A close encounter with The Man Who Knows Everything

I could be wronging The Man Who Knows Everything. I'm fairly sure though that he's guilty.

The Man Who Knows Everything seems to know exactly where I am at all times. It's as if he has implanted a following device in the car, like the spouses who suspect their partners of having affairs.

The sea water is usually at its warmest around now and so I went into the sea for a swim. The water was wet and cold.

And who should be standing there in the sea beside me only The Man Who Knows Everything.

There I was thinking I was alone at last and he's there telling me dolphins aren't as nice as we think they are and often take bites out of each other.

And that they can kill people with a swish of their tails.

I'm hoping Fungi will take him out.

He has this annoying habit of standing so close to you when he's talking and he sticks his face into yours. I take a step back. He takes a step forward.

I hate that. I like some little bit of space. Hate it when people are close enough to nearly kiss.

I know what you're thinking. Why don't I tell him to get the feck off out of it for himself. But I can't because The Man Who Knows Everything means well. There's no badness in him and then if I expressed my inner annoyance, I'd feel even worse than I did when he was annoying me.

Ireland is a small enough place and falling out with people is not recommended. The best thing is to dodge the annoying ones but my eyesight isn't great and sometimes they are on top of me before I even know it.

I take a step sideways. He's right there next to me copying my moves like a line dancer. It's as if I'm The Gooch being man-marked.

The water is so cold. My fingers are gone the yellow of a corpse.

The Man Who Knows Everything diagnoses me as having Reynault's disease.

I thought he said Renault and wondered aloud what it was French cars had to do with yellow fingers. Mistake. I took the bait.

So he goes on and on about Reynault's disease and how it means I have poor circulation, which is a terrible thing to say to a newspaper columnist, and he catches my yellow fingers in his hand and says "a doctor would charge you 50 for that".

And then it happened. I'm sure it was pee. Had to be. I felt this warmness in the water. All around me. The Man Who Knows Everything just had to have peed in the sea.

I was going to drown him. But what proof had I? I could hardly grab a bucket from a kiddie and take a sample to the lab.

And how would the scientists know it was The Man Who Knows Everything's pee?

He tells me the swift is faster than the seagull.

Then he follows me up the beach: "It's high time we banned Christmas in August. There they are in BT selling Christmas decorations in August. What do you think of that? Well?"

I couldn't care less what they sell in BT. Not in the slightest. Why should I? What's it to me anyway?

The selling of little trinkety, tinselly fairies who will have the top of the Christmas tree shoved up their arse is of no consequence whatsoever to me.

When I didn't answer, he said: "BT is a big shop on Grafton Street in Dublin," as if I was never out of Listowel in my life.

I just keep on walking across the sands of time. It's as if the journey of no more than a few minutes is a trek across the Sahara wearing a BT Santa jumper. He keeps on talking.

And talking.

Dolphins are mammals and they breastfeed their young. You can eat badgers and they taste like pork.

We meet a lovely old lady from West Limerick who told us she won an egg and spoon race 70 years ago almost to the day.

The Man Who Knows Everything tells her the egg and spoon race is worse than the Olympics for cheating and that there was a man who won all around him because he glued the egg on to the spoon which meant he could run faster.

And that if you hard-boiled the egg before the race, it would mean if the egg fell off then it wouldn't break and you could place it back on the spoon and get on with the race. Russia was banned for less. I couldn't take any more.

As I went into the seaweed baths, he advised if you crab your toes around the hot tap, you need never get out of the bath. So he's a vet, a doctor and a plumber.

In with me then to the seaweed baths. The water is fresh from the sea and so is the seaweed. The warmth of it cured the Reynault's disease in seconds.

I crabbed the hot tap and the surge of warm water washed away all memories of the curious incident of the pee in the sea.

And as I was lying there in the bath, it dawned on me why The Man Who Knows Everything is the way he is.

The Man Who Knows Everything lost his job a good many years ago because he wasn't skilled enough.

I'm only guessing now but it seems to me that the reason he imparts all that knowledge, at every opportunity, is his way of showing how much he knows.

It's as if to say: "Even though I lost the job for not knowing enough, it doesn't mean I'm stupid or that I'm not worthwhile. I know stuff".