Social Skeet Shooter II: Revenge of the Old Fogey

Ugh! So we are at dinner at a friend’s house. I knew before-hand that we would be introduced to an elderly couple who my friend assured me were a blast. That said, I did have my reservations when I quizzed my friend about the dinner guests and he indicated that they ran an antique shop and had some “great stories”, upper crust English, at least as far as his ear could ascertain, and were quite conservative.

But could I have envisioned the evening that lay in wait for me and my family? Well, we are all headed there one day but let this encounter be a lesson to any of us pondering what we may become just before we “go gently into that good night”. What my friend had left out…well, where to start? That these two crustaceans represented just about every social ill imaginable, that they put on airs, putdown anything anyone else had to say, coughed incessantly, possessed an omniscient obsession, that they couldn’t stop in their reveries of yesteryear was well, skeet shooter overload for me. So that night biting my tongue, I traded my normal stock 12 bore for the big boys’ toys: the social skeet shooter’s Uzi.

The male fogey introduced himself and after sending off his first volley, consisting of “where are you from”? This was delivered in the tone of a fellow anglophile who was concerned that if my familial stock and background were superior to his, I might pee on his tea party. I took the bait, and explained I grew up in Chelmsford and gave his ear a lick of my vanilla—somewhere—in—Essex—dialect. At which he breathed out while declaring that he and his wife, who smiled wanly from beneath her best attempt at a Henley Regatta Hat, had just come from our neck of the woods where they had observed a rowing contest. Click, click.

My eyes narrowing, I readied my weapon for the predictable onslaught. And I was not disappointed. What followed included the old boy’s comparison of the southern VT rowing crew with those back home (in the UK). Naturally the VT crew were okay but not up to English muster. Then we got onto memories of Norfolk and Norwich. I attempted to add some seasoning to his tale while sprinkling a few interjections, like “oh we used to go on holiday in Norfolk…up in Cromer and Beccles”. This served as sufficient bait that I was listening intently while mentally I blew the dust off of the first 45. Hmm, what should I label this one? But I did not have to wait long to answer that. For somehow we managed to veer off course from rowing and end up at a Norwich City football game where wouldn’t you know it, the football club had mixed up their tickets and sold their VIP Box seats. Fancy that, tut, tut, the blighters, can you believe it? His wife chimed in adding that they were given two tickets at some lesser seats for that game and two more in their Box seats for a subsequent game. Her eyes fluttering and wan smile conveyed that they had put the world on notice that anyone who underestimated the social station of these old fogies did so at their peril. First disc to be labeled “Putting Norwich Football Club on Notice”.

Out of respect for the social venue, my wife and I tried to interject some color, other observations and tales of our own but the male fogey would have none of it. Next it was “Out of Africa”, and tales of giraffes, lions and antelope drinking together from the water trough outside his house. “The wonder of it”, the fogey opined, “hunter and hunted lapping at the trough where normally one would be pursuing the other as prey”. His eyes lifted upwards and his head moved affectedly left to right while his voice lifted into a dramatic crescendo. What a master, I noted. The “Out of Africa” 45 had definitely spent some time in the mixing room. Did the fogies rehearse together before attending such gatherings, fine tuning their tales and performances for maximum affect? I did not bother to interrupt with my mother’s accounts of her life in Rhodesia and Zimbabwe. It would have been futile anyway. Though as he droned on about the hunter and hunted, I did wonder to myself how only the social conventions of a dinner party prevent its guests from verbally assailing each other. And I readied my weapon du jour, listened for the cue that “Out of Africa” was airborne, squinted my mind’s eye, salivated a little and then squeezed my trigger for the most delicious shattering of social skeet I have banqueted on to date.

“How is your spaghetti bolognaise?” I motioned to the male fogey…”Very good”, came the clipped response while he took a breath between reveries. Mine is particularly delicious, I gleefully thought to myself.

8:33 rolled around, dinner formally adjourned and by this time my Uzi’s ammo had been spent, shells and shards of social skeet lay around me with titles such as, “Why We Despise the French”, “The Germans are Fine, Really”—now that we have discovered your wife is German—“What is it with all these People who Carry Bottled Water…Do you Carry Water?”, “Homosexuals and PC People Have Taken Over England”, “Don’t Let Your Daughter Act As it is Full of Deranged Druggies”. Phew! This last one is worthy of note for a few reasons. Firstly since we had explained to the Fogies, that is, while they were coming up for some air, that our daughter was really excited with acting and was part of the New England Youth Theatre. Ah but their daughter and son had been on stage, had been in numerous BBC features, you know—yawn, and Kerbang—but the theatre is full of some terrible people. Why their daughter had shown up for a role, albeit a sassy role, in plain dress and the director had insinuated that she wasn’t tarted up enough. Er, hate to break it to you, dear, but if your daughter is applying for a role of a tart, well…

Naturally, their accomplished children were now recovering drug addicts and all because of the theatre, you know. At this my oozy didn’t stop, like a fanatical fundamentalist, there I was surrounded by the fogey’s social skeet desperately trying in vain to rid my mind of the verbal barrage. Send for back-up, I cried to myself, all the while wishing I could clone myself like agent Smith to provide a chance of keeping up with my foe. Fortunately, my salvo was answered by one of our hosts who reminded the fogies about the rain outside. Fogies hate driving in heavy rain and at night. Yes, they should be pushing on. Standing, weary from a night of social skeet battle, I managed to throw out a hand for the ceremonial good bye. Mr. Fogey took it forcefully and as if quite unaware of my war-torn state, invited me to one his Friday nights at the tavern where I could meet some of his wonderful friends. Was I game?