Pedants and Tetris

“No scaffolder has ever called their son Jerome.”

I reread the instant message that had just popped up on my screen. It was from David, the victor in the battle of Jamie’s tongue and the only man capable of besting me in feats of pedantry. He had read my last blog post and spotted the Achilles heel in my argument. In the distance I could just about make out the whispering sound of a hair being gently split in half with surgical focus. I sighed. I didn’t have a hope of winning this one.

“But a scaffolder's wife might.” I gamely attempted in response. But David had even this angle covered.

“He must have married above his station - metaphorically, not literally. It would be quite hard for a scaffolder to marry above his station, unless she was a crane operative. I can't imagine many crane operatives would name their son Jerome either.”

Check and mate, and while we’re at it game set and match, to David. Again. In fairness to him I know that being that pedantic is a curse rather than a blessing. Perhaps we should form some kind of support group, although we’d probably just end up quibbling about our written constitution. I like to think I am an exceptionally pedantic person (though technically it kind of depends on your exact definition of “pedantic” but never mind, we don’t have all day) but even I had to doff my metaphorical cap at another instant message David sent me this afternoon.

“A colleague of mine is talking about reducing bottlenecks. Is it overly pedantic to explain to him that technically that would actually make the problem worse?”

Genius. Sheer genius.

Posting about noticeboards yesterday reminded me of a time in my life when I briefly became addicted to the classified ads section of the Oxford Mail. Boy, you can see why I didn’t start this blog post with that sentence, eh readers?

Let me explain. After I finished university I got a job at Oxford working as the editor of that august publication the Cayman Island Law Reports. I shared an office in the basement of the law library with a chap called Naveed. He edited the Jersey Law Reports which was even less rock and roll (I read his cases once and Bergerac didn’t even feature in a cameo appearance - bunch of wank). Reading tons of legal judgments about drug smuggling and tax evasion written by only vaguely literate colonial judges who spent most of their time pissed off their tits had a certain appeal for a while – especially because the Cayman Islands seemed to feature many of the least competent criminals known to man.

One man got arrested for throwing a giant package of ganja over a wall. That’s right, the wall of the prison. You know, the sort of thing that’s regularly patrolled by guards. Another couple of guys got arrested for heading down to a boat on the shore and picking up – yes, you guessed – a giant package of ganja. But they had their alibi sorted. One of the criminals told the other that if they were stopped by the police to “tell them we went to look for a cow”. Just how stoned were they?

There’s only so much of that legal guff you can wade through though, so every Thursday when the Oxford Mail turned up Naveed and I would wade through it cover to cover. The classified ads particularly drew me in. This was a time before eBay or internet dating, so not only was this not exactly the done thing but the classified ads were the only outlet for some people who managed to redefine the word “desperate”. Where else could you find ads for unwanted wedding dresses or (a personal favourite this) “£50 unused NHS wig voucher for sale. Will accept £40 or nearest offer.”

The terminology of classified ads is especially entertaining, full as it is of pointless phrases like “all serious offers considered” or “no time wasters please”. As if you’re going to phone up and say “Hello, that deep fat fryer you’re offering in the classifieds? Would you accept a baked potato in return?” or for that matter “I’m ringing about the 32 inch colour television you’re selling in the Oxford Mail. Have you ever considered accepting Jesus as your personal saviour?” But the best one I ever saw was a personal ad in the dating section of the Oxford Mail. I’ll never forget it. There, amidst all the eager to please “gsoh”, “wltm” and “n/s” terminology, in stark black and white it read:

“Colin, 42, a bit out of shape and thinning on top, likes pubs and walking. Would like to meet woman aged 18-65, looks unimportant.”

The first thing to hit us was the whiff of utter desperation, the lack of any discernment. What would be a dealbreaker to Colin exactly? Next was the sheer mediocrity. He had all that space to put forward his best features and this was the best he could come up with. It was hardly a hard sell. Naveed and I howled with laughter and everyone and anyone was regaled with the story. I know the wording off by heart because I was telling people in the pub for weeks.

But now, looking back, even though I remember the words as clear as day the passage of time has sepia tinted that paragraph in the Oxford Mail with an uneasy compassion. Colin was probably a good egg like the rest of us, probably loved his mum, perhaps he had a dog. Sad movies may not have made him cry, but I reckon they affected him. I expect he liked a pint with his mates, maybe watching a spot of football. It's quite likely that people at work found him a little creepy, or he had a problem with halitosis that nobody had ever got round to telling him about. And by the time you get to be 42 for some people it’s too late. I went to school with people who you can bet your life probably ended up like Colin 25 years later. And no doubt he got lonely going back to his house on his own every night. Or worse still he might have still lived with his parents.

People are so funny, so complex and so difficult. David’s fortunate to have found someone who can endure his pedantry and enthuse about his incisive letters to The Guardian. I’m lucky that I’m with someone who chuckles when I’m smutty and can dig me out of those black moods I still get more often than I’d like. We’re all spiky, tricky little human Tetris tiles and we’re lucky when, against all probability, we find someone else and it just fits.

I hope Colin found his.