I always enjoy listening to those types who are never wrong. They are so certain whatever they say must be taken as absolute that they are stunned by anyone who has a different point of view. It is as if a madman stumbled into their purview, an escapee from Bedlam, and somehow is allowed to speak. If all else fails they shout something along the lines of: “How many degrees do you hold?”
I am always put in mind of one of my favourite blowhards from the 17th century, James Ussher. This was a man who held more degrees than Heinz has pickles. He was known as one of the great scholars of his time and a respected historian, an archbishop and the Primate of Ireland, a man of great distinction. He witnessed the execution of Charles 1 but was rumoured to have fainted before the axe fell. Cromwell had the greatest respect for him and insisted a state funeral be held upon his demise with a burial at Westminster Abbey. A year before his death in 1655, Archbishop Ussher published a work that said, “The earth was created on the 22nd of October 4004 BC, sometime around 6 p.m. in the evening, just before supper.” No wonder he is a poster boy for Creationists everywhere.
This date was taken as gospel even when I was a boy, in spite of those embarrassing things called fossils. I recall a geography master becoming furious with the school padre because the Reverend Daily refused to admit that dinosaurs ruled the world for 135 million years and died out more than 60 million years ago. He even quoted our friend Ussher in a fervent defence. The distraught Mr. Pampas tried to thump him with a rolled up timeline of the Jurassic -Cretaceous period and had to be restrained by our large rugby-playing headmaster.
Now at the club we have one or two fossils of our own, mems whom every one avoids as there is no point in talking to them. Those “conversations” tend to lead to screeds with virtually no give and take, which is one of the sacred pillars of our institution. Everything from the “Truthers,” who believe the CIA brought down the World Trade Centre on 9/11 to why there are are not enough beets in the club salad: it matters not whether the subject is large or small, just that they are always right. I am sure one does not have to be a mem of our club to be aware of these sorts of people. There is one chap to whom one must never mention Charles Darwin or he is off on how his great-grandfather was not a monkey, etc. A well travelled club member of ours once, when asked where he met his wife, crisply said, “In Australia, near Darwin.” Unfortunately our Mr. Balls-Up was almost out of ear-shot and so misconstrued my pal shouting: “There may be apes in your family, sir, but not in my mine. Good day!”
I tire of the “always correct” branch of the club as it brings everything to a full stop. There is no point in trying to engage in a discourse of any kind for it leads nowhere. The Middle East and its endless attempts at peace come to mind. If every time one side says something about a settlement and the other side says fine but they don’t fundamentally agree that their opposite should exist at all, well, one sees the problem. Hopelessness.
My favourite times at the club tend to be post-large lunch in my wingback chair, martini firmly held, discussing whether Princess Margaret still led a worthwhile life in spite of being an incredible drunk. I mean, this is a meaty subject toing and froing about the senior reading room, not unlike a badminton match. That’s what one wants. What?
Copyright The Major 2014
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