The fact of the matter is...

I was discussing with my lovely fellow blogger Yorkshire Lass From London the other day about current affairs and our lack of acknowledgement of them in our blogs. Yorkshire Lass was worried that all she seemed to do was complain about her general situation (money; University freaks; house issues) and hadn't really added any political or social commentary of any substance (although it makes a damn good read).

I echoed her concerns. When I started this blog, I had visions of witty and thoughtful prose on current affairs, provocative discussion material and the like, an outlet for intelligent thought.

What I had failed to factor in to this assumption was my inability to remember facts. I'm not talking statistics, or mathematic equations or historical dates. I'm talking day-to-day, run of the mill, average facts. I'd be hard pushed to tell you what the documentary was that I watched part of last night was accurately about (something to do with an island and Dubai and flood defences but that's as much as I retained). Or what channel. Or what time.

But more fool you if you started a conversation where I could tap into this delight and attempt to interject my informative factual account (what I can remember of it).

Because its not just my lack of factual knowledge that can hinder my intelectual kudos. Its that I have a habit of displaying this lack of knowledge through poorly thought out, often painful anecdotal tales.

Basically, I seem to like to exert the fact that I'm not the sharpest tool in the box (again, a fact I repeatedly forget, because I keep on doing it).

I am like a small child tugging on their parents leg going 'oh oh oh I know the answer to that one!' when the parent is happily engaged with another person of equally intelligent calibre and when they turn, wearily, to me, I attempt to regurgitate the information that I learnt in school, only to find I am missing key information and my conversation colapses slowly and uncracefully. The parent can only look at me for so long with a loving, tender look in their face before their interest starts to wain and even a touch of social embarassment creeps into them, watching their offspring descend into a mess of endless sentences and inconclusive points.

And that's just the patience and attention someone who loves me unconditionally. Give me an interview, a presentation, a lecture, and that's a whole new kettle of fish.

Picture this: I am 14 or 15, in history GCSE. Sat near the back, our tables were set as two horseshoes, one inside the other. I am stood up, and I am talking. I am rapidly choosing my train of thought. I put my hand up with an answer, keen to get my point across. My point, however, has other ideas and has clearly buggered off, in search of greener pastures than my mind in which to evolve (mine: a barren wasteland of knowledge littered with show tune lyrics and boy related issues). My history teacher, kindly, asked me to sit down. My point that I had tried to get across was, I seem to remember, never added to the list on the blackboard.

And, unsurprisingly, I can't remember what my point was about, or what the subject was about (you'll notice that my age was ambiguous too).

So I think by now I think you'll assume (like I have, only through trying mind) that I am an appauling pub quiz team member. I am picked last for Trivial Pursuit. My parents still help me with the answers, much to my sister's disgust. I should be embarassed at 24 but if I didn't accept their hints and suggestions then I would never get a pink cheese (I can't tell you what the pink cheese was for though, I was hoping to brush over this fact through effective Google usage but I've had to give up and admit that I don't know, as I've proposal writing looming over my shoulder waiting for me to begin, like a sweaty, overweight Java teacher that I used to have, who breathed heavily and once rested her vast left breast on my shoulder. So you can tell I'm not looking forward to getting started on this one but I'd rather shake off that breast. Why the bloody hell am I plagued with memories of that and not of useful information?).

The informative factual anecdoe is like the holy grail to me. I feel like Indiana Jones, without actually being able to do all the dodging of spikes and boulders. So really I'm not like Indiana Jones at all. I'm like his very British, rather stupid sidekick, standing on the sidelines going 'no, actually, I don't think its that important, I'll leave it where it is' and then wandering off for a cup of tea.

Its really pretty embarrassing. It can, on occasions, be actually quite humiliating. All my friends, bless them, have learnt my anomoly and tend to just ignore me or kindly stop me before I get too far down the Path of No Return.

Dinner parties tend to be the worst, when a glass or two of wine gives me the divine right to drag out half-facts kicking and screaming from all crevices of my mind that are vaguely connected to the conversation.

I wonder on those occasions when I have had courage in my convictions, how many people I have flooded with falseties, the less knowledgeable of the people I have engaged in conversation. I wonder those who have nodded politely whilst making a mental note never to listen to another word I say.

But its not just that I miss things out or get things wrong. If I have an ounce of doubt, or I think my unfortunate audience may actually be listening to what I am saying, or pressure is forcing my heart rate higher than its normal agitated state, I stumble blindly in the dark, I bump into things, turn around, go back on myself, confused, but determined to get to the end.

Wherever that may be.

'I read about a man, or maybe it was on TV. Anyway, this man, he was about 40 I think, or perhaps a bit older, no actually I think he was a pensioner, well anyway he won this money on the Lottery, or the Lotto or something, and he won about £500 grand. or maybe it was £5 million. Anyway he bought a whole island somewhere in the south pacific I think. Or maybe it was near New Zealand. It was somewhere hot anyway. And.....yeah'

Yep that's where I usually give up the will to live too, like my hapless audience.