annoys them,” adds an aunt, nervously, as one of our party starts joining in a chorus tunelessly. Yes, I’ve upped my passive-aggressive disapproval to a vocal onslaught. A bit of Celine Dion in a Cork accent should sort them out. It results in them very slightly turning up the volume, and I’ve made the toddler cry. Hell indeed.

Are manners outdated? Where’s our auditory social etiquette gone? Where’s the line? Is it OK to take a phone call in a crowd? Listen to a voice note on speaker? Let your excited dog bark? Accompany a screaming infant on a plane? Have a Meg Ryan moment in restaurant? Any of these could result in mild irritation/blood-pressure inducing fury/doing jail time/marriage.

I was on an aircoach recently, an early morning ride, we’re all easing into our journey. Two guys in their early 20s plonk across from me. At 6.45am, one of them whips out a can of Fanta, burping contentedly. Hey, you do you, buddy.

He follows with a noisy packet of crisps and a half pint of milk, which he glugs down, then shoves the empty container upside down in the netting of a chair. I bear witness as it drips onto the floor. A little nerve under my left eye starts to twitch.

Next he stretches out so his (manky) shoes are on the armrest of the aisle chair next to my seat. I do my circular breathing like my court-appointed anger management therapist advised. 

Then your man starts snorting at Tiktok on full volume, thus breaking our gossamer-thin illusion of civility, that social contract that exists since our progression from cavepeople to superior beings who choose to exist in proximity, sometimes in metal tubes barrelling from one destination to another.

All the passengers  around him shift uncomfortably, one tuts, and a couple throw disapproving glances. 

I have to say something. 

“Hi! I’m so sorry, but would you mind using earphones, that’s really distracting,” I say placatingly.

He’s leaning against his partner and, what with the legs up across the aisle, he’s almost horizontal. He bolts upright and shouts at my face, “WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME?”

I lean closer and repeat in a slower, louder voice, leaving out the first five words. My new tone would not be out of place if one was requesting it rubs the lotion on its skin. 

His partner pulls him back and offers him his earphones.

“I’m NOT going to wearing FUCKING EARPHONES, Gary!”

Poor Gary, I get the feeling this ain’t his first rodeo with this langball. This time, there are no obstructing sunglasses and I turn on the glower like it’s Blue Steel. 

I do that dual move with my eyebrows and my lips that mothers just know how to do. The eyebrows slowly creep up, causing the eyes to widen, whilst the top lip tightens and the lower jaw juts ever-so-slightly outward. Keeping his gaze now is crucial. 

In most primates, eye contact is an implicit signal of threat, and I’ve notched up hundreds of hours of staring competitions with my three boys. I am safe in the knowledge that I will let my eyeballs wither like prunes in the midday sun before I’ll blink.

Subliminally, he knows there’s only one baboon here, pal. And although he has proven in the 10 minutes we’ve been acquainted to have questionable dietary and hygiene habits, if it comes down to it, I’m the one ready to fling my feces right into his milky moustache if that’s what it takes to have a noise-pollution-free journey. 

He allows Gary to pull him back and sulkily shoves the earbuds in, sticking his feet in front of him where they belong.

A hollow victory, as now I’m afraid to fall asleep, lest they surreptitiously video and post ME on TikTok. Imagine what Sartre would have to say about that.