The handshake

Phew! Something smells funny in here - like a mixed metaphor.

Last night I joined a throng of parents at the Linder Auditorium for our sons’ speech day. I approach speech days with much the same sense of inevitable tedium I did at school. Ours took place on Saturdays under a marquee that smelt ghastly with an ambient temperature of hell. Nothing like as swanky as the Linder Auditorium.

We all duly queued in clasping our Blackberries, IPhones and IPads like comfort blankets. Some of the more experienced dads had a helpful hip flask. It was my first time. The dad I sat next too gave me some helpful pointers, like at which point to leave.

It started true to form with some rather nice speeches from the headmaster, the chairman and the graduating class of grade 7s. The keynote speaker was then introduced. I probably shouldn’t mention his name. He has a voice like melted chocolate and is obviously much in thrall to its melodic sounds.

If he had ended at the 20 minute mark we would have clapped loudly and said, “What a lovely speech with just the right mix of humour and wisdom.”  But he didn’t.

He led a round of applause for all the grade 7 boys who had their first kiss at the recent school social. That was a little odd, but we clapped. 

He went on to explain how these young teenagers will soon become enamoured by the subtle dips, curves and valleys of the female form. How the mysterious female will befuddle the brain and confuse the senses. 

And then...

How as more and more attention is given to the female of the species with no relief in sight, they will find themselves often “shaking the hand of the unemployed”.

I turned to my neighbour and asked, “Did he just say what I though he said?” 

Apparently he did.

The auditorium was silent expect for the mildly hysterical giggling of myself and my neighbour. 

The speaker carried on past the realm of slightly inappropriate into totally X-Rated.

The speaker’s son was in the audience as one of the graduating class. I shared my sympathy for him with my neighbour and we agreed that the poor chap should not come to school for the remainder of the term and maybe transfer somewhere else next year. No-one is likely to let him forget the day his dad stood in front the school and talked about masturbating.

Like our kids aren’t embarrassed enough by us already?

Once the horse was well and truly dead it was flogged a bit more and only when a small toddler finally began to yell, was the speech wrapped up with a bit of Rudyard Kipling. Can’t go wrong with Kipling.

My son also won an award. 

I was speechless. 

But, not as speechless as when he came out of the auditorium and asked me what “shaking the hand of the unemployed” meant.