Cupping Balls, Stroking Men. And Talking to Londoners

A couple of days ago I went to see a bit of rugby. If you think this sounds improbably laddish of me, you'd be correct. I didn't really watch it; I just kept my eyes open and let it happen in front of me. It mostly seemed to be a lot of nomadic cuddling (I wonder if they ever did find that intimate spot they kept breaking up to keep looking for), but there was a couple of moments where one of them took a sort of floaty penalty which was exciting enough. Mostly I got drunk and yelled ironic chants about the opposing side's relative lack of wealth compared to ours. Then we all got a bit scared and went home.

However, the experience was spoiled somewhat by my sitting next to two people who actually knew what was going on, and kept telling each other.

"Ah, see, that was Coogan with a knock-on. Watch this; he's always taking liberties in the scrum."

"He can't go for a drop-kick! What does he think we're playing, effing league?"

"Nah, he was DEFINITELY going for the second movement there. MacFarlane had him pinned down."

"Ahh, schoolboy error. He'll be eating THREE gherkins out of coaches anus tonight if he keeps this up."*

This annoyed me. Then I felt guilty about being annoyed, which was even more annoying. Here were two perfectly nice people discussing rugby in perhaps the most suitable place there is to do so, and I felt somehow aggrieved by this. I didn't deserve my annoyance. They deserved to be pissed off by me; a jumped-up little tourist hopping on their hard-man bandwagon. I'm the kind of dipstick all sports fans hate. And rightly so. The fucking temerity of me.

But then, there is nothing more annoying than listening to two people talk about a specialist subject you know and care nothing about. For one thing it stirs within you an inevitable sense of inadequacy, no matter what the subject matter. They could be discussing relative gem value in Magic: The Gathering, and I'd still start to regret not having spent the last 10 years inhaling Cheeto dust instead of oxygen. They know something you don't, and they're talking about it in their Special Top Secret Super Friends language. It makes my inner five year old go nuts. Also, after a while, they start to sound almost...aroused. It's like they're flirting with each other. You know how when you're flirting you can say anything and it always means I'd Really Rather Be Fucking You. It's like that, except what they happen to be talking about is F1 engine sizes. I feel like I've inadvertently become trapped behind the shower curtain and am listening to two people bonking over by the sink. And I don't want to go through that again. Once was enough.

Usually the topic of these conversations is sport, or less frequently, music. But they often spring up in unexpected contexts. There's a funny thing that happens when two people from London meet each other, for instance. When two people from any other city meet they'll usually say something like;

"Oh really? Where abouts?"

"(X)?"

"Ah cool. I live around (Y)."

"Nice."

But if they're from London, they'll say;

"Oh really? Where abouts"

"On Hampton Street. It's in Richmond, you know, between Finchley Park and Penwick Avenue?"

"Yes, I know it! Isn't that the one with the DARLING little Pret on the corner?"

"Yes, opposite the Costa and the dodgy Czechoslovakian grocery!"

"Of course! But it's near Tuffington Walrus isn't it? That's on the Albert line; it must be a PIG to get to!"

"Oh, not really. I take the Eastern Line to Chiswick Harper, then the 131 through Marlborough Green or the 82 down Humphrey Bridge. It's two stops!"

"But the 131 and the 82 don't run on Sundays!"

"Well, then I have to change at Morton Cemetery and walk, but it swings through Atcorn Park, so I don't really mind. It gives a nice view of the Winslow Memorial and gives me a chance to pick up a bagel at the MacArthur Delicatessen, which is always a plus!"

"Oh, you MUST try my local; Castruchio's, on the Raleigh Roundabout. It's right next to the Teller and Pelby Gallery, AND you get a view of Tulky Fugtrotter Square on the other side!"

They could keep on going, but by this point I've pulled one of them to the ground and am trying to claw their face off so they never find a husband.

Speaking of London, I was down there on the weekend to watch some rowing. Again, you might think this sounds improbably laddish of me (or at least uncharacteristically knobby) but, alas, rowing the one thing I've gotten into at Uni. Mainly because they're so desperate for people as long as you turn up at six am and can do up the velcro feet straps on your own you qualify; and even if you don't they'll still stick you at 2 if you promise to not to dribble. Which meant I spent about three hours saying things like "Golly, a tandem rig? That's a risky strategy!" and "Ah, see, they've been forced to take the rate up. They'll struggle with that in the bow" to the back of people's heads until I realised what a monster I'd become. I was about to apologise to all the people I'd brought along until I remembered that they'd taken the piss out of me for my poor knowledge of London geography earlier that day ("You're so northern!" one of them trilled, forgetting that since Peter Sutcliffe came from the North there were other ways I could emulate my heritage).

It was an awful revelation; I'd become that guy. I talked about rowing almost constantly. When I was bored of that I talked about my course, and all the dead authors I thought it was cool to say I enjoyed. Yesterday I even described someone's performance at a game we were playing as "like something out of Mourinho-era Chealsea", and I don't even like cricket.

I'd learnt the art of bullshitting, see. Because it WAS bullshitting; in actual fact, I knew approximately fuck-all about rowing, or English, or anything else. But pretending I did gave me and endless source of shit to say. It's pretentious small-talk. Technical language used to mask the shuddering truth of my boring personality and my inability to genuinely relate to anyone. I have nothing to say. So I talk about rowing a sodding boat. Bugger.

P.S. If you're ever stuck in a London Geography conversation, just chip in with "I knew a girl who was raped down there." It generally does the trick. Which takes us up to two rape jokes in one entry, and my lawyer says that's the limit, so we'll end it there. Adios, Sports fans!

*Admittedly I might have misheard this one. It sounded consistent at the time