Request: Ever since we let him inside one time last summer, James Packer hasn’t stopped popping his head in. It doesn’t matter the occasion, if there’s two friends or twenty, he’s got the details and there “better an hour early, than a minute late”.
I wouldn’t mind so much if he made more of an effort with my other friends. But every time I try and introduce him to the work group, or my partner’s mothers’ group, he doesn’t show much interest.
These days he usually stands silent in the corner. That is, unless you’ve got him talking about the 2011-2016 Melbourne Stars (what he calls the “silver years”). Eventually you’ll grow so tired of his sullen nature you’ll try and draw him onto cricket, and suddenly he’s telling me, “Adam, how many times are we going to talk about the same thing? I don’t know that there’s anything left to say.” But when I ask him if there’s anything he’d like to discuss, he reverts to insisting Shane Warne’s talents are limited by Duckworth-Lewis, and they’d have won in 2012-13 if it were for better weather.
My father’s taken a welcome interest in the affair, and can usually be relied upon to drop in on short notice to take care of Mr Packer, entertaining all of his asides about the “better Hussey” and “crooked Rod Tucker”. But now my father’s getting on my partner’s nerves, because he’s always giving the children unwanted advice about lucid dreaming, or dressing the cat up in upsettingly silly costumes.
Of course, I’ve tried to approach the problem directly. We even arranged an intervention last month, and got everyone round committed to the cause. Suddenly, James didn’t show, and if I’m being honest, we had quite a good time without him. At the end of the night and a few bottles of wine, we didn’t have the heart to carry out our mission when James did arrive on the doorstep. “Sorry mate, it won’t happen again - you know me, better an hour early, than a minute late.”
Advice: I’d recommend moving house, but continuing to carry holy water as a precaution.