Wine, Crypto, and Modern Art: Confessions of the Confused

There are, broadly speaking, two types of people in the world: those who confidently admit they don’t understand something, and those who nod along vigorously while internally screaming, “What on earth is going on?” This post is dedicated to the latter group—heroes of polite society—who have mastered the ancient art of pretending.

Let’s begin with wine. Not drinking wine—that’s straightforward enough—but talking about wine. Somewhere along the way, we collectively agreed that it’s perfectly normal to describe a beverage using phrases like “notes of blackcurrant,” “a hint of oak,” or, bafflingly, “a whisper of leather.” A whisper? From where? Who is whispering into the Merlot? Most of us take a sip, pause thoughtfully, and then say something vague like, “Oh yes, that’s quite… rounded,” hoping no one asks us to elaborate. The truth is, if it tastes nice and doesn’t make your face implode, it’s a good wine. Everything else is theatre.

Then there’s cryptocurrency. Now, some people genuinely understand it, and fair play to them. The rest of us, however, have cobbled together a fragile understanding based on overheard conversations, half-read articles, and one YouTube video we abandoned halfway through. We use phrases like “blockchain technology” and “decentralised finance” with the confidence of a seasoned expert, when in reality we’d struggle to explain it to a mildly curious relative. If pressed, we simply say, “It’s the future,” which tends to end the conversation because no one wants to admit they don’t get it either.

Let’s not forget modern art. You stand in a pristine white gallery, staring at what appears to be a single red line on a canvas the size of a small garage. People around you murmur appreciatively. You tilt your head, stroke your chin, and say something like, “It’s very provocative.” What you’re actually thinking is, “My nephew’s kids could have done this in ten minutes with a felt-tip.” But you don’t say that, because what if it is profound? What if you’re the only one who doesn’t see the genius? So you nod, you squint, and you move on, feeling slightly inadequate but culturally enriched.

Another classic: politics. Not the general idea of politics, mind you—we all have opinions—but the finer details. Terms like “fiscal policy,” “quantitative easing,” and “regulatory frameworks” are tossed around as if everyone has a working knowledge of them. In reality, most of us are clinging to the conversational equivalent of a life raft, repeating phrases we’ve heard on the news. If someone challenges us, we deploy our secret weapon: “Well, it’s a complex issue.” This is code for “I have no idea, but I’d like to sound as though I do.” And let’s face it: many politicians themselves haven’t got a clue what they are going on about, or they are hell-bent on lying to us from the outset anyway.

Then there’s quantum computing. Now, this is where things really unravel. At some point, someone explained it using words like “superposition” and “entanglement,” and we all collectively decided to just… accept that. Apparently, a quantum computer can be in multiple states at once, which already sounds less like technology and more like a philosophical crisis. You’ll find yourself nodding thoughtfully as someone explains how it will revolutionise everything from medicine to finance, all while wondering how a machine can both know and not know something at the same time. If pressed for an opinion, you might say, “It’s incredibly promising,” which feels safe because it implies understanding without requiring any actual detail.

And fitness. Specifically, gym terminology. People speak of “engaging your core” and “activating your glutes” with great authority. Meanwhile, you’re standing there wondering if your core has been disengaged this entire time and whether your glutes require a formal invitation to participate. You nod, you attempt the exercise, and you hope that whatever you’re doing vaguely resembles the intended movement. If in doubt, you add a determined facial expression—it’s surprisingly convincing.

Cooking is another arena where we bluff our way through. Recipes casually instruct us to “fold in the mixture” or “cook until just done,” as though these are universally understood concepts. What does “just done” look like? How vigorously does one fold? Is there a risk of over-folding? Under-folding? We don’t know, but we proceed with confidence, because admitting confusion in the kitchen feels like a personal failure. The result is either a triumph or something you describe as “rustic,” which is a very useful word.

In the end, pretending to understand things is less about deception and more about survival. It keeps conversations flowing, spares us mild embarrassment, and allows us to participate in the great social dance of “Yes, I too am knowledgeable.” And occasionally, in the process of pretending, we actually even learn something.

But until that happens, if anyone asks, yes—of course—we completely understand.