Peer pressure is defined as a feeling that one must do the same things as other people of one’s age and social group to be liked or respected by them.
In the quest to be regarded as sophisticated, trendy, in vogue or whatever one would like to term it, people often do irrational things in an attempt to “belong”.
Personally, I like to call this desire the sheep syndrome.
For the sake of those perhaps not familiar with the term, nouveau-riche refers to “new money”. An apt description of this species will be the neighbour with six flashy cars parked in a multitude of garages and lion sculptures on the front lawn.
Or their former blond bombshell trophy wives fruitlessly trying to deny Mother Nature by caking their faces with layers of makeup and dressing up to resemble wilting Christmas trees.
The problem is, sophistication can’t be bought. You either are, or you’re not. Class or refinement is the way you carry yourself, the ability to engage in intellectual discourse and such, and certainly not by pretentious accessories.
Nouveau-riche people trying to play the game stand out like beacons.
Quite often what is regarded as sophistication is also pure bunk.
Ranked low on the social status scale, journalists – in general unpretentious rough and ready types – regularly move in elegant environments. They are simply tolerated because of the publicity they afford.
I recall some examples to make my point.
Two young colleagues, often out of budget, regularly attended opening nights at art galleries for the free cheese and wine on offer.
After imbibing generously from the fruit of the vine, Hannes – who never let an opportunity to mock go by – would park himself in front of an average artwork and wax lyrically about its merits.
He had the gift of the gab, and with a pensive expression and loud voice pronounced on the “incredibly unique flow of colours and nuances, perfectly symbolising this or that”.
He didn’t know what he was talking about, and neither did the bejewelled, pucker-lipped audiences he gathered around him, but they nodded their heads in awe and later wrote generous cheques.
Then there was the big rugby Test at Newlands, when sport journos and other VIPs were invited by KWV for a sophisticated evening of brandy tasting.
They hauled out zillion-year-old matured bottles of gold, and we all dutifully swirled our bowl glasses, inspecting the colour against the light, sampled cautiously instead of throwing it down the hatch, and made appropriate noises.
Except good old “brannas-and-coke” man Dennis, who quickly approached the man behind the counter for some ice and his favourite mix.
Embarrassed and shocked, we instantly accosted him, urgently whispering in his ear that dumping Coke on brandy Napoleon probably ordered in his heyday, would be the mother of all faux pas.
Overhearing, one of the KWV bosses intervened, ordered a Coke and said a man has the right to drink a brandy any way he prefers to.
Which takes me to another fancy wine tasting. Again going through the ritual of swirling and nosing some of the finest red on offer, I asked the suited sommelier to explain the best way to determine the best quality wine.
“Oh, its simple really. The best wine in the world is the one you prefer drinking.”
I rest my case.
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