When I was a child, all I wanted to do was talk. In fact, it got so bad that my primary school teachers were forced to give me a ‘wriggle cushion’ – an inflatable seat designed to pacify hyper children. I’m sure there’s a diagnosis in that somewhere. And as the years went by, I became known for my loquacity. Teachers at parents’ evenings would look at my mother with compassionate eyes and say things like, ‘My, my, our Zak is quite the communicator, isn’t he?’ Translation: your son is a gabby little monster. It was only when I reached maturity that I realised over-talking is a serious affliction and not a commendable virtue. It’s a sure-fire way of ostracising yourself from others. And – for fear of sounding like a bastardised Robin Williams quote on Facebook – the most talkative person in the room is often the loneliest (you can have that line for free).
Firstly, I’d like to apologise to my mother, who has had to endure my motormouth for 25 years. Taking me on holiday must have been a real treat. Who wouldn’t want a speccy seven-year-old chewing their ear off about the Loch Ness Monster as they try to get a moment’s peace and quiet? I distinctly remember one trip to Weymouth Beach when I was about five or six. We met this little girl playing along the shore with her grandparents. Very quickly, I got to work building sandcastles with my new friend. This girl wasn’t much of a talker. An apprehensive silence fell between us as we packed wet sand into sandcastle buckets and shivered in the cold British sun. And I recall feeling as though it were my duty to say something. So I cleared my throat, readjusted my glasses and said: ‘Did you know that Elvis died on the toilet?’ There was a stunned silence among the adults. The little girl looked up and smiled. But she didn’t say a word. This was my first time experiencing the alienating effects of a chronic babbler. It would not be my last.
Things only got worse as I grew older. I irritated just about everyone. My childminder – a lovely cockney woman who was more Catherine Tate’s Nan than Mary Poppins – had an adult daughter who once turned to me as I was in the middle of a sugar-fuelled spiel and said, ‘Has he got somefink wrong wiv his head?’ I’d chat to anyone. I’d get up from the table at restaurants and wander over to other diners, perching myself on a spare chair and engaging in an impassioned exchange. Admittedly, these exchanges were one-sided. And I can’t tell you how many times a friend’s parent would turn around from the driver’s seat as they shuttled us to and from some after-school activity and say, ‘Will you just shut your mouth for one minute, Zak! I’m trying to concentrate.’ Invariably, they would feel guilty for snapping and then encourage me to speak again – much to their detriment.
And then I discovered booze: the great conversational lubricant (thank God I don’t do cocaine). Giving alcohol to a talkative person is like feeding a gremlin after midnight – but rather than destroying your electrical equipment, these drunken gremlins destroy your will to live. It’s bad enough talking nineteen to the dozen when you’re sober. It’s a Dantean vision of hell when you’re drunk. Anything goes. I’ll talk for hours. And the morning after is a kaleidoscope of fractured memories and the shrapnel of cringeworthy conversations. Why did I make the whole party listen to my Oliver Reed impersonation? Why did I ask that girl what her favourite nut was? And why did I interrupt her halfway through to call her a philistine for thinking that the cashew is superior to the almond? Why did I get all sulky and start lecturing the room on Wittgenstein’s theory of language games – and why did I deny that love was a real word? Why did I tell that stranger that my dad was dead? Why would he want to know?
But I don’t say that – because I’d rather not have a hungover meeting with HR
But above all, being an ‘over-talker’ is deeply uncool. Think about it: which cool cats of history were known for their giddy babbling? Did Steve McQueen earn his title as the King of Cool by gibbering at the camera? No – his laconicism is what earned him that title. Neurotic garrulity is reserved for the likes of Woody Allen and ‘Ol Gil from The Simpsons. That said, it’s not fair to compare Steve McQueen and Woody Allen’s coolness. The latter looks like a lollipop that’s been dropped down the back of a sofa and the former looked like the Marlboro Man. But imagine if Steve McQueen had Woody Allen’s cadence: ‘I [coughing] … I-I-I live for myself and I, uh, I answer to, uh, I answer to nobody … unless, uh, unless that nobody is Mia Farrow … or a moose. Hey! I-I’ve got a great story about a moose.’ It just doesn’t have the same effect.
The problem with being a blabbermouth is that I recognise my illness in other people. And I can’t stand it. Having spent the past ten years trying to shut my mouth, I squirm in the company of others not willing to do the same. Office parties are the worst. The colleague that starts every sentence with ‘I’m the kind of person’ is like kryptonite to me – I die when I’m around them. I’d love to have an honest tête-à-tête with them: ‘You’re bumming everyone out, Sharon. You’re being a real Debbie Downer. No one wants to hear about your dog’s colitis. It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake. You’re like the Grinch, Sharon. Actually, the Grinch is somewhat entertaining. You’re like Alistair Darling.’ But I don’t say that – because I’d rather not have a hungover meeting with HR.
If I can offer my talkative friends some advice, it would be this: you have more to offer the world by listening. Life is a lot better when you learn to pause for a moment and take it all in. A conversation is an exchange of ideas – it is not a soliloquy. If up until now you’ve been filling awkward silences as though it were your job, you’re relieved of your duties. In the nicest way possible, you’re fired. Take a break, get some rest, and listen to a podcast – or whatever it is you do when you’re not running your mouth off. And the next time you feel yourself babbling, take a deep breath, close your eyes and think of Woody Allen. Do you want to be like Woody Allen? No, I thought not. So shut your trap.
Comments