There’s always a way to get round understanding something, says Darrel Bristow-Bovey.
“How’s our NFT doing?” said my partner.
“Hmmm?” I said. In retrospect, this was a mistake. My partner knows me well enough to recognise “Hmmm?” as a desperate stalling tactic.
“Our NFT. The NFT you bought.”
“Oh, that NFT. Well, you know what they say, never count your money while you’re sitting at the table.”
“Who says that?”
“Economists.”
“No, they don’t. That’s from a song.”
It’s a pity she’s finally starting to realise that most of my financial insight comes from Kenny Rogers’ The Gambler. It’s easy to be an expert until people start to suspect you aren’t.
The problem is, I don’t really understand most things, but I don’t like to admit it. I get around this in social situations by loudly and confidently asserting a strong opinion. The real trick is deciding which opinion to have. I do this by seeing what my partner’s brother says, and then saying the opposite.
I don’t know if you have met my partner’s brother, but he’s a nice guy and drives a better car than me and he’s always taking me aside and offering me advice, and therefore I dislike him greatly. One night he was talking about Bitcoin, which is what I thought pirates did with gold doubloons to make sure they’re real.
“Bitcoin’s a bubble,” he said knowledgeably. “It won’t last.”
Everyone else was sort of nodding as though this made sense to them. What a creep.
“I disagree!” I said vehemently.
“You do? Why?”
Why? That was a damaging question. Why? Why? Must stall for time while I think of an answer.
“Hmmm?” I said.
“I said, why don’t you think Bitcoin is a bubble?” he repeated.
“Oh,” I said firmly, leaning forward to show how passionate I was about what I was about to say. “I think you’re underestimating the fundamentals of the blockchain.”
That impressed them – but not for long.
“What about NFTs?” he said.
“Ha! Indeed! What about NFTs!”
“So you would invest in NFTs then?” said my partner’s brother.
“Not only would I, I already have!” I said grandly.
That was the winning blow. It’s like when I’m arguing with someone about how to raise children who behave themselves and don’t kick the backs of seats on aeroplanes. I am always entirely right, but all they need to say is, “I have children. Do you?” and they win. But as an actual NFT investor, I was the indisputable expert at the dinner table. I was even impressed with myself. I felt like a grown-up, like a fully functioning adult member of society. It felt good.
But like most spur-of-the-moment lies, I’d forgotten all about it. I sort of know that NFTs have something to do with bad drawings and computers, but it’s a subject so achingly dull that whenever people talk about them I tune out and go to a happy place in my head that doesn’t have space for other people and their boring opinions.
“Umm,” I said. “Our NFT is doing great.”
“Is it?” she said.
“Oh yes. I looked at it this morning. It’s looking good.”
“Where did you look at it?”
“On the, you know, on the computer. It’s all there. Maybe it’s even grown a bit. It’s looking, um, it’s very logarithmic.”
“You never bought an NFT, did you?”
“Of course I did!”
“You’re not even really sure how to spell NFT, are you?”
“No.”
I was bracing for the worst, but she came over and kissed me on the cheek.
“What’s that for?”
“That,” she said, “is for saving us money.”
With a girlfriend like that, who needs NFTs?