Careful Whispers

BY Rowena Robertson

“Shyness is nice, but shyness can stop you from saying all the things in life you’d like to,” sang my all time shy-person hero, the brilliant Morrissey. While he managed to make a career out of being backward in coming forward, things are a little more difficult for we garden variety introverts. Especially nowadays, where everything is about the smooth, think-on-your-feet patter.

The Windbag rules in these shallow times. You’d all know a Windbag; hell, you may even be one yourself. (In which case, shut up and let me speak.) The typical Windbag loves nothing more than the sound of their own voice. The Windbag will do their level best to convince you of their profound knowledge of everything in the entire world ever, and anything they don’t know they will just make up. Even if we do pluck up the courage to offer a well thought out insight (something for which the Windbag has little aptitude), the Windbag will rudely talk over us, unable to bear not being the centre of attention for even a second.

They interpret our quietness is interpreted as dullness; they regard our indisposition to offering witty, rapid-fire verbal responses as stupidity. All I can say is: thank God that I, at least, have been able to counteract my frustration about this by expressing my opinions in writing. I may have gone on a Julian Knight-style rampage by now otherwise.

The first time I encountered a hardcore Windbag was, unsurprisingly, at the University of Melbourne, home of regurgitated ideas and boat shoes. A particular pompous, over-fed ex-private schoolboy would dominate my English tutorials with his pseudo-intellectual babble, and my demure 18-year-old self was completely intimidated by him. If only I’d known then that five years later he’d be spotted wandering round Bourke Street in a state of complete mental and physical decay, the result of spending his uni days attempting to be the next Thomas De Quincey. I like to call that karma.

I’ve also had the misfortune to have had several close friends who are only children. It’s a cliché because it’s true: only children really believe they are the centre of the world. Their ego-sodden chatter knows no bounds; you are a mere cipher to their glittering, endlessly fascinating selves; the perennial “homely friend”, even if you’re hot.

My favourite story of the fall of a Windbag is that of an over-privileged junkie I once knew who managed to worm her way into a top Sydney advertising agency by telling some brilliantly executed lies about her experience and ability. Once she got the job she spent most of her days shooting up in the loos. She was, of course, soon revealed as the fraud she was and fired. Props to her for nearly managing to outwank the wankiest industry there is, though.

I realise that there are probably some perfectly decent Windbags out there, and that this rant may see me accused of being somewhat ungenerous. All I can offer in response is another (slightly reworked) quote from Mozzer – if I seem a little bitter, well that’s because I am.