In frankie issue 116, four writers dissect the social etiquette that deserves to die. Have a read what two of our rad writers had to say. 

By James Shackell

You’ve waited the requisite week or two. You arrive on camels bearing gifts of frankincense and beef casserole. Your friend opens the door and – after examining your whooping cough vaccination certificates – ushers you reverently into the nursery. And there, cooing softly in the cradle, is… gah, DEMON, demon child, spawn of Satan, Lovecraftian horror from the abyss! From hell’s heart I stab at thee!

You: “Aww mate, she’s adorable. What a little angel.”

Friend (with a sort of insincere, self-deprecating chuckle): “Hah, yeah she’s pretty cute.”

OK, I’ll say it, your baby is ugly. I won’t say it to your face, obviously, because that would be rude, but I’ll definitely say it to my wife in the car ride home. And that’s OK, because one of the privileges that comes with parenthood is being qualified to say that newborn babies are uniformly gross – even mine.

But you have to summon up something, don’t you? And you can’t even fall back on the hollow compliments you dish out in adulthood; little backhanders like, “But he’s got a great personality” or “You’re doing great – given your history.” Babies only get complimented on their looks and the degree to which certain body parts resemble the body parts of their parents. That’s it.

So what do you do when a newborn looks like a fish that’s recently evolved to walk on land? You lie through your teeth, that’s what you do. It’s a social convention that needs to die. We’re all adults here. If your friends won’t tell you your baby looks like Voldemort before he regained his powers, who will?

Maybe you haven’t been in close proximity to actual human babies, and your idea of newborns is informed by sitcoms and Pixar animated films. Let me tell you, those shows leave out the mucus. Oh yeah, newborns arrive covered in all kinds of slime, vernix and cheesy god-knows-what. The general colour is purple.

Even after a couple of weeks, when most childless friends get the dreaded invite – “You gotta see the baby!” – the baby in question is likely suffering from some combination of the following: neonatal acne, cradle cap, milia cysts, desquamation (AKA skin peeling), heat rash, splotchy birthmarks and general hereditary ugliness. About the only thing missing is leprosy.

You: “I think he has your nose!”

Ergh, is this the best we can do? When did we become a nation of nose flatterers? I’m guilty of this, too, obviously. Not only have I heaped insincere compliments on the heads of smug, undeserving parents, I’ve received a few myself. It’s something that happens when you finally have a kid: there’s no way to know, really know, if your baby is cute. You think she looks all right, but you’re hardly an impartial witness. And as we’ve established, the words of cherished loved ones aren’t worth much. Objectivity is the issue. If anything, you need feedback from an enemy or political nemesis, but most of them probably aren’t popping over for croissants and instant coffee.

Maybe we need some sort of unbiased algorithm that will give it to us straight.

“Hey ChatGPT, is my baby cute as a button?”

“Taking into account complexion, facial symmetry and general bone structure, I can confirm that your child is cuter than 78.3 per cent of known buttons.”

Phew. Glad we straightened that out. Now, does anyone want to see some birthing photos? I’ll just pop this casserole in the freezer.

By Jack Vening

Imagine this: you are a Greek warrior in the great siege of Troy, battle-forged and oiled up to hell, undertaking your most daring endeavour yet – the plot of the Trojan Horse. For years you have assailed the stubborn walls and shed blood upon the sand. Now, lying within the wooden horse, shoulder to shoulder with 50 other daring soldiers, you’re about to change history.

But then… that warrior across from you, he seems familiar. Is that Patroclus, the guy you sort of know but only a little? He’s friends with Achilles, maybe? You met at that party and talked about wine for like five minutes? Anyway, better look away before he looks up and you get stuck talk–

He looks up. He looks up and meets your eye, and a horrible, lingering second passes, just long enough that neither of you can act like you didn’t see the other person. 

“Oh, hi!” Patroclus says, reluctantly pausing his music and removing his AirPods. “Uh… are you on your way to sack Troy as well?”

God, can you imagine it? Zeus would never allow it. The plan would be blown, the war would be over and “Trojan Horse” would come to be a metaphor for the most dispiriting of human tortures: getting stuck on public transport with someone you sort of know, compelled to have the most excruciating conversation of all time.

We must end the social compulsion to speak to an acquaintance you run into on public transport. It’s over. It is a sickening phenomenon, enjoyed by the worst sadists and the socially misaligned.

The horrors are endless. It’s hell for the people interacting, who are suddenly pushed to perform at full social capacity from a standing start. It’s hell for the strangers surrounding them, a non-consenting audience for the worst talk show on earth. It’s hell on your immediate health for the near-fatal cortisol release your brain suffers the instant you realise, “My god, they’ve noticed me.” It’s hell for your extended health thanks to the cumulative trauma of always fearing a stranger may turn around and reveal themselves to be someone whose only notable trait is they’re so boring it makes you weep.

Public transport is a space for dreaming, or reading your little articles, or scrolling while hoping that your screen brightness is low enough that nobody can see you follow so many Instagram accounts dedicated to air disasters. It’s a place for recuperating from the day or for steeling yourself for what’s ahead. It’s a delicate ecosystem, and nothing destroys an ecosystem quicker than one buffoon locked in with another, both fighting for their fucking lives to avoid a second of awkward silence.

So then how do we stop it? How do we avoid exposing ourselves to the Chernobyl of social encounters?

That part’s easy: just don’t do it. Just don’t. The last time I was threatened with this sort of encounter, I just pointed at my book and gave a wink, and the look of relief they gave in return was like they’d just found religion.

Be kind if you feel so compelled, give a sad smile and turn away. Send them a message afterwards to let them know no hard feelings. Or lie; feign illness. Make a noise like a semi-trailer sinking into a swamp and spit blood ominously into a handkerchief. Blank them. Curse their name. Pull the emergency brake and dive into the harbour. But please, whatever you do, don’t have that conversation.

Because one day your fellow passengers will say, “Enough,” and the ensuing bloodshed will make the Trojan War look like the 96 tram.

This writer's piece comes straight from the pages of issue 116. To get your mitts on a copy, swing past the frankie shop, subscribe or visit one of our lovely stockists.