How to win an argument

Winning arguments is easy. First of all, it's best to be on the right side. Some sides are simple to define, such as 'Hitler - commendable ideals if slightly flawed execution' - think you're onto a loser there. How about 'Eddie Murphy - as good now as he ever was' ? Hell - I wish you luck.

But how about 'Jonathan Ross - funny guy' ? On which side of the fence is the grass long and sticky, thistle-strewn and concealing dozens of broken beer bottles, and on which side are loads of elderly fat blokes rolling their oddly-shaped balls towards the jack? Obviously, there's something undeniably jocular about the foppish, slack-lipped one else he'd now be struggling to land a job stringing for the Framley Examiner after broadcasting claims that caused Manuel to say a little more than "Que?". I say obviously, but I can’t see it myself and aside from the very early years that helped introduce Vic & Bob and some of The Fast Show to the world I never have done.

So we have a clearly defined area of reasonable doubt. But this is a world mostly of absolutes - returning to Vic & Bob: Is it true, or is it false? Is Jonathan Ross funny, or is he not? Is he spectacularly mirthsome, or as amusing as a knicker-splattering fart during the eulogy at the funeral of a universally-adored uncle? Which side are you on? You must choose! You must choose NOW! CHOOSE NOW! RESISTENCE IS FUTILE! EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!

You could always sit on the fence. But then expect people to don chicken costumes and do silly dances in front of you until you come down.

So - there you stand, on one side of the fence with your toes being tantalisingly tickled by the carpet of freshly-mown greenery. But wait - what's this? There are people standing on the other side of the fence? With creepy-crawlies inching their way up their jeans and having glances from hidden, starving tigers thrown at them? We must educate these wretched souls! They must come over here where everything is nice and lovely and there's free ice cream for everybody!

We must argue with them and fight with them and get them over here, pronto. And we do that by winning, and one easy way to win an argument is…

Take it away, Lulu!

WELL-ELL-ELL-ELL-ELL-LELELELE-ELL-ELL-ELLLLLLLLLLLLLL…

(you know you make me want to) SHOUT!
(kick my heels up and) SHOUT!
(throw my hands up and) SHOUT!
(throw my head back and) SHOUT!
(come on now) SHOUT!
Don't forget to belittle your opponent, yeah
Don't forget to ignore his counter-arguments by throwing fresh threads at him for him to have to defend because you got in first, yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
(say you will)


For a further analogy, arguing is like a game of chess. Two armies equals two sides to each argument. Plonk Kasparov and Karpov down to play and take away Kasparov's Queen to signify he possesses the weaker argument. All bets are on Karpov, and he'll go and win every time under such starting conditions. And he'll do it slowly, carefully, methodically and logically. But start the game without that imbalance; with both sides equal as is meant to be in chess, and with two players of completely identical ability, and who's more likely to win? Statistically, White is more likely to win than Black. Out of every eleven games, white will win six, and black will win five, primarily and importantly because White makes the first move.

My place in all this is usually, on the fence. Or rather what I do is dig up the fence and sit down on that patch of grass that's perfectly fine, except that there's bit of crab-grass, a sharp-sided pebble or two and a party of red ants who have their map upside down. I like it there. Although I do lose a great deal more arguments than I win.

I also lose a great deal more chess games than I win. Like Michael Jackson says, it don't even matter if I'm black or white (although quite evidently it mattered to him). It's the Knights that always do me, everything else moves in straight lines but Knights move in perverse triangles without a care of what surrounds them or what they trample upon. But I haven't played chess in years. It's probably all changed now. They've probably added extra pieces and the board's ten squares by ten. We never seem to be able to leave anything alone these days. When I were a lad footie were played by real fellas called Jimmy or Dennis or Alan or Ray. Now they're all effeminate, long-haired ballet dancers called Jose or Fernando or Xavi or even worse, they've only got one name. There's only one player in the entire history of football who has earned the right to be known by one name. And it ain't Maradona.

I'm old and out of touch. Whilst typing that paragraph it's only just occurred to me that one of Villa's top current players shares the same first name as my middle son. That depresses me. I used to be the sort of guy who'd walk miles just to see one of Charlie Aitken's dirty socks. And if you ask me who Charlie Aitken is I'll probably start crying.

So I was shouted down in another argument this morning - no surprise there. But it was a painful one as it was to Peter Handyman and it was in front of far too many of my colleagues and peers i.e. almost all of them. It's a different approach to Alan, who'd normally take me to one side and have a quiet word, gently nudging me towards agreement with his view that one of my socks had drooped a little below acceptable guidelines. But this is not the Peter Handyman approach and it’s a change and it's certainly not a refreshing one. I can bear being shouted at - I just nod and get along with things. But being laughed at is a different matter, and being insulted (if only in a minor, 'you're a bit lardy' way) is as well. I known I'm a grown man, but it hurts.