Bore Wars!!

By Liz Egger     In which I encounter the nudist club bore. ( From January 2006)

So that was Christmas.  

Ah well, another year over and a new one begun, as John Lennon sang, so let me take this opportunity of wishing you all a happy, peaceful and healthy New Year.  

I was going to write a piece about New Year nudist resolutions, but during the course of a New Years’ Eve party at which I was bored rigid by a chap explaining the finer points of mobile phone networks I was inspired to write on a similar theme.  No. Not mobile phones  

Bores. More specifically, nudist club bores.  

You know how it is.  

You're sunk comfortably into your recliner on the club lawn, basking in the rays of the afternoon sun, in that relaxed state somewhere between sleeping and consciousness.

You're aware of the low hum of conversation around you as the other members prattle of this and that. A bee buzzes lazily by. Somewhere way above, a light breeze stirs the higher branches of the trees. The refreshing glass of vino is at hand. This, you feel, is perfection. You begin to sink deeper into slumber, hoping that your jaw doesn't gape open ...

A shadow blocks out the light. A cloud? No. Not a cloud . Clouds move, pass on. This shadow remains foursquare and steadfast between you and the sun.

You pull up the sun visor and opening the eyes, try to focus on the cause of the blockage.

The shadow speaks. " Hello. Hope I didn't wake you…", and your heart begins to sink. "…only I couldn't help noticing that you're lying on a SuperSlumber SunBed TX94 model. Have you tried the latest TX03 model? You should - they're ever so comfortable. I'll bring mine over to show you."

And you realise, with that helpless, sinking feeling of a girl who knows that the game is up, that you've been captured by the club bore.

Every club has one. I think it's written into the rules.

You can always identify him (sorry guys, but it usually is a male) by looking out for two or three people talking, or rather one talking whilst the others listen with a look of sorrowful resignation, knowing that escape is impossible. If, in addition, everyone else is making exaggerated detours around the group, resolutely looking straight ahead but becoming riveted by a passing cloud or a sudden tree whenever the talker looks in their direction, then you know you've found the club bore.

The resident bore at my club is called Andy Toole. That's not his real name of course. My husband bestowed it on him some years ago, after he (my husband) and him (Andy Toole) had spent a little time working together on the new club-house. Whenever something had to be done which couldn't easily be accomplished with the tools at hand, Andy would pronounce "Hold on. I've got a handy tool in my box which will make light work of that!" and off he'd trot to his car and come back with some gizmo that would be just right for the job. He'd then explain at length what this handy tool was called, why it was better than similar ones on the market but MUCH cheaper, what it was made of, and that he could get hubby one if he wanted but it would have to be cash up front and no questions asked.

The astonishing thing is that:

a) The resident bore is always so enthusiastic, and will continue to talk regardless of the sort of "stop" signals which would silence a lesser mortal (the victim falling asleep, answering a mobile phone, opening an artery, etc)

b) There is no subject ON EARTH about which he is not prepared to talk, at length and with apparent authority.

I'll give you an example of the latter.

Some time ago a group of us decided that the best form of defence is attack, and we got ourselves clued up on a subject about which we thought Andy couldn't possibly know anything—that little woodland rodent, the dormouse.

Accordingly, at the next club barbeque, just as Andy began homing in on his latest victim, we intercepted him with the news that some dormice had been seen on our southern boundary. We then gave him both barrels, and for the best part of twenty minutes told him everything we knew about our furry friends.

Andy was silently pensive for a while after our onslaught, and we thought we'd scored some valuable points in the boredom stakes.

But it wasn't to be. After chewing thoughtfully on a chicken leg, he thanked us for the information but supposed that we must have read an article he'd written some months earlier for "Nature " magazine. Since then, he said, new research into dormice had shown that some of the information was erroneous, and although he was in the process of writing a revised article, he'd be delighted, since we were so interested, to share the new findings with us here and now... which he proceeded to do, for most of the afternoon.

Since then I've avoided Andy like the plague, but he still catches me unawares from time to time. I'm unwilling to be rude to him, because he is actually a nice guy, but I need some way of deflecting his attention. Any suggestions would be most welcome, but until then, whenever I'm about to fall into his clutches I look at my watch, feign surprise at how the time has flown, get dressed and leave.

Defeatist I know, but to put a uniquely naturist slant on an old saying, he really bores the pants ON me!
'Til next time,

Liz

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