Unpopular Opinion

Raised on Irony, Allergic to Hype

There’s a TV show doing the rounds at the moment called Last One Laughing, where comedians compete to make each other laugh while trying desperately not to laugh themselves. I gave it a whirl purely because two of my favourite funny men, Bob Mortimer and Richard Ayoade, take part. But while my husband found it vaguely amusing, I sat stony-faced, wondering if this was really the same show that’s reportedly leaving audiences “helpless with laughter.”

It isn’t the first time I’ve felt completely at odds with the rest of the world. Take, for instance, the collective gasp that rippled across the pool during aqua class when I casually admitted I didn’t like the latest Bridget Jones movie, Mad About the Boy.

Yes, I know many loved it - you can’t swing the proverbial cat online without hitting a glowing review. And that’s the thing. We’re often subtly conditioned to believe we should enjoy certain movies, books, cultural obsessions - because everyone else apparently does. The marketing machine is relentless, the hype is deafening, and soon, voicing a dissenting opinion feels like social heresy.

The Emperor’s in the nip!

And yet, more often than not, when my experience doesn’t align with popular verdict, I’m wired to challenge the consensus, not conform to it.

Admittedly, that’s because I’m a bit of a contrary moo. My husband says I am a harsh critic - but I prefer to call them standards. Something I attribute to being of a certain age.

As many of you know, I’m Gen X. Raised during economic downturns and institutional disillusionment, we developed an early radar for anything that felt contrived or overhyped. Even when we embraced trends, we did so with irony, with one eyebrow permanently raised, as if to say, Sure, I might be into this, but don’t mistake it for blind enthusiasm.

Saying that, I have had my fair share of glorious U-turns - White Lotus being the most recent. And I know I’m not alone. There’s an entire tribe out there proudly declaring they’ve never seen an episode of Game of Thrones, or can’t understand why people go ga-ga over Breaking Bad.

It’s not that I go out of my way to be difficult - I just seem to find myself instinctively zigging when the world zags. And once you start paying attention to the things you’re supposed to like, you begin to notice just how many of them leave you cold.

So, in the spirit of honesty (and possibly social exile), I thought I’d share a few more of my unpopular opinions. Buckle up buttercups, it’s about to get mildly controversial.

Buffets

Food is fantastic, isn’t it? I don’t eat to live, I live to eat. I’ve touched on my love of food, crisps in particular, when discussing my struggle with abstinence, here.

Coming from Irish heritage, I was raised in a culture of feeders. Father Ted’s downtrodden housekeeper, Mrs Doyle, isn’t some exaggerated national stereotype - she’s an accurate representation of many an Irish woman.

However, it was drilled into me from an early age that food was a privilege. There were always people less fortunate, children starving somewhere in the world, and wasting a meal was unthinkable. But the other side of that virtuous gold chocolate coin? A shameless little glint of greed.

Step forward: the all-you-can-eat buffet, where the promise of 'getting your money’s worth' triggers a primal hoarding instinct, as if abundance itself were a challenge. Faced with unlimited options, people don’t just eat - they overconsume. When something seems limitless, restraint goes out the window.

And what’s more, when in the queue for a buffet, I am ALWAYS, without exception, behind the person who eats the last of the roast potatoes.

Which brings me onto…

Cruises

You won’t find me on a cruise - not just because of the buffet, but because of the whole floating prison vibe. There’s something deeply unsettling about being trapped on a giant ship with nowhere to run from scheduled conga lines, aggressively chipper cruise directors, and a daily programme of forced fun you didn’t ask for. I get itchy just thinking about the relentless cheerfulness, the communal napkin-waving at dinner, and the idea that your only escape is a lifeboat, or pretending to be part of the crew.

Fireworks

I honestly had fireworks down on my ‘dodo bingo card’ of things I expected to be extinct by 2020. And I’ll admit, I’m deeply suspicious of anyone over the age of fourteen who genuinely enjoys them.

In Queensland, the use of display fireworks by the public has been illegal since 1972. Only licensed professionals can set them off. And there’s even a number we can call to dob in anyone we suspect of breaking the law.

Now I’m no snitch, but when it comes to fireworks I’d make an exception, because:

a) I’m an animal lover - they have a horrific impact on pets and wildlife, and b) in the UK, the damn things bang on well past the previously accepted one-day-a-year timeframe.

As far as I’m concerned, if you want to look at colours in the sky, go gaze at a set of traffic lights.

Artificial Highs / Virtual Realities

One such example is a place called Dopamine Land¹ - an interactive, multi-sensory experience designed to stimulate the senses and evoke feelings of joy. Situated in the concrete jungle that is Brisbane city, visitors can participate in pillow fights, navigate digital forests, and explore infinity mirror rooms, all aimed at triggering dopamine - the so-called "happiness hormone."

Look, we all need a slice of happy, but I take exception to artificial highs, and resent huge swathes of the population spending money chasing an experience that nature offers us free of charge.

You know what I find truly relaxing? Listening to birds in the trees, the scent of the sea, and the feeling of fresh grass underfoot.

And on a similar topic: Spa Breaks.

My fellow Substacker,

Sara

, wrote a brilliant piece recently on her inability to enjoy massages, and I could totally relate.

Paying to disrobe in front of a complete stranger who sounds like they’re half-dazed on Temazepam, while they run oily hands over you to a soundtrack of Whale Sounds Volume 2 - which we’re led to believe is the sound of mating, but I suspect is more often than not a row over who ate the last of the mackerel - IS NOT RELAXING.

Same goes for flotation tanks. But when my husband waxed lyrical about his session (the kids bought him a voucher one Christmas), I figured I’d give it a go.

Here’s the thing: sensory deprivation experiences only work if you’re open to them, if you surrender. Kind of like hypnosis. Admittedly, I’m one of those people who instinctively resists anything that threatens my control, which probably ties into my Gen X skepticism of authority figures who think they know better.

Look, I gave it a go, but three minutes in, panicked because my eyes weren’t adjusting to the pitch black – triggering my deep-rooted fear of going blind because Mary Ingalls did, in Little House on the Prairie. Five minutes later, I felt claustrophobic and cracked the pod lid slightly open. And after eight minutes, the fizzy salts in the water were doing my lady bits NO FAVOURS WHATSOEVER.

Mary Ingalls in an episode which traumatised a generation

So I gave up, got out, showered, and sat on a chair in the dark - waiting for my husband to finish next door.

He, unsurprisingly, emerged in a zen-like state. But what I didn’t know was that opening the lid had triggered a sensor, which grassed me up to the dude behind the counter, who was clearly unimpressed by my inability to enjoy the experience. I resented being judged by a man who smelled like patchouli, so we made a quick exit. My husband urged me to “tell him about your lady bits” - but I declined and have never darkened the door of a flotation tank again.

The Beach

I’m not saying that beaches aren’t beautiful. They are. But sand spoils your fun. The damn stuff gets everywhere - no matter how serene the setting, one gust of wind and you’re exfoliating places that should never be exfoliated.

And let’s be honest, the Brits have never quite mastered the beach. We’re either wildly over-prepared - lugging half the house with us, including a fold-out table, emergency cagoule and three types of biscuit…Or we rock up with nothing but optimism and get burnt to a crisp within ten minutes. There’s no in-between.

Meanwhile, Aussies make it look easy. They just know how to do beach life: no fuss, no gear, no drama. Just a towel, a bit of sunscreen, and a casual air of competence we can only dream of. They were born into this. We, on the other hand, are still trying to figure out which way up the windbreak goes.

Pizza

In my 52 years on this planet, there have been only a handful of times when the hype has actually lived up to the taste of what is, when you strip away the romance, essentially a big round toasted sandwich.

Prosecco

Champagne in spirit, vinegar in execution.

I’ve more examples, but I’ve probably lost most of you firework fans by now…

So maybe I’m out of step. Maybe I’m the odd one out at the spa, the only person not sighing contentedly in a flotation tank, or quietly backing away from a conga line at sea. But I’ve come to realise it’s not the disliking that bothers me - it’s the pressure to pretend I don’t. The real problem isn’t having different tastes; it’s the creeping sense that we should all be clapping in unison.

So here’s to the quietly unimpressed, the hype-resistant, the ones who zig when the world zags. We may not shout the loudest, but we’re here. Probably at home, arms crossed, eating crisps.

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Thanks for the lovely response to my last piece - a tribute to the art of impersonations 👇

Imitation Nation

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1. https://dopaminelandexperience.com/brisbane/