GUESS WHO’S (NOT) COMING TO DINNER
Ndumiso Ngcobo on his conversational shortcomings
E all know at least one person who suffers from the chronic disease that psychologists erroneously label “the argumentative personality”. You know that individual who rocks up at a gathering while someone is in the middle of making some point and they can’t help but “correct” them? They get there while someone is finishing a sentence:
“. . . as I left Montrose, about to on-ramp onto the highway . . .” “Freeway.” “Excuse me?” “You were on-ramping onto the freeway, not the highway. That section of the N3 is a freeway.”
Twenty minutes later a heated debate is still raging about what constitutes the difference. People have their iPhones and Samsung Galaxies out, scouring the Google Maps, Wikipedia and SciNet landscape looking for links to prop up their arguments. At that point everyone has forgotten that they had, until the interruption, been listening to a riveting story involving a pair of blonde twins hitchhiking in Harrismith, a pit stop at Montrose to buy supplies and two packets of condoms, and the promise of a wild ménage à trois in Maritzburg.
Let me pause here to make a sheepish admission. I am “that guy”. If you don’t believe me, ask anyone who has ever been daft enough to invite me over for a dinner party. You see, people read this column and think, “He must be a delightful guest to have over for dinner”. No, I’m not. An hour into any dinner party there is usually a circleshaped clearing around me.
In the early days, before she knew it was a chronic disease, Mrs N used to try to curb my argumentative ways. We’d be in the bedroom getting dressed and she’d go, “OK, you know that Alex and Tessa are going to be there. You know they are as opinionated as you. But for the sake of peace and the love of God, do you think you can go four hours without arguing with anyone?” I would nod in earnest sombreness. And I would mean it too.
I would arrive at the party chanting under my breath, “No debate tonight. No debate tonight. No debate tonight” à la Bart Simpson on a chalkboard. But I suspect the universe conspires against me in these situations. How else do you explain that I find myself having a lighthearted chat with people and then from nowhere, BAM, they always hit me with unmistakable debate bait? It’s always something along the lines of, “You know, I don’t drink Coke, Sprite or any fizzy drinks. It’s not good for you. I stick to fruit juices.”
Mrs N gives me that “Don’t you dare!” look and I bite my tongue. Three minutes later: “I only buy low-fat, high-energy bread because that’s good for you.” I have to walk away and pour myself a triple of bourbon to calm my nerves.
Ten minutes later: “This is why I don’t eat rice and stick to pap. That processed junk will kill you.” Confident, unsubstantiated, unscientific opinions and triples of Uncle Jack inside me make for a deadly cocktail. Before I can stop myself I will hear, almost from outside my body, my own voice going, “Are you aware of any peer-reviewed scientific study that supports that opinion?” Aaaargh! Damn you, Jack Daniels!
A couple of weekends ago we were invited by a friend, Nomo, to his 10-year-old’s birthday party. And by “invited”, I mean that another friend saw on his Facebook timeline that his son was turning 10, called him and accepted an “invitation” to the party that the host wasn’t even aware he was hosting. That’s how we roll in my circle of Neanderthals.
Anyway, I had just returned from a funeral in Barberton that same day. So I’m busy sharing my experience of the trip and how, driving past Nelspruit I had . . . One of my friends stops me: “If you were coming from Barberton, headed for Joburg, what were you doing in Nelspruit?” Er . . . because the route from Barberton to Joburg on the N4 goes past Nelspruit, I offered.
Let me pause here to explain once more that when the Almighty was dishing out that internal GPS called a sense of direction, She/He skipped me.
But the gin and tonic was flowing like the Nile, so I discovered deep inside me a passion for the Barberton to Joburg via Nelspruit route that I had previously not been aware of. And the debate was on. By “debate”, I mean shouting progressively louder to drown out the other side. We were like the Bloods and the Crips in southeast LA.
At some point, MrsN whipped out her Sony Experia to show us a map that seemed to prove conclusively that I was talking right out of my colon. However, using only “facts” and “superior logic”, I swept Google aside and hammered home my point. Some people at the party were so impressed by my superior knowledge of Mpumalanga that they started stabbing themselves in the thigh with sharp objects. Others were so riveted they started snoring loudly. But I was in my element.
And you’ll be glad to know that I won the argument, because in the end I was the only one still debating. Oh, sweet victory!
Mrs N was my designated driver that evening. She was so awestruck by my debating skills that she didn’t say one word to me all the way home.
This is my roundabout way of telling you that I make for an awesome dinner guest and you should invite me to your house one of these evenings. And I don’t only do 10-year-olds’ birthday parties. I do graduation parties, weddings and even bar mitzvahs. LS E-mail lifestyle@sundaytimes.co.za On Twitter @NdumisoNgcobo
People read this column and think, ‘He must be a delightful dinner guest’. No, I’m not Confident, unscientific opinions and triples of Uncle Jack make for a deadly cocktail
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