The Back Row Brethren

Prague, Czech Republic

Oh dear, I have done it again. That sign of increasing age, of gradually increasing infirmity, of publicly stating that the ageing process is beginning to take its toll. No longer is it just a matter of keeping an eye out for the nearest gents – a phenomenon that hits so many males after the age of 50 – on this occasion I fell asleep in public.

It was in Prague, addressing a conference of likeminded surgeons, although my own particular session had been slightly earlier. I had escaped from the main auditorium to join a management meeting for one of Europe’s larger surgical societies. It was a warm room, a society bigwig was holding forth at the front, and there were about twenty of us present in total. One of those managerial meetings where I try to show interest, certainly show support, and as the only Englishman present end up defending my country’s interests without really knowing why. The Brits do come in for considerable teasing in these pan-European meetings, the Americans even more so. My function at these events is normally to keep one ear open for what is being said, missing most of it because it is being uttered in rapid fire German, or Greek, or French, or some language that I cannot grasp at speed, and then raising my hand whenever I hear the words “All those in favour”. The Chairman rules all.

But at the back of the room, with the temperature rising to slightly above 20 degrees Celsius, I was feeling relaxed. It had been a long night, as I had been pacing my room rehearsing a presentation that I was scheduled to give to a plenary session first thing in the morning. Presentation over, question time handled, I was feeling energy-sapped. Public speaking does that to me. It tires me. Not at the time, of course, but afterwards when my body realises how much energy has gone into what is basically a public performance. 

So the seat at the back of the administrative meeting was an ideal place to take. I had sneaked in, at least thought I had sneaked in, but as I tactically opened the door as would a Commando about to take out his target, every head had turned. I had been welcomed like a long-lost friend, hands had been shaken, real smiles given as I had been made to feel truly welcome. So yes, I was relaxed, I was allowing my mind to wander and thanking Heaven the Chairman was doing his own thing and not expecting me to contribute. It is like anaesthesia as you feel it coming on, your shoulders relax, your eyes become heavy and individual words from your fellow attendees gradually become a fading mumble. Occasionally an excitable Spaniard – I think - or could it have been a Greek, would wake me from my slumbers. Yet the moment he stopped speaking at rapid fire, emotional pace, back into full meditation-like relaxation I would go. Then, feeling guilty and hoping no one had noticed – the back row is a good place for snoozers – my head would jerk up, my eyes automatically widen and I would mutter “Hear, hear,” to whatever statement the Chairman had must made.

Then I would start to sway. To the left was the danger area of an aisle leading to the front table. To fall from my chair in that direction would be a definite head injury. If I swayed right I could at least lean against the shoulder of a good Spanish colleague who remained alert and was contributing to the discussion in a way that I was not. But to fall asleep while leaning against the shoulder of a friend? How humiliating. No, somehow, if I was to sleep in this meeting and stay unnoticed I had to remain vertical and definitely – most definitely – I could not snore. 

If the Army taught me nothing else it was how to catnap effectively. When wearing those combat fatigues, you never knew from where or when the next sleep would come, so you would catch a few winks at any opportunity. The last time I had a full 8 hours would have been at least 20 years ago. Life has been a sequence of transient snoozes since then.

So I let myself relax, the shoulders droop, the head sag forward, as I tested my balance to be sure I swayed neither left nor right. I could not slump forwards either as before me were the broad shoulders of an Austrian. I could hardly allow my forehead to smack ostentatiously against them. That’s where the arms come in. You hold your hands together, fingers intertwined, thumbs crossed, and rest them gently over your manhood. The forearms then come into play as they lie along the length of each groin. Next you gently lean and let yourself go. A stiff neck helps, a natural part of the decaying process, as your head never sags too far. Again the sleeping, snoozing activity can remain hidden from the front and from those around you.

At that point, well trained in public sleeping, I was clearly away; away and fully out of it. At one point I had my balance wrong as I swayed towards the aisle on my left. My body jerked, that sudden uncontrollable jolt that accompanies deep sleep, and I regained balance. I positioned my forearms ever so slightly, and away I went once more. It was a good sleep, at least 20 minutes in total and ensured I had not the least idea what the bigwigs were saying. But my hand went up at the right moment when it came to a vote. I always voting for, never against, and had no idea for what I was voting. I just trusted them you see. They are friends I have known for ages. They are decent, fun-loving, fair individuals who have got to where they have by being just so. 

Nor was I alone. When, after an excellent meeting-cum-siesta-cum-snooze-cum-doing anything other than pay attention, I woke with that usual jolt, I looked to my right. The Spaniard was asleep. Next to him the Slovenian, his head lolling backwards, mouth open, catching the world’s largest flies. He was on the verge of a snore. Meanwhile the Cypriot beside him was giving it maximum, the cherry red nose vibrating, the lower lip pulsating as he, too, was noisily positioned in the Land of Nod. He was not even bothering to hide the fact he was asleep. He had just gone for it and had not even tried to vote.

You see, these are the Back Row Brethren, with the occasionally lady too. It is a club to which anyone can belong. If you wish to fall asleep at a meeting, always sit at the back never the front. Should you end up in the dreaded front row you will definitely fall from your chair, you will certainly be a target for the Chairman’s thrown chalk, and you will unquestionably make a public display. But the back row? Perfect. Just what is needed. It is quiet, warm, a row without opinion. Awaken briefly to vote in favour when it is sought, wedge yourself securely so you do not fall, clear your throat so you cannot snore, and then go for it. Sleep, snooze, dream if you will. The Back Row Brethren is a noble organisation. Entry to anyone is free.