A lass I know made a right nunky out of herself recently when she blithely asked a friend whether a penguin was a bird or a fish.

Her buddy laughed appreciatively. There’s no one who doesn’t enjoy the occasional channelling of Jessica Simpson for the entertainment of the troops; blonde moments are best on demand, and God knows we need free stand-up comedy these days, when whole streets have but one collective pot to piss in. Ireland’s a miserable place at the moment, so blonde moments have become golden moments, especially now that we can’t afford Barry’s tea.

The lass in question laughed along heartily, but when the laughter died away she was still waiting expectantly, eyes wide, head nodding like a dashboard pug.

“Oh sweet Jesus,” the lad said eventually. “You’re serious.”

She was.

“You really don’t know whether a penguin is a bird or a fish?” he spluttered, breaking stunned silence before it settled like a brick fecked onto a sandbank.

“What?” she giggled, and then “What?” again; she didn’t think there was anything wrong in being unsure about biological classification. “God, you’d think I’d said something awfully daft altogether, the way you’re carrying on. It’s not like I’m unique in not knowing whether a penguin is a bird or a fish! Loads of people wouldn’t know! I bet my sister doesn’t know!” And she sent a text to her sister to prove it, somehow managing to escape blowing the handset to smithereens with the concentrated Daft tapping through her fingertips.

Hey gurl do u kno if a penguin iz a burd r a fsih

To which her sister replied…

OMG u retard its a burd when was d last time u saw a fish flying?

…

…

The above story is entirely true.

And it’s funny, gently so, despite the toxic levels of stupidity it illustrates, a fucking Stupidity pandemic threatening to cobble us all. Not that I’m suggesting that this girl should have been strapped to an idle pallet and set adrift on the Atlantic for the crime of being ignorant to fish facts – that they don’t have wings, beaks, or much interest in waddling along on land – I mean, we’re all prone to the odd short-circuit, aren’t we?

Very shortly after my friends and I fell about laughing at this story last Saturday night, we got to chatting about what we had been up to during the day. I mentioned that I’d gone to the Discworld Convention in Ennistymon, as I’d hoped to write something on it afterwards. There followed a chorus of La-Di-Das and Ooh-Get-Yous, which rather confused me, as Discworld is a very popular series, and hardly high literature. The more I tried to point this out, the louder the cawing got.

“If this Terry Pratchett is so great,” shouted one of the group, “how come I’ve never heard of him? I’ve heard of Celia Ahern, though. That would make her better, fnar fnar.”

“First off, I only said I’d been at the convention; I never mentioned greatness, you presumptuous cunt. Secondly, he HAS sold more than 55 million books, so if you’ve never heard of him, that’s a reflection of the social isolation in your monstrous gobshitery. And thirdly, it’s CEcelia Ahern; if you’re going to flog a dead horse, at least get its name right…”

… is what I didn’t say. What was the fucking point?

You can’t fight stupidity anymore, and the effort involved in endeavouring to do so will only move you closer to it; best to raise your eyebrows and your pint glass back to your lips than banjax yourself rising to a challenge beneath you. There seems to be little shame in being stupid these days, but lots in being smart, or worse, in being seen trying to make yourself smarter. You’re in University? Talk only about how drunk you are. You read? Only display pastel paperbacks; if you must have something tailored to your actual reading age, be sure to hide it in a copy of the Sunday World Magazine. Adore the witticisms of Stephen Fry? Be sure to mention what a great big poofter he is too. Close down the independent cinemas, get rid of funding for the Arts … There’s a recession, don’t you know, so no one wants to tolerate a Smartarse anymore. Everyone likes a plain old Arse instead. Just don’t make an Arse out of yourself by coming out as a Smartarse, yeah?

So while my drinking buddies on Saturday night laughed long and loud at the girl who didn’t know her wings from her gills, they didn’t condemn her (as is only right; after all, for all they knew she may have been a talented actress out to shock and awe). She was laughed at, but she sounded like good company, certainly better than an argumentative madam like me, with my lofty literary jaunts around County Clare. Let’s face it, in the space of ten minutes my companions had gone from chuckling about PenguinGirl’s foolishness to what an insufferable twonk I was for reading popular fiction. Had I tried to work in a concept of irony, I would have been sneered at for mentioning laundry in a social setting.

For fuck’s sake, even PenguinGirl herself looked down on her gobsmacked audience – she might have said something stupid, but she knew equally stupid back-up was only a text message away.

I say she made a right nunky out of herself; I doubt she’d agree. Stupidity is much less threatening than intellect or clever cynicism, and it really likes company.

I was wrong, in other words. There’s no social isolation in monstrous gobshitery. God help us all.