It's all guesswork

I’ve recently come to the conclusion that the majority of people have no idea what’s going on. Whether it’s discussing the weather or politics, science or sports teams, people like to pretend that they have a general grasp on life, but if people were surveyed, I imagine that 98% of them would all admit they’re pretending. The other night I was at a quiz in a local pub (sorry, Boris) which featured some questions regarding when songs were released. Immediately the room was filled with guesses, with people discussing things like,

‘1986? Was it 86?’

 ‘I thought it was the early eighties?’

‘Ooh, I thought later.’

While in reality, none of these people had ANY IDEA. People just guess to appear educated and interesting to their friends. But why do they do it? It’s like the grand national (but not this year), when my dad and brother sit with the newspaper looking at the horses’ stats while eating their cornflakes, thinking about previous wins and odds and how firm the ground might be 75 miles away. Meanwhile, I look for the best name, match it with the best jockey colours, and stick a fiver on it. Realistically, they might have a slightly better chance than me, but it’s still all guesswork. And that’s why people love it so much.

But you don’t have to take anything as literal as gambling to realise that most people just blag their way through life. Take my father and medication. If he was ever alone with us as children and we were feeling ill, the first thing he’d do would be to stick some Vick VapoRub on us and send us to bed.

‘But dad, I’ve hurt my elbow.’

‘I don’t care, just go to sleep. And have a banana.’

Cheers Doc Martin. He takes a similar stance while we’re shopping. Being a ‘traditional’ family, my father still isn’t used to the world of supermarket shopping. Bent double over the handle of a trolley, squinting at the list provided by my mum, muttering about brioche and toilet rolls, grabbing items at random and adding them to the trolley –

‘Dad, why’ve you bought 37 pears?’

‘I thought you liked pears.’

Marvellous.

‘And they were on offer.’

Don’t even get me started on other visions of the future, like Uber or Deliveroo.

‘They bring it to you? Why don’t you just go and get it yourself?’

Then again, we’re talking about a man who still fails to fathom those boards at McDonalds where you order things yourself. Bless him, he’d only just got the hang of a drive-thru.

But don’t think I’m being sexist here. While I like to think that my mum has a general grasp of what’s going on most of the time, she still can’t wrap her head around the fact that there’s a set list of words for the phonetic alphabet. She’ll be on the phone, talking to a man in the Philippines about her eBay account, giving it,

‘Yeah, it’s B for… for… B for Bert, R for… Railway?’

I’ve tried to explain, but she just doesn’t get it. People have these systems that they stick to because they work for them, like when she gives things a name. She always names things alliteratively, though I’ve never understood why. I got a hamster once:

‘What’re you going to call him? Harold? Hector? Heather?’

‘That’s a girl’s name though.’

‘Yes but at least it starts with an H.’

If it was up to her, everyone would also be called something beginning with P, because it has the same first letter as person. Though, ironically, I once suggested Hector. For human. That threw her.