At sixes and sevens and shattered from the Shattergate shenanigans

ALL my life (as far back as I can remember, anyway), I’ve had a theory that we live our lives in seven year cycles.

As each cycle ends and another begins, it’s a time to take stock — and basically to change direction.

There’s absolutely no scientific evidence for my theory, although bits and pieces of it could be said to be rooted in tradition, or the law, or culture — even in biology. We allegedly reach the age of reason at the age of seven — so now we can start to commit sins. Puberty has really kicked in at the age of 14 — even more capacity for sins, at least in the teaching of my youth and for thoughts about sins (they were ok as long as we didn’t take pleasure in them).

We used to reach the age of majority at 21, although that has changed quite a bit since they gave me the key to the house. They gave me the key on my way out of the house, mind you, and I was only expected to use it on occasional visits home. At 28 you should have most of your life or career choices made, and at 35 be well settled in to them, beginning to show promise.

I always remember one of my friends saying to me, “you and your bloody theories!”. He was 42 then, and by my reckoning should be fulfilling his potential. He was still trying to figure out what potential he had. At 49 you should be at the height of your powers, whatever they are. Mind you, at 49 I was whiling away a period of unemployment by trying to write a book. 56 may be the last chance to change direction in your life – I had just started my present day job, perhaps the most fulfilling thing I’ve ever done.

There’s a big question mark in my mind about when ageing starts. Is it 63, or do I have to wait until the next multiple? My theory up-to-now has been that 63 is the age when you should be reasonably content — family reared, most major debts paid off, a little less stress and a bit more leisure to look forward to. There is research, indeed, that suggests that one’s quality of life really begins to improve at the age of 63, and that all the negative side effects of ageing are further into the future than they used to be.

Well, I reach the ninth multiple this week, and I’m curious to know how it all pans out. In my head I’m still at the fourth multiple, although there’s a certain stiffness in the joints that suggests I can’t do some of the things I used to take for granted then. On Sunday I drove back from Cork after a wonderful event — and as good as it was, it still took me a bit longer to get out of the car when I got home than it used to.

If you’ll forgive the digression, the event that brought me to Cork was the Barnardos’ Munster tournament for Under-10 and Under-11 soccer players. The tournament was actually started six years ago by a couple of members of Rockmount AFC (the club where Roy Keane learned the game), including the indefatigable secretary of the schoolboys committee Eoin O’Donovan.

In addition to raising a lot of money for Barnardos over the years, the tournament always produces an exciting final day, with boys from Limerick, Waterford, Cork, Clonmel, and Killarney battling it out. Last Sunday was no exception — there was high drama with three penalty shoot-outs, heartbreak and elation, and a wonderful atmosphere throughout the day. One of the refs said to me he loved officiating at events like these – no dirt, no diving, just passionate football. It was great to see.

Anyway, to get back to my theme of the day. If my theory is right, this should be the age of contentment. Health is good, family is making its way in the world, grandchildren are wonderful.

But I find myself increasing discontented. Angry even. Not so much personally, but because there is still so much wrong with the world we live in.

Over the last week or so, I’ve even found myself shouting at the radio a lot. This Shattergate controversy has me really annoyed. Here we have an incident in which, dig as the media might, no-one has actually done anything wrong. No wrongdoing, other than a misjudgement for which he has apologised, has been alleged against Alan Shatter. He himself alleged no wrongdoing against Mick Wallace, other than the political charge of a little bit of hypocrisy. Perhaps the strongest thing that can be said is that no-one emerged from the episode with any additional credit.

And yet page after page of media commentary, culminating in a Dáil vote of no confidence, has consumed every waking moment. When there are so many other things that really ought to be demanding our attention, it is utterly frustrating to have to listen to hours of discussion about really nothing at all.

Mind you, it does remind me that sometimes the worst thing you can do in Ireland is to take on powerful vested interests. Alan Shatter has been pretty upfront since the day he became a minister about his commitment to reform things that might have seemed up to now pretty unreformable — the Courts, for instance. Perhaps he shouldn’t be too surprised that controversy has come at him sideways. That seems to be the way we set about seeing off reformers in Ireland.

I CAN remember, for instance, when Barry Desmond was Minister for Health, back in the day. He took a decision to ban cigarette advertising. This was undoubtedly a blow to the tobacco industry. But much worse than that, it was a blow to a certain newspaper group that had just invested heavily in colour printing. And guess who was paying for the full page colour wraparounds that were gracing the daily and Sunday editions of its newspapers? The tobacco business, of course.

From that moment on, they hardly ever let a day go by without having a go at the Minister for Health. Nothing to do with his decisions about tobacco advertising of course, but it was entirely clear at the time that if he backed off that decision, the attacks on him would ease. He didn’t, of course, and in the end he was vindicated. There’s more to be said for sticking to your guns at moments like that than for giving in to your enemies.

Maybe when this silly controversy dies down (unless, of course, a smoking gun is produced) we can get back to the huge range of public policy decisions that really ought to provoke more of our discontent.

At least then I could stop shouting at the radio — or at least shout at the radio about real issues. I’m an old fogie now, after all, now that I’m about to reach the ninth multiple of seven. And us old fogies have rights too — including the right to be cantankerous. But for heaven’s sake let me be cantankerous about stuff that really matters.