Holiday Bores

Press, Volume CVIII, Issue 31582, 20 January 1968, Page 5

Holiday Bores

(By

DENNIS HOLLAND)

The crowded pub was noisy but the voice at the next table cut through the confused babble and assaulted my ears with remorseless clarity: “. . . We stayed about three days and then pushed on to Melbourne; had a good run, the road was clear. Then ten miles this side we pulled in at a nice little restaurant. John, the head waiter there, y’know, served us a gem of a wine, young but full-bodied. Also did us a passable andouilles . . I sneaked a look. Sure enough, his eyes were half closed with the intoxication of memory. His companion, her good looks marred by eyes that were glazed and stupified, was nodding bravely. She was that most pitiful of things: the victim of a holiday bore in full cry. The high season of the holi-day-bore pest is just starting. During the next few months they will be endlessly at it—reliving their annual three weeks of liberty in excruciating blow-by-blow detail. All you want to do is tell them about your fortnight in Sydney. But can you get a word in edgeways? You cannot.

Now we all bore someone some of the time: but there are unfortunates who have the frightful unhappy knack of boring nearly everyone all of the time.

I find that sporting bores are usually the most persistent They have the disconcerting habit of haunting the nicest hotels and their conversation hooks can be deadly. The health bore is particularly difficult to side-track: “How do you do,”' you say politely: “Not too good, as a matter of fact,” he says. “The old knee is acting up you know. So I went to the quack and he said ...”

An American once set up a professional listeners’ bureau. For a small fee it would send around a professional listener with an understanding face

and some useful phrases such as: “How interesting,” and “How remarkable." And best of all: “Please go on.” There would certainly be lots of work for one here. But meanwhile we must struggle on as best we may. There are some things we can do to beat the bore.

You can run, for instance. But this is the cowards* way out. The truly resourceful man fights back. First, you must make sure that you get the floor yourself. The crude strategist merely upsets the chap’s beer into his lap: but the really expert bore will not let this put him off. Your interruption has to be swift and deadly—and yet a great deal more subtle. Let us consider for a moment the golfer: “I made a wonderful three at the 388yard tenth,” he is saying. “Eleventh.” you say. “What do you mean, eleventh?” he asks. “It is the eleventh that Is 388 yards. The tenth is 420,” you say. “I know because I was playing that course myself last year and I’ll never forget that tenth hole. I bumped up a long drive . . .” And away you go. Keep it long. Keep it dull. Don’t lose your nerve. And the day will surely come when the golf bore’s eyes glaze over and the holiday bore takes to his heels.