Since the invention of the teenager back in the 1950s, each successive generation has given rise to its own brand of youth culture: Teddy boys, Rockers, Mods, Hippies, Skinheads, Bootboys, Punks, Rastas, Ravers . . . the list goes on. As if fuelled by the rising sap of puberty, every generation reinvents its predecessor. And, although Ireland has never really been a global trend-setter in this phenomenon, from the late 1950s through to the early 1970s an indigenous group did emerge here - the Cornerboys.
Down our street, the local cornerboys stood out from all the rest, in that they did not, as one might expect, congregate at the corner. You see, I was raised in a corner shop that had the unique claim to fame of being situated slap-bang in the middle of the street, and that's where our boys would meet.
It is said that there is no life without light. Well, in my part of town there was hardly a light without life and, night after night, the yellow-cream glow from our shop window drew them like moths to a candle. Hanging out, sharing stories and cigarettes - that was their thing.
I can see it now: the downtown dirty faces, we're dancing on the street, celebrating Miah Dennehy's hat-trick for Cork Hibs. Jojo Ryan's dad, heading home from his shift in Dunlop's, joins in the tarantella. He is lamenting an earlier generation of Cork soccer, saying Reg Carter would have run rings around the lot of 'em. Not at all, Miah is the King! "If Miah is the King," says Mr Ryan. "Long live the Republic!"
Mr Ryan vanishes off into the misty coal smoke that always hung on Devonshire Street to a chorus of cornerboys singing "Miah is the King! Miah is the King! Ee-ei-adio, Miah is the King!"
Collars to the wind, cornerboys laugh, sing and lock horns. And, with a whistle from some window or door, we peel off home for tea, only to return and continue exactly where we left off, comfortable among our own, until dusk becomes dark.
No sex education back then - so the whisper of a dirty joke communicated a collective knowledge from the inner circle to the younger lads on the periphery. A knowledge that they, in turn, were obliged to impart when promoted to that pride of place - backs to the wall. It was a regulated education where those too young to know were ordered out of ear-shot before the more in-depth analysis of the low-down nitty-gritty.
And, year after year, a new oral mythology would be created as the boys from Devonshire Street would head off on some campaign to see Manchester United or Glasgow Celtic play, often forming brief alliances with lads from other corners across the Northside. I can hear it now. ". . . if the Dominic Street Boys are going, the boys from Devonshire street will be there too".
And on our return, the next year's history would be recorded with blow-by-blow accounts from the newly-broken voices of the novices. Exotic tales of black men, yellow men and men with towels on their heads, helmeted Bobbies, red buses, underground trains, and how young Jimmy Mullins would have been killed dead, only for Big Georgie Buckley wading in - " . . . took on 15 of them all on his own, so he did!" As always the myth was larger than the man.
And, come nightfall, down our street the elderly and young slept peacefully in their beds, serenaded by the guffaws, laughter and caterwailing from the street below. They slept soundly, safe in the knowledge that the cornerboys - our cornerboys were self-appointed sentinels - were ever vigilant.
The Wanderers (1979), based on the novel by Richard Price, is set in the Bronx of the early 1960s, and follows the exploits of a bunch of neighbourhood Italian lads. Their universe centres on a corner and stretches to no more than a couple of streets away. They live a full life within these parameters: falling in love, forming friendships and defending their patch - totally oblivious to the outside world and the storm clouds brewing on the far off horizon of Southeast Asia.
This Philip Kaufman film marks a time when grown boys are trapped in men's bodies, no doubt a romanticised version of the truth. Then again, more often than not, stereotypes and cliches exist only because they do reflect a truth.
I'm sure many would write off The Wanderers as lemon popsicle dipped in kitsch Americana, but there are a lot of redeemable aspects to this production. Not least, there is its multi-stranded, character-driven narrative all strung together with a powerfully evocative soundtrack. Watch out for two magical turning points towards the end, when we are shown a window to a greater world. First through a TV shop window as the news of an assassination in Dallas filters onto the street, and then through the window of Radio City Music Hall in Greenwich Village where we see a young Bob Dylan singing The Times They Are A Changin'. This is not the day the music died, but rather, the day the tempo changed.
Getting back to the corner in the middle of Devonshire Street, it is not so easy to identify the day the tempo changed - but it coincided with the mass exodus of families from downtown Cork city to the outlying areas. These days, from time to time, maybe at a bus stop, supermarket, or football match, old cornerboys' eyes meet and we nod in recognition at all that has passed. Sometimes we stop and chat, old myths are relived, and new ones created.
No doubt there were some rough diamonds in our ranks but, whatever you might say, they were Our Cornerboys. And where I come from, a rough diamond will always be more valuable than polished coal.
