S for sincerity, was it? Nimrod rapidly changes tack (keen to forestall one of the golfers interminable childhood reminiscences).
Simplicity, Toby gently corrects him. In order to persuade people in an effective way, your ideas need to be really simple, straightforward and easy to grasp
No one ever bothered asking Attila the Hun for his exam certificates, Ransom smirks.
Toby opens his mouth and then closes it again.
Yeah. I hear old Attila could be very persuasive on his day, Terence Nimrod deadpans.
A phenomenal diarist, by all accounts, Toby chips in.
Diaries? Ransom idly fingers the cover of the copy of Bruce Lees Artist of Life (which is sitting on the table alongside his placemat). I bet those babiesd be worth a quick squizz
He reaches for the pencil resting on top of Nimrods trusty notebook, grabs it, scribbles something on to a paper serviette, folds it up and places it into the top pocket of his shirt.
S for simplicity, then, Toby quickly reiterates (a somewhat stricken expression on his face although the note on Ransoms napkin merely says Lamisil Once), followed by P which stands for perceived self-interest
Not actual self-interest? Nimrods momentarily engaged.
Uh, no. Toby shakes his head. I dont suppose it really matters why youre persuading someone what your motivation is so long as youre doing it effectively. Theres nothing explicitly moral about this technique
Nobody ever made a million from selling people anything they actually need, Ransom muses (ever the cynic).
Aspirin, Esther pipes up from her adjacent table (a line of cappuccino foam on her upper lip).
Ballpoint pen, Nimrod expands.
Peer pressure plays an important role, Toby steps in. I mean youre more likely to be able to persuade people of something if they see that their peers have already been convinced.
Think the Rwandan genocide, Nimrod solemnly opines (trying to raise the conversational bar).
Think Diet Coke, Ransom counters (automatically lowering it).
The I is quite an interesting one Toby struggles manfully on.
Is that a new edition? Nimrod jabs a plump finger at Ransoms copy of Artist of Life. I read it years ago. From what I can recollect, the poetrys pretty torrid
Ive a signed first edition at my house in LA, Ransom promptly fibs. Lees thoughts on plasticity struck a real chord with me. This industrys always been chock-a-block with cock-suckers and phonies
Nimrod grabs the book and quickly flips through it. Just promise me youre not embarking on another of your interminable Eastern phases, he pleads, the raw fish diet, the atrocious headbands, the enigmatic press releases He rolls his eyes. Hows a hardworking hack ever meant to scrape together any decent copy from that?
Now I come to think about it, Ransom ruminates (apparently oblivious to Nimrods pleas), I suppose martial arts might easily fall into the Individual Sports category He glances up, visibly jarred by the notion. Dyou reckon martial arts are selfish, Tel?
Selfish? Toby echoes, bemused.
All arts are selfish. Nimrod throws the book back down again. Isnt it obvious? Jesus was a humanitarian, not a watercolourist.
Be that as it may, Ransom persists, I read something pretty deep in there last night pretty amazing along the lines of he clears his throat and simulates a reverential mien Without the black sky there would be no stars, and without the little stars we would have nothing to compare the big ones by
Nimrod listens to Ransoms cod philosophizing with a measure of forbearance, then turns towards Toby with a conspiratorial wink. Its all downhill from here, Tobe, he murmurs. Next thing we know hell be quoting gnomic chunks of unintelligible bullshit at us from The Art of War like Paul Robinson on Neighbours.
Ransom grabs the book back, infuriated (his flush truly busted). I was given it by a fan if you must know, he growls, just some stupid kid. I was telling him about my brief correspondence with Linda Lee Cadwell
Correspondence? Esther glances up from her novel with a snort. You was legally oblige to send the poor woman a letter of apology after you get chuck out of a book-signing, drunk.
Ransom glares at her, darkly.
I studied Wing Chun for almost fifteen years, Nimrod shares.
Fifteen years?! Toby rocks back in his chair. Are you serious?!
Why wouldnt I be? Nimrod asks (faux-offended).
No reason, Toby flounders. I just He clears his throat. I just didnt have you down as a big martial arts fan, thats all.
So what did you have me down as? Nimrod wonders.
A big fat old lard-arse, thats what! Ransom sniggers, nudging Nimrod in the ribs and then picking up his coffee cup to take a sip.
I am generously proportioned Nimrod fondly pats his significant girth principally because I wrecked my knee in competition. But I was a force to be reckoned with in my day. Spent eighteen months in Japan on a scholarship studying with the best: a former pupil of the Yip Man, no less.
On the word yip, Ransoms hand suddenly goes into spasm, spilling coffee on to the tablecloth. He curses under his breath.
The Yip Man? Toby echoes, intrigued, helping to blot up the spill with a couple of stray napkins.
Professor Yip Man to the likes of you, Nimrod teases him. Bruce Lees old Master He reaches towards the book. Theres probably a photograph
Ransom struggles to return his cup to its saucer as Nimrod opens the book and starts paging through it.
Talking of the yips Toby observes, directing a significant look towards Ransoms cack-handed manoeuvrings.
Its a trapped nerve, Ransom quickly brushes him off, rotating his shoulder. I fucked it up yesterday jump-starting this old Hummer
Here we go. Nimrod finds what hes looking for. Page fifteen.
The caption under the photo reads: Bruce Lee (right) and his only formal martial arts instructor, Yip Man.
Both men inspect the photo for a second, impressed by Yip Mans look of serene austerity.
Bruce Lee. Nimrod chuckles, pointing.
Some random nine-hole fan I was chatting to online the other day was telling me how theres this entire site dedicated to the condition on the net, Toby volunteers. Its got a warning sign that flashes up discouraging people from reading the contents unless theyre already a sufferer. Apparently the human mind is so suggestible, so fragile so well, persuadable that if you even try and engage with the yips on a purely intellectual level then youre much more likely to fall victim to it.
Its a trapped nerve, Tobe, Ransom repeats.
Youre still using the belly putter, though? Toby persists.
So what if I am? Ransoms starting to bridle. If its good enough for Sergio
Esther glances up from her puzzle book.
An old Hummer, eh? Nimrod neatly interjects, with a grin. Takes me back to the glory days
Yeah. Yeah. Toby finally detects the sudden atmosphere. Well, I guess its just a question of mind over matter
Ransom grimaces. His hand is hidden from view, shoved firmly into his pocket under the table.
and now that youve finally managed to put that nasty case of shingles behind you Toby expands.
Glandular fever, Ransom curtly corrects him.
My youngest daughter had it, Nimrod sighs. Completely destroyed her GCSE year
I met this guy the other day who survived terminal cancer. Ransoms keen to change the subject. Not just once or twice, but on seven separate occasions.
But if the condition was terminal Tobys frowning. I mean isnt that a contradiction in terms?
Seven times? Nimrods intrigued. How the helld he manage that?
Uh Ransoms stuck for an answer. Force of will, he eventually suggests.
Thats phenomenal. Nimrods visibly moved. What type of cancer?
I dunno. Every type. All types. Take your pick. Ransom shrugs. He came from a family of fortune-tellers
Witches? Nimrods reaching for his notebook. Was there a black magic element to the story?
Not that Im aware of. They were palm-readers. Hes related to some famous palm-reader Cheerie Charley I dont remember the name, off-hand
Cheiro, Toby suggests.
Got it in one! Ransoms impressed.
Cheiros a legend. Toby shrugs.
Well this guy was apparently born without a lifeline. Ransom struggles to remember the basic details. The cards were totally stacked against him. I mean it was pretty much predestined that he would die from the outset. Everybody thought so. But he didnt. He conquered it and he survived it time and time again. He blew a huge, wet raspberry in the face of Destiny.
Lord give me strength! Esther snorts (shes put aside the puzzle book). The man taken you for a damn fool, Stu!
Ransom considers his response for a second. Nah he shakes his head it wasnt like that. He had a kind of He frowns, plainly conflicted (as if battling with the prospect of even pronouncing the word out loud). a kind of quiet integrity. Very modest and unassuming. Looks a little like Tom Watson
How old? Nimrod demands.
Mid-thirties, but very old-fashioned. Has this this timeless quality about him. Remember those kids at school who were raised by their grandparents? Clean tank top? Lightly greased-back hair? Nicely polished shoes?
Does he still read palms? Toby interrupts.
Not sure. Yeah. Maybe.
Dyou think hed consider doing it professionally? Nimrod follows up. For a tabloid?
But the cancers not even the half of it. Ransom returns to the story (which is coming back to him, now, in neat, bite-size chunks). After it went into remission for a while and he finally thought the whole, shitty ordeal was over with he was involved in a serious car smash. Not his fault his aunt or someone was driving. Everybody died except him. Oh, and his niece, Mallory, who he adopted. Her whole face was torn apart her jaw shattered, her tongue bitten half off. His legs were totally mashed. He had to have them pinned back together again. He was stuck in a wheelchair. It was years before he could walk. But now he competes in all these triathlons to raise money sos he can take the kid to America for groundbreaking plastic surgery
Whered you find this guy? Tobys awestruck. Does he write a blog?
Whats his name? Nimrod adds. Dyou have his number?
We got chatting in a bar. Ransom shrugs. I stayed over at his house the other night. Hes a massive fan. Said hed taken huge amounts of inspiration from my career over the years