To join this virile body (men only, of course) you need to swim "bollock- naked" back and forth across the bay on a Good Friday, when the water is best described as "fresh". This feat is duly performed by Junior and his friend Dunstan Tucker, both aged ten, in 1955 - and a subsequent childhood disappointment, the failure of his father to raise the money for a week at the Seaside, warps Dunstan and leaves him with a mission in life: to get the better of banks. Dunstan's demented and convoluted financial dealings, and a Shivering Club presedential election, form the substance of Michael Curtin's plot.
The novel comes with an accolade from Roddy Doyle ("sparkling and hilarious"), and indeed it has something of Doyle's own gusto and demotic charm, laid on thick. However, it is likely that only those whose taste runs to masculine knowingness, endearing pugnacity or souped-up shenanigans, will get the most out of it. For the rest of us, I suspect, an element of tiresomeness may obstruct the fullest appreciation of its attitudes and antics. For example, the central financial idee fixe and its workings-out become increasingly over-elaborate.
And what are we to make of Junior's one-time schoolmaster, a Brother Chunkey, who first of all confesses to having had the hand of a cleaning woman up his soutane, and then goes on to clobber a pub singer in nun's garb calling herself Baptista and the Virgins? Perhaps the point is that there are no virgins in this act, just as the ex-Christian Brother himself embodies certain social upheavals in Irish life over the last 40-odd years - though what hasn't changed, it seems, is Irishmen's inability to embrace egalitarianism readily. Sexual appraisal, for example, still gets itself expressed in atrocious colloquialisms - "a terrific pair of diddies...would put a stalk on a dead Dominican".
The thing is to be as racy and incorrigible as possible. With The Cove Shivering Club, it's true, the narrator's ironic distance - all those "kids trying to be men and men hanging on to childhood", as he describes himself and his Swimming Club associates - helps to temper the endless knockabout loquacity, which threatens to become overwhelming, what with London-Irish, pub frequenters' and native barmen's palaver. And there are moments when salutary fun is poked at such importations from the modern world as the Social Services Centre. What is overwhelming, though, is the orgy of cordiality which brings things to a close, with all fighting talk erased and apparent betrayals of friendship overturned. While you can't accuse the novel of displaying insufficient boldness, fluency or exuberance, you might, with justice, question its sharpness or discrimination. It doesn't lack a kind of rumbustious appeal - but, as with all clubs and coteries, this appeal is ultimately limited.