What's that? You desperately want to hear how my Monday went? Oooh . . . if you insist. Right: had to go to a schoolgirls' hockey match in Dublin. Made several keenish observations about young people today (of the female variety) while I was there. You want me to share them with you? Oooh . . . go on then.
One. Even if their pals are standing right beside them they'll still only communicate with them in mobile phone text messages ("Like, um, how r u?" "Trif. U?" "Um, like, trif." "Trif but, like, U R standing on my, um, foot." "Um, like, sorr-eeee.").
Two. They regard Ryan Giggs as a veteran but think Joe Cole is "like, gooorgeous - totally".
Three. They communicate in a Sky One language I cannot understand. At all, like, at all. Four. Maybe it's the Celtic Pussycat that's done it, I don't know, but most of them would blow you off your feet with their self-confidence. To this I say: hallelujah, praise the Lord (so long as they absolutely promise not to let it border on the obnoxious and resist the temptation to regard a smidgeon of compassion in their lives as totally uncool and, um, like: decadent).
See, in bygone days I would go to one of these games and pick out, in a halo-hoverin'-over-me-head kinda way, the girl who (a) was getting the hardest time from her manic, frenzied, disturbed coach, (b) was so browbeaten by said manic coach that she could hardly move during a game without her legs going from under her and (c) was confronted by parents at the end of the game, which her team had lost, who laid a "you've let us down badly" trip on her when they should have been giving her a comforting hug and a "we're proud of you, you did your best" whisper in her ear. So, I'd pick her out and go to her after the game and tell her she was great, that she'd play for Ireland some day and all that, even if it wasn't true. She'd smile a smile that said "thank you for humouring me", say "thanks", then apologise for her existence, insist she was "rubbish" and trudge off, with shrunken shoulders, to face the stony silence her "hurt" parents presented her with.
And you'd watch her, end up clinically depressed and contemplate applying for her custody so you could tell her every day of her life that she was special and brilliant and if her team lost in a cup semi-final so bloody what? Big bloody deal.
Monday? Well, I looked around the pitch for this girl, but I couldn't find her. Twenty-two players plus subs, and I still couldn't find her. True, no argument, we're talking ludicrous sweeping generalisations about young people today (of the female variety) - but still, I couldn't find her. The 22-plus-subs strutted with a self-assured swagger, looked you in the eye, instead of at their feet, when you talked to them, sighed when you asked them stupid questions and used terms like "focus". Blimey. Conclusion? Mmm, not sure. Maybe this girl is not getting picked any more, even if she's more talented than the rest, because school coaches, under hysterical pressure from some over-active parents' committee prefer girls who aren't brilliant but think they are to brilliant girls who don't realise they are. Or else there's something about this climate that's producing bolshie Irish children who think apologising for your existence is quaint, cute even, but not something they'd ever consider doing because . . . why the hell should they? Hallelujah, praise the Lord. (But psst . . . don't forget that compassion lark . . . whatever they tell you, there's no law against being confident and compassionate, you know). But. There are some things that never change. The most fearsome creature on the planet? The Great White Shark? No. Peter Clohessy? No. Ann The Weakest Link Robinson? No. The Hockey Mother? Oh God, yes. That's the woman who sidles up to you at a match, glares at you in a significantly more than menacing way (we're talking horses' heads in your bed here) and hisses ". . . there are four z's in my daughter's name, okay?" Then she sidles away to resume her howls of "C'MON LIZZZZA - nail the cow" from the sideline. This is repeated 22-plus-subs'mothers times during the game, all of which means your nervous-I-never-claimed-I-was-brave match report read something like this: "Alexis, Alyssa, Kayla, Jasmine, Destiny, Haley, Brittany, Amber, Savannah, Courtney and Sierra all played their part in the winning goal despite the heroic efforts of Madison, Jordan, Kimberly, Erin, Shelby, Chloe, Mariah, Kaylee, Faith, Autumn and Tiffany (who will all, surely, represent Ireland at senior level in the future) to keep it out." It usually does the trick, although you might be confronted with one mother at the final who'll assail you for spelling her Dezzzztaneee's name wrong.
Meanwhile Dezzzztaneee has a nightmare final and her team loses. Afterwards Mom will greet her with a stony silence. Dezzzztaneee? She'll just text her and say "U R standing on my, um, foot Mom - get a life and chill, okay?" Young people today? Oh God, yes, I think I like them.
