Bernard O'Shea: If Garth Brooks plays the Milk Market in Limerick, I might go

I don't suffer of Fear of Missing Out anymore, not even for Electric Picnic, The Ploughing or Garth Brooks

9.9.2022 Garth Brooks performing this evening at Croke Park. PHOTO: Mark Stedman

I was well into my thirties before I knew what FOMO was. For those who still don't know, it means Fear of Missing Out. As a teenager and young adult, I knew exactly what the pain of FOMO meant, even if the acronym hadn't been invented then. 

I spent long afternoons as a sulky teenager lying on my bed imagining all the bands I missed seeing because my parents wouldn't let me go to one gig or another. They constantly harped on about something called a Leaving Cert being more critical. Then the shame of having to a, pretend the following Monday you went or b, just having to avoid everybody.

My twenties, however, were a different story. There was no fear of missing out because I stayed out all the time. If I had money in my pocket, I found an amicable publican to give it to. I went to many gigs, including one that lasted four years, called college. 

They say school days are the best days of your life, but they are wrong. College days are. But the most fantastic festival I attended ended abruptly when college finished up. I now look back and wonder why I left such a beautiful place.

When I did leave, I still could have gone out all the time, but I was missing two things: time and money. I soon realised there is a horrific life trap waiting to gobble you up as Paul McCartney sang, You Never Give Me Your Money: "Out of college money spent see no future pay no rent all the money's gone nowhere to go". 

Most of the money was invested into hangovers and renting bedsits. At the same time, if I wasn't pulling pints myself, I lounged around the International Bar on Exchequer street, learning my trade. But around that time, Ireland was going through an awkward phase of its own "The Boom."

Bernard O'Shea. Photograph Moya Nolan

If there was one thing I completely missed out on, it was Ireland's economic boom. By the time it imploded in 2008, I was only getting going. 

The TV and Radio gigs I did get around that time had drastically reduced remuneration. But there was power to viewing the boom as a penniless comic before the downturn. I saw the good (lots of corporate gigs with free bars) and the bad (what happens when there is a fee bar at a corporate gig). 

While the city grew taller and its bars grew bigger, my value became more insignificant by the day. However, my insights from my bedsit window were still the same as they are now. I'm glad Ireland had a great party. We deserved it. But the hangover was always going to be horrific.

This weekend we had friends over who are in the same kids and work boat as us, and the conversation soon floated towards FOMO waters. I soon realised I had missed out on the three most significant events of the Irish summer. The Picnic, The Plough and The Garth.

I performed in the comedy tent for the first ten years of The Electric Picnic. I was blessed to see some great acts up close and had the luxury of our own toilet. I was spoiled. I took it for granted. I thought that I'd be there every year. 

That was until the kids came along, and my stomach grew to the official size of a middle-aged man who doesn't watch what he eats. The thoughts of sleeping in a tent fill me with dread, mostly about how stiff I'll be the following morning. Glamping is my only option now, but I'd have to bring a kettle for my morning Ovaltine.

The ploughing championship was always a big event for me growing up, as it was nearly always in Laois. This meant one thing — the day off school. 

But something weird has manifested in my culchie brain over the last few years. I feel like I should go to it. It's almost like a homing device in my brain that tells me to "go to your home Bernard" and buy "wellies and a chainsaw you'll never use". 

Bernard O'Shea with his guitar and Marty Morrisey

I love the plough. I planned on taking the kids this year but didn't get my ducks in a row soon enough to organise it. Speaking of which, I'm pretty sure there's a whole area there that specialises in fowl.

Then there's Garth. The new pope. He kept true to his word and showed up in boots. The frenzy surrounding his five nights in Croke Park was nearly surpassed by his dinner in Matt The Trashers in Birdhill and showing up in Kerry, lashing out the tunes and gulping down the pints. 

Those who weren't even fans raved about his performances. But brace yourself. As much as I can see the allure and the nostalgia behind the music, it was never my cup of tea, even if it's served with "hang sangajis" on the 45-meter line facing Hill 16. 

On the motorway travelling to work, I listened to my former colleague Jennifer Zamparelli on the radio talking to those who were mesmerised and converted by his country charms. Still, she wasn't convinced to go, and neither was I.

I've no FOMO regarding all three of the above events; because there's a begrudging little old man inside of me shouting, "You're better off staying away from the crowds and the noise". But there's also a little side of me that wished I went. But there's always next year, and if we're to take any hints from Mr Brooks, I might go to see him. 

Any plans on playing the Milk Market in Limerick, Garth?