Hugs
I wrote this back in the summer of 2020. We had a break from lockdown and could see friends if we socially distanced but we weren't allowed to hug.
I am a hugger. I don’t consider myself a particularly excitable person, and I’m not impulsive. I think more than I act. My brain tends to allow impulses to ferment until they are pulverised into cerebral kimchi—carefully measured and good for me. However, I do love a spontaneous hug.
Hello hugs, goodbye hugs, the risky "haven’t-seen-you-in-ages" hug, the promising "lovely-to-have-met-you" hug. But you know… the virus. Since March, hugs have been scarce. We can hug our partners and our animals. Three years of enforced affection have transformed my cat from a scrappy, slappy rescue kitten to an almost-tolerant, tough-but-fair tabby. When scooped up for a cuddle, she rubs her face off mine but then stiffens into a playing-dead statue, struggling to ignore her every instinct to claw my eyes out. Her body language is clear—she is mentally repeating, “Just breathe, Boots. Just breathe.” Then her pupils dilate, and I know I have about ten more seconds. Then, a sharp kick to my chest, and she bounds off, aware she’s got money in the bank and there might be a cat treat in it.
People are a different story—actual consent is required. Among my hugging friends, there is now this awful moment, particularly at the end of a meeting, where we talk about the hug we would have had. “Aw, I can’t give you a hug.”
Yesterday, I met one of my oldest friends, who had come home from Italy in her second trimester of her first pregnancy. She is here on bump parade. She was in lockdown for 14 days, and yesterday we got to socially distance in her back garden—and I got to see bump. It’s definitely a bump, definitely pregnant, definitely the first time I’ve seen her in flesh-and-bump for almost a year, and definitely the next time I see her, she’ll be a mammy and will have gone through something huge. It’s a hug-worthy moment. More so than the nice waiter you’ve just met, or the person on the bus who insists on telling you their journey to becoming a life coach. This is a proper, lovely moment, and my heart ached a bit when we said goodbye.
When lockdown ended, I arranged to meet one of my friends that first week. It was so exciting I had a disturbed sleep—the sort I had as a kid on Christmas Eve. I hadn’t thought about how the hug would be navigated, but he is a very smart man, and when we met at Stephen’s Green, he handed me a coffee and said, “Give me a kick,” then stuck out his foot. Brilliant! GENIUS. Let’s mark these hugs until we can get back in there.
The detrimental effect of this pandemic is that we could end up starving ourselves of our affection for one another—losing the social limarin and that softness that we need as living things. I employed the kick technique myself, and it worked quite well until recently.
When saying goodbye to one of my friends beside some loud roadworks, and just as he was about to do the “aw, we can’t hug…” speech, I swooped in with a forceful and confident “Give me a kick.” A jolt of fear flickered across his face, and he awkwardly put his hand on my shoulder. I realised he thought I had said “kiss,” not “kick.” While it was mortifying, it was also a life lesson in what confidence can get you.
I’ve always found navigating other people’s need for affection—and lack thereof—quite easy. I don’t remember when, but at one point, myself and another friend stopped hugging. I don’t remember why, and it wasn’t something I was aware of. We’re the best of friends. But now we have this new auto-response that is, “Oh, it’s Adolf… you and Adolf* don’t hug.” (*Not his real name.)
Likewise, one of my best friends emigrated a while ago, and since then, our conversations have ended with “I love you” instead of “bye.” Which, at first, I found strange. That is something I’ve only really said to friends in cards or at deathbeds.
Public displays of affection are necessary. They are an assurance that our investment is protected. We need non-overt ways to say, “I like you,” and “you’re very special” to people we’re not riding. Sometimes even at work.
Comedians and performers tend to be an affectionate bunch—I think. But then, I’m a gay man in comedy, and on this island, that is a minority. My experience in green rooms is that I’m hugged by men and women alike.
Where it becomes interesting is on the stage. Part of every comedian’s job is bringing people on stage, setting the scene, and making the audience excited for who they are about to see. It usually involves saying something nice—balanced between too big of a build-up and indifference. It creates warmth.
What happens then has to be carefully navigated because it happens in front of an audience. Usually, it’s a smile and a firm handshake. With friends, it can also include a muttered “Have a good one,” or “Front row guy in the blue shirt is absolutely hammered,” or sometimes a jovial, “They hate you already.”
On stage, anything more feels patronising. I remember doing a show in Edinburgh where the well-meaning host hugged me slightly too long when I walked on stage. It was a bit weird. It felt like a message to the audience: “Be nice to him.” And once that was in my head, I couldn’t get into it.
I’ve opened for lots of women, and I always find myself checking with them: “Handshake right hand, and I’ll go behind you? Is that OK?” As a new comedian, I really over-thought it. I’ve never been the gay best friend that women in 90s rom-coms seem to need. Should I be miming “you look amazing” and scooping up their furs and helping them to the microphone? It was a fear of appearing indifferent, hostile, or unfriendly. But I’d rather that than looking like one of those creepy game show hosts from the 80s, plonking wet ones on the cheeks of clammy and dazed female contestants who think they’re about to win a caravan.
In a professional setting, hugs are weakness. Hugs are vulnerability. And where there is vulnerability, there is failure.
Many years ago, during a show at a music festival, I ran afoul of a heckler. As I walked off stage at the end of my set, the next act up—who was one of my friends—hugged me as they walked on stage. It was the final nail in my coffin. A boa constrictor of support that I internally begged to release me. “For the love of God, stop. I’m already dead.”
Hugs will come back. But we have to remember that we also have to bring them back—just not at work. Never at work.
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17 July 2020 – Gearóid Farrelly