Hate and hunger

As far as toxic feelings go, hate is down there with the worst of them. It is the stuff that makes monsters of men; a disease that devours the human heart.

Many a sound boy, once decent and kind, has been rendered unrecognisable by the dark hand of hatred.

In my experience, few other emotions or impulses are capable of inspiring such an ugly transformation in a person.

However, through 25 years of observation and introspection, I have discerned one other influence that can come close to matching the malignance of hatred. And that is hunger.

If hate is that which corrodes the compassionate soul over time, hunger is the force that, in an instant, has the power to subvert the divine and turn man into swine.

Oh aye. There is nothing quite like an empty belly to make a pig of a man. And I’m not even talking real-hunger; I am talking 21st-century-Irish-journalist-hunger.

Normally, you see, I consider myself to be someone of fairly average moral standing. On a full stomach, like most, I am neither the best nor the worst. Totally unremarkable. Devoid of any kind of ethical extremes or perverse principles that might attract the attention of a seeking Netflix producer.

Nobody wants to watch a four part docu-series that culminates in an episode called, ‘The blue bin is not for single-use plastics’.

However, focus on some of my hungrier moments and a different, altogether more marketable picture might begin to materialise. For fear of self-incrimination, I will stop short of detailing the worst of my hungry behaviour, but just imagine a kind of Hannibal Hulk Hyrbid and you’re not far away.

But seriously, it shames me to admit the extent to which my ability to perform even the most meagre good deed depends upon the amount of time that has elapsed since my last meal.

That is to say, the more recently I’ve eaten: the more likely it is that your granny’s groceries will be helped to the other side of the road; the more chance a blind donkey has of becoming the beneficiary of a monthly direct debit; and the better the odds anybody I encounter has of being treated like a valuable human being.

You see, it is tempting to think that the innate goodness of the human heart exists on a plane beyond the reach of bodily desires as base as hunger. However, it is not the case.

As anyone who has skipped lunch knows, hunger is an anchor heavy enough to drag you lower than you ever thought you could sink.

The hand which drives the gastric clock is a deciding one; all-powerful and despotic. When the low toll of hunger’s bell sounds, you have no more than about 30 minutes max to heed its warning before obedience is no longer optional.

After that, you’re effectively lobotomised, stripped of all free will and autonomy, a ship at the whim of the winds of hunger. It’s a dangerous place to be.

A stormy sea.

Moral of the story: Remain well fed. It’s better for you, and all who cross your path.

I’m away for my breakfast.