Bernard O'Shea: Five things I've learned about middle-aged friendship maintenance

Here are the key things I’ve learned about keeping friendships not just alive, but quietly thriving, in the middle-aged jungle

Bernard O'Shea: "If the 20s were about collecting friends, the 40s are about keeping them — through silence, memes, invoices, odd-hour crises, and pints that arrive once every geological era. And even if the WhatsApp thread goes quiet, the connection never does."

1. The slow drift into organised affection

In your 20s, friendship is a reckless, athletic pursuit. You didn’t 'arrange' to see people; you simply materialised beside them in pubs, apartments, fielsds, nightclubs named after Roman emperors for no reason, and kitchens belonging to strangers who had a fondness for lava lamps.

You knew everything about your friends: who liked who, who fell where, who might move to Australia on Tuesday, and who had drunk the last can of Dutch Gold and thus could never be forgiven.

Fast-forward 20 years and your friendships are still there — sturdy as old stone walls — but now they’re maintained the way Irish people maintain sheds: reverently, but a bit sporadically, with a guilty promise to 'get around to fixing that hinge'. Nothing dramatic happens. Nobody storms off. Nobody slams a door and declares 'You’ve changed!'. You simply… fade into different pockets of life like old jeans separating in a hot wash.

It’s not distance or lack of love. It’s logistics. It’s time, responsibility, and the discovery that relationships begin needing the same maintenance as a 2010 diesel. Only instead of oil, it's WhatsApp messages and vague promises of pints.

2. The WhatsApp check-in that stretches from July to Christmas

Friendship, once a live-and-constant stream, becomes a kind of long-form text novel where each chapter arrives weeks apart.

The pattern goes like this:

July:

“Lads, we really need to meet up.”

This is said with the enthusiasm of a man who has just purchased new underpants and believes this will change his life.

August:

“Definitely. Let’s look at dates.”

No dates are looked at. The message is 'seen' but emotionally shelved.

September:

One person sends a hilarious meme. Everyone reacts with a laugh emoji. Spirits are high. Progress feels inevitable.

October:

“That month got away from me.” Everyone responds with a variation of, “Same here — hectic.”

November:

Silence.

Not hostile silence, but comforting silence. A silence that says “You’re still my person; I’m just in a trench at the moment.”

December:

A Christmas GIF. Usually involving a penguin falling over. It signals both affection and surrender.

And then you meet in person and — like magic — you pick up as if you never left. No ice needs breaking; just one pint, one shared moan about traffic, one affectionate “you’re a disgrace,” and you’re back.

Bernard O'Shea: "And then you meet in person and — like magic — you pick up as if you never left. No ice needs breaking; just one pint, one shared moan about traffic, one affectionate 'you’re a disgrace', and you’re back."

3. The 'We must get a pint' treaty

Irish social diplomacy has three pillars:

• Birth
• Death
• The solemn agreement to someday get a pint

This phrase is more binding than marriage vows and less actioned than New Year’s gym memberships. It is culturally loaded. When an Irish person says “We must get a pint,” what they mean is:

• “I love you deeply.”
• “I don’t have time.”
• “I cannot emotionally process the passing of time, so let’s pretend we’ll meet soon.”

But when it happens? It’s glorious.

4. The crisis summons override

Middle-aged friendship is not daily closeness. It is dormant loyalty that suddenly activates. You may not speak for weeks, months, sometimes longer — but if a crisis hits, there’s no hesitation. Texts arrive faster than emergency services.

“What’s happened?”

“Are you okay?”

“Do you need me to come over?”

“Do you want a coffee or a whiskey?”

“Right, here’s what we’re going to do…”

You’re in the car before logic arrives. Your partner calls out “Where are you going?” You answer “Dunnes, my vouchers are expiring no time.”

Irish friendship is half-therapy, half-roasting. You will comfort them deeply and then say “Also, you’re an eejit, but we can rebuild.” Young people bond with intensity. The 40-plusses bond with reliability.

5. The quiet comfort of unchanged nonsense

The world changes. Knees crack. Hairlines recede like the tide going out. You become a man who Googles 'what’s the right pillow for neck tension'. Life gets bigger and heavier and much more Aldi-shaped. But friendship stays… stupid.

You still:

• Laugh at the same in-jokes from 2001
• Argue about football with more passion than anything else in the world
• Reenact stories nobody else finds funny while trying to overly explain the context to a stranger
• Call each other by nicknames that should have expired decades ago
• Mock each other’s newfound interests. “So I hear you're painting now? Jesus, I’d say Banksy is shitting himself.”
• Say “we should do a lads’ trip,” knowing full well the only trip you’ll take is to Woodie’s for a tub of white emulsion

Friendship in middle age is not a fiery blaze. We are no longer in our 20s in pubs; we are middle-aged chauffeurs standing at sidelines in waxed jackets.

We have mortgages, creaking joints, opinions on air fryers, and an emotional support secret stash of Tunnocks tea cakes. We text less, not because we care less, but because we are simply surviving the beautiful chaos of being needed by many.

If the 20s were about collecting friends, the 40s are about keeping them — through silence, memes, invoices, odd-hour crises, and pints that arrive once every geological era. And even if the WhatsApp thread goes quiet, the connection never does.

Pint soon?

Absolutely.

Just give me six months’ notice.