Who are ye headin’ with?

Not friendship, romance nor love itself should alone be considered good enough grounds to ask a person along to an event that you are truly excited about.

If two tickets felicitously happen to fall upon your lap, perhaps to a concert, match or some other sort of exciting occasion, chances are, the name of an obvious companion will assert itself in your mind.

It might be an old friend, a budding lover, a boyfriend or girlfriend, or your husband or wife.

However, as this name emerges from the cloudy crowd of your subconscious, declaring itself to be the just and rightful recipient of your spare ticket, take a moment to mull it over.

Is this really the best person for the job…?

Sure, Sarah might be good-looking, sound, and, as far as you can tell, keen, but is she going to enjoy a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert as much as Brian, that fella you were big buds with in fourth year, have not spoke to in 20 years, but who you know to have Anthony Kiedis’ face tattooed on his calve?

Do you see what I am getting at?

It is crucial when picking the perfect partner for an event – whether it be a morning at a museum, a weekend at a water park, or a month on Mars – to consider how much they are going to get out of it. This might sound like a selfless consideration, but it is not.

Because the fact of the matter is that your enjoyment depends on their enjoyment. You want your chosen ticket-taker to be as enthusiastic as you, if not more.

If, for talking sake, you take a notion to remove your underwear, crumple them into a compact ball, and attempt to land them on the head of Flea’s bass guitar, you want to be certain you have the whole-hearted, unqualified support of your sidekick. Failure on their part to see the funny side of such an act would, to me at least, tell you that you made the wrong choice by taking them.

Because, as social creatures, we do not only respond to the primary object of our attention. It is not just the boys on the pitch, the sound coming from the speakers, or the mummified corpse lying behind the glass box that makes or breaks our day, we are also porous to everything else that is going on around us.

Most of all, we are sensitive to the commentary, facial expressions and general energy of the person who we are sharing the experience with.

Therefore, if the commentary is whingey, the facial expression, dour, and the general energy, disinterested or even scundered, good luck trying to have a good time.

This is understood by anyone who has ever sat down to watch their favouirte film with that special someone, only to spend two straight hours glaring at the side of their head as they fail to appreciate everything fantastic about the movie.

Our enjoyment is not a two dimensional thing. It is interdependent.

If the person beside you sits with a head on them through the whole show, then, by some kind of emotional osmosis, you will find yourself being helplessly infected by their bad form. Like a craic leech, they will suck all the fun from your day, leaving you empty, bored and resentful.

This, to me, is intolerable. In case you have not got it, I will arm you with an anecdote from which a lesson may be learned.

I once made the mistake of going to a Christy Moore concert with my sister, who, truth be told, could take or leave the swampy-croched Kildare man.

The room was hot, brimming with pensioners, and, I must admit, Christy was in rather subdued form. However, despite his lethargic performance and the somewhat snoozey ambience, I was having a decent time. That was until I looked over my shoulder and found my sister fast asleep.

Whatever emotion Christy’s last ballad had conjured in me vanished immediately. Like underage drinkers when the police knock the door, it was gone without a trace.

“Jesus Christ, Toni,” I said, with a slightly-too-hard elbow in the ribs.

Semi-conscious and sticky-eyed, she indignantly swore that she had only closed her eyes for two minutes.

If that was true, it would have been a right and long sleep had I not interrupted it, because, not two minutes after being woken by the elbow, she was out for the count again.

This continued for the rest of the show. By the end, I was about to sleep myself. Heading home, we criticised Christy for just about everything.

“That is one boring, grumpy, sweaty, useless eejit of a man,” I said at one point, to my eternal shame.

I have been back to see Christy several times since, and, would ye believe, on each occasion, not only did I stay awake, but I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

Oh, and ye know something else? Guess who was not with me any of those times? You got it. My snoring sister.