An Inch Away from Wonderwall
'... it was one of those evenings that taught me my father was wrong. I’m not useless.' On changing narratives that no longer serve us...
You are reading the free version of COMPENDIA. Next week’s issue — about seeing my first book turned into a film and why it sometimes makes me cringe — will be for paid subscribers only. If you want access to every week’s newsletter, as well as a bunch of exclusive paid benefits and the entire archive of my writing, then you can upgrade below. And if you act fast you can do so before the price increases on Thursday October 12th (note: existing paid subscribers will continue to pay the same amount as when they subscribed.)
An Inch Away from Wonderwall
My father spent my entire childhood telling me I was useless. I internalised the feeling very deeply. On some level I’ll die still believing, deep down, that I’m a bit rubbish. But I have some good friends who now call me out every time I threaten to head down the road of self-flagellation, and I’ve spent a fortune on therapy. So now, I’ve trained myself to no longer say, ‘I’m useless at trivia quizzes’ or even ‘I’m rubbish at trivia quizzes.’ Instead I’ll say something like, ‘Trivia quizzes aren’t my strong suit!’ Much healthier, right?
…if you ever need anyone who knows all the lyrics to every song by The Cure, The Smiths, Throwing Muses or Pixies, I’m your guy
So, (deep breath)… trivia quizzes aren’t my strong suit. There. That wasn’t so hard.
But why? I’m not sure. My memory is pretty good. I can recall word for word a discussion I had with my ex seven years ago. I can tell you what you were wearing last time I saw you, or that actually no, you had a gin and tonic first and then moved onto wine, I think you’ll find. And if you ever need anyone who knows all the lyrics to every song by The Cure, The Smiths, Throwing Muses or Pixies, I’m your guy. In some cases, and judging from live performances, I know the words better than the people who wrote them, but then I haven’t done as many drugs as Robert Smith and he does have a lot of songs.
But random facts, such as those that might be helpful in quizzes, for example? Forget it. They just don’t seem to stick. Anything to do with sport is out automatically, because I’d have never known that in the first place. Dates don’t seem to stick very well, unless it’s the date that me and my ex had that discussion about that song by The Cure. Birthdays I’m fairly good at, but only if I’m friends with you, related to you, or have either slept with you or would like to. So that knocks out ‘When is Jared Leto’s birthday?’ (Boxing Day, since you ask) and ‘When does Annie Lennox blow out her candles?’ (Christmas Day), and since I also don’t do dates I can’t tell you how old anyone is. I like to think I’m reasonably up-to-date on current affairs, but I tend to skim read things like names (of politicians, for example; I don’t care that the justice secretary is called Alex Chalk, as long as he’s doing a good job, which I imagine he’s not because none of them are at the moment really, are they?) and I also skim over acronyms, having had enough of them when I worked in the health service (when ‘FYI, your ABR DNA’d this pm, but for your SAH we need PTA since referring to GSHTT for CI or MEI’ was a sentence that made perfect sense to me). Oh, and I tend not to take much notice of dates, either, which probably explains the first point.
I can probably name the person who made the tea for Kate Bush when she recorded Hounds of Love, but as far as pop, heavy metal, rap, reggae, folk or country goes, my cupboard is usually bare.
A whole swathe of things simply don’t stay in my brain. I can be as upset — or if not actually upset then at least affected— by a celebrity death, then six months later I’m asking friends why the same person has dropped out of the news lately. It’s not that I’m surprised we haven’t had new albums from Elvis Presley or John Lennon recently, but today I read a post reminding me that Tina Turner died a few months back and I’d genuinely forgotten. I consider myself to be a music fan, but as far as general knowledge goes, mine’s not that, well, general, I guess. I can probably name the person who made the tea for Kate Bush when she recorded Hounds of Love, but as far as pop, heavy metal, rap, reggae, folk or country goes, my cupboard is usually bare. Oh, and as for classical? Forget that too.
All of which is to say that for years I haven’t been invited on that many trivia quiz teams, and when I have been (invited, I mean) I’ve usually either fabricated an excuse to get out of it or else protested so loudly that actually, no I’d just be a hindrance, but thanks for asking, that eventually the invitation has been rescinded.
On the odd occasion I have ended up part of a team at a trivia quiz, it’s often been an unedifying experience. My problem (sorry, “one of the things I struggle with”) is that I’m cursed with a reluctance to confess to a certainty about anything. When I answer anything at all, even when I know, without any hint of doubt, that I’m right, I’ll still add a little, hesitant, ‘I think’ at the end. Just hedging my bets.
Most people don’t do this. They’ll say ‘I’m not sure’ if they don’t know, rising to, ‘I’m pretty sure’ as they get more certain. ‘Yep, 100% definite’ will be reserved for answers that they’re, I dunno, more than 98% certain of. You’ve got to allow 2% either way, after all. These are good people to have on your team. With them you not only get an answer but an estimate of how sure they are that it’s correct. Everyone wins.
Then there are some people, I’ve noticed, who will announce a fact with great authority about something they know very little about. I have a friend who will answer almost any question fired at him with a declarative, almost defiant, assuredness. What’s the height of the Eiffel Tower?, you might ask. ‘Why, two hundred and seventy-five metres, of course,’ he’ll say, immediately and with apparently very little thought, as if it’s something he’s an expert on. Whenever it happens I almost feel like a dummy for not having that kind of information at my fingertips. The fact that it (currently, it seems to vary depending on what aerials it has on top) stands at an estimated 330 metres, seems not to bother him. I once found myself standing outside a Waitrose that had been closed for half-an-hour because he so confidently told me that it was open until six that I figured he must know. It was only when I got home (I lived with him at the time) minus the groceries that he told me had just ‘thought’ it would be open for another hour, he didn’t ‘know’. Even then, he didn't care much. He is literally never wrong, in his own head at least, and to him that’s the only place that really matters. And he’s not the one who’d just driven to Waitrose in the rain on what turned out to be a wild goose chase.
But as for me? I’m not like that either of these two types of people. I’ll confess to a level of uncertainty, almost as a default. Insurance, I suppose, in case I actually have made a mistake. It means I can’t be blamed. You wrote it down, after all, even though I said I wasn’t sure.
But sometimes it gets ridiculous. I was walking my dog in the park once when an older gentleman who I’d chat to semi-regularly asked me if I was planning on going back to Gran Canaria.
‘I’ve never been to Gran Canaria,’ I said. I waited a beat, then it came out of my mouth. ‘I don’t think.’
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘you have. That’s where we first met.’
I shook my head, but even as I did I was beginning to doubt myself. It wasn’t that I suspected I’d been hit over the head and carted off to Gran Canaria without my knowledge, only to instantly forget all about it. But… he just seemed so sure. Had I been, and I’d just blotted it out? I mean I like a drink, but to completely forget a fortnight of sun, sand, sangria and… whatever? No, I thought. I am one hundred percent certain that I’ve never been to that part of the world. Absolutely definite. I would tell him. I would tell him with the certainty that I felt.
‘No. Not me. I’ve never been.’ His face fell. ‘Or I mean, I don’t think I have.’
Damn.
‘You have! How can you have forgotten? We met in the Yumbo Centre.’
I’d definitely, definitely, one hundred percent definitely remember going to the Yumbo. I’ve heard enough about it from friends who have been to know that it’s not a place I’d forget.
Now this, I was even more certain never happened. I’d remember going to Gran Canaria. Probably. But then I get Corfu and Crete confused, so I suppose it’s vaguely possible I’ve done the same with GC and… I dunno. Somewhere else that sounds a bit like Gran Canaria. But I’d definitely, definitely, one hundred percent definitely remember going to the Yumbo. I’ve heard enough about it from friends who have been (and haven’t invited me, clearly) to know that it’s not a place I’d forget. Ever. I couldn’t have been more certain if he’d asked me my middle name.
‘Maybe,’ I said.
‘Yes!’ he cried, triumphant. ‘See!’
He was so happy. And I was in too deep, now.
‘Okay,’ I conceded. ‘But I’m not sure when I’ll go back. Next summer maybe?’
‘See you there!’
So, even when I do know my stuff, I tend to be so hesitant about it that my answers are often ignored. But a week or so ago, I was invited by a fairly new friend to join his team at Cuckfield Literary Festival’s annual quiz. ‘A literary trivia quiz,’ said James. ‘Come on, you’ll be great!’
Now, because this is my year of living uncomfortably (my way of saying I don’t want to spend my entire life inside my comfort zone, because what fun things happen there?), I only argued a little bit.
‘I’m not good at quizzes,’ I said. ‘They’re not my strong point.’
‘But it’s a literary trivia quiz.’
‘I know, but—’
‘Literature. Books.’
‘I’m still not good at quizzes.’
‘You read.’
‘But—’
‘Not that it matters anyway. I’m sure you’ll know some of the answers. It’s just a bit of fun.’
A bit of fun. My god, I thought. He’s right. And what else am I doing on Friday? So I went.
It was fun, too. And I actually knew quite a few answers. There was a photo round in which we had to name the book from a fragment of the jacket, and I got a fair number of those. The were lots of the others I got as well, and one or two that I knew that no one else on my team did (although there were plenty that I didn’t know that others on my team did, so I’m not saying I was the star player by any means. We were pretty evenly balanced it turned out). My worst round, by far, was the ‘Crime and Thriller’ round, somewhat ironically, but I did (almost) remember the village Mrs Marple lived in so I think I redeemed myself (I said Mead St Mary, whereas it’s St Mary Mead. I’ve a feeling we got the points anyway). I did get into hot water when I forgot the name of an award that I’ve actually won, but I remembered it at the last minute so the day was saved. Anyway, my team came joint first and lost to the tie-break, I certainly didn’t disgrace myself, and most importantly had a thoroughly good time.
So much so, that when James suggested I join his regular team for the weekly (non-literary) quiz at his local pub, I jumped at the chance. And, surprise surprise, I didn’t disgrace myself again. I got Catherine Zeta Jones confused with someone else in the picture round, but luckily was over-ruled, and I even managed to sound confident as I announced that there were definitely 28 episodes made of the (UK) Office, one-hundred percent, sure. (There were in fact 14, two seasons of 6 and two Christmas specials, but in my head I was CORRECT). Again, the team would’ve done very well without me, but I played my part, and this time there was no tie-break. We won! A round of drinks, (which by that point I for one certainly didn’t need) and not the cash, but you know what? We won!
I felt a warm glow of pride, not because we’d triumphed, necessarily, but because it was one of those evenings that taught me my father was wrong. I’m not useless.
James and I celebrated with one for the road in a bar nearby. I felt a warm glow of pride, not because we’d triumphed, necessarily, but because it was one of those evenings that taught me my father was wrong. I’m not useless. There’s stuff I know, and stuff I don’t. There's stuff I can do, and stuff I can’t. Stuff I’m good at, and (plenty of) stuff I’m not. Just like him, just like everybody. But surely the worst thing to do is to only do the things you’re good at, and to say no to everything else? Because the most important thing, is that we had fun. The winning was just the cherry. Nothing fun happens inside your comfort zone, right?
Or something. By this point I’d had a few, and a singer with an acoustic guitar had climbed onto the stage at the far end of the bar and was mid way through tuning up ready for their set.
‘Thanks for asking me, tonight,’ I said to James. ‘But I think it’s time to go now.’
‘You’re sure?’ he said, perhaps wondering if I hadn’t had a good time.
‘Positive!’ I said, indicating the singer. ‘It’s just that I suspect we’re only an inch away from Wonderwall.’
He looked puzzled. I considered explaining what I meant, but it just felt too difficult.
‘It’s a rollover next week,’ he said, moving on, ‘and we’ve got that round of drinks to claim!’
‘I know!’
‘You coming?
I didn’t even need to think.
‘You bet.’