Awkward Introductions.

There is no human activity more dangerous, more unpredictable, or more likely to result in long‑term psychological scarring than the introduction. 

You can jump out of planes, wrestle crocodiles, or attempt to assemble flat‑pack furniture without crying, but nothing compares to the sheer terror of being told, “Go on introduce yourself.”

This is because introductions require you to summarise your entire existence in one sentence while standing upright and pretending to be a functional adult. Most people panic and blurt out something like, “Hello, I’m Jim and I enjoy… chairs?” Then they spend the next decade replaying that moment at 3 a.m.

The worst introductions happen at work events, where a stranger with the social grace of a malfunctioning printer grabs your hand and says, “Hi! I’m Martin!” in a tone that suggests he’s trying to startle wildlife. Before you can respond, Martin has already launched into a detailed explanation of his job, which appears to involve spreadsheets, “stakeholders,” and a mysterious process called “leveraging synergies,” which sounds like something you’d need antibiotics for.

Then he asks what you do. This is a trap. If you tell the truth, he will either not understand, pretend to understand, or  the most dangerous outcome  understand too much and begin offering advice. If you lie, you will forget the lie immediately and spend the rest of the evening hoping nobody asks you to demonstrate your skills as a “junior falconer.”

But the true apex predator of awkward introductions is the group icebreaker, a ritual invented by someone who hates humanity. The facilitator  always named something like Chloe or Gareth  beams at the room and says, “Let’s go around and share something interesting about ourselves!” This is how you end up listening to a man named Colin explain that he once ate an entire Scotch egg in one bite, while you desperately try to think of anything interesting you’ve ever done, including by accident.

Your mind goes blank. You forget every achievement, hobby, and personal detail you’ve ever possessed. You begin to question whether you even have a personality. When your turn arrives, you panic and say, “I own a kettle,” and everyone nods politely as if you’ve just revealed a deep emotional truth.

But nothing  nothing compares to the horror of being introduced incorrectly. This happens when someone else takes charge and decides to summarise your life for you. They always get it wrong. They will say things like, “This is Jim he’s really into pottery,” and now you must either correct them (social death) or pretend to be a pottery enthusiast for the rest of your natural life. Before you know it, you’re nodding along as someone asks whether you prefer earthenware or stoneware, and you’re saying things like, “Oh, you know… depends on the clay.”

Then there’s the handshake‑hug hybrid, a manoeuvre so dangerous it should require a licence. You go in for a handshake, they go in for a hug, and suddenly you’re both performing a strange interpretive dance that looks like two octopuses trying to share a coat. Someone always makes a noise  a small, embarrassed “huh”  and the moment is burned into your soul forever.

And of course, the classic: forgetting someone’s name immediately after they say it. They tell you their name is Graham, and your brain, in an act of pure sabotage, throws the information directly into the bin. Five seconds later you are introducing him to someone else with the confidence of a man defusing a bomb: “This is… this is… my good friend… this gentleman.”

Awkward introductions are unavoidable. They are eternal. They are the price we pay for living in a society instead of a cave. But there is one small comfort: everyone else is just as bad at them as you are.Except Martin. Martin loves them. Martin thrives on them.  Martin is the reason we need insurance.