After Dinner Speaker

A conference dinner.

 
We’re all tired, and we’ve been listening to people talking from the stage all day.
 
There’s lots happening.  Old friends catching up.  Big company folks trying to build rapport with potential customers.  Extroverts leading conversations at tables.  Introverts feeling bad they don’t want to talk to anyone.
 
The audience, typically for these things, is middle aged, male dominated, and has more than the average number of “alphas”.  These are senior people from business, government and policing, so confidence abounds and humility is a word everyone can spell (and most could use correctly in a sentence).  It’s British with a few overseas guests.
 
The host struggles to be heard over the volume of conversation as he introduces the evening. 
 
The sponsor who follows him on stage has no chance of being heard, and the weedy round of applause he is thanked with is uncomfortably embarrassing.
 
Wine flows.
 
Starters then main courses are eaten. 
 
Charity envelopes pass round each table – there are well over 300 people here and about £3,400 is raised.  The host stands up to celebrate this achievement, ignoring the inconvenient arithmetic suggesting most of us must have donated less than we spent on a couple of drinks in the bar.
 
The after dinner speaker takes the stage.  As a well known figure from the sporting world, he gets a warm round of applause and polite attention, but doesn’t immediately stop the chatter in the room – there’s a lot happening after all.
 
He starts with some jokes at the expense of the well known figures he has shared the top table with.  He’s warm and charming, with a lovely welsh accent and he seems very likeable.  The well lubricated room quickly becomes rowdy as we all laugh at his roasts.
 
He moves on to stories from his career, mocking one or two other well known sporting figures and the laughter continues. 
 
An American at our table seems scarcely able to understand his accent, and when moments of comprehension happen they seem to result in either cultural alienation or utter shock at his slightly bawdy turn of phrase and fruity language.  “You can’t say these things”, “This is terrible”.
 
The speaker starts telling more stories from his life, still punctuated with humour.  A story about the time his dad sat next to Prince Harry for several hours without realising who he was has everyone in stitches.
 
Then he begs our indulgence to tell a more personal story, and starts talking of his upbringing. 
 
As he does the room falls silent. 
 
Not a glass clinking, not a whispered comment here or a nudge and a chuckle there.  

Silent.
 
I’ve never experienced anything like it. 
 
He tells us about growing up in a small village in an industrial part of the countryside in the seventies.  Of discovering he was attracted to men.  Of the feelings of fear, alienation and self loathing that this triggered in him.  Of the time he tried to take his own life, and how he was saved.  First by those who physically and medically rescued him, and then by the words that led him to accept himself.
 
He speaks passionately, to an audience that one might not assume would be receptive, about inclusion and the fundamental importance of respect for others whether they are the same as you or different.
 
I am lost in admiration for this man, both for the impressive way he’s taken this frankly challenging audience on a journey from laughter to attentive silence, and for the humility and vulnerability he’s showing – all in the selfless hope that no-one else has to experience the things he has experiended.
 
The room remains completely and utterly silent.  Every pair of eyes is focused on one person.  Everyone is listening intently.  I don’t believe I was the only person in the room to have a moist eye.
 
He finishes speaking and steps down from the stage without fuss.  The room rises to its feet and the applause is thunderous for several minutes before our host can make himself heard to offer an official vote of thanks.  It’s too late.  Polite words are inadequate and clumsy after what went before.  “How do I follow that?” our host says awkwardly, then makes a thin attempt to link the sentiments just expressed with the themes of the conference.  It doesn’t work.
 
The spell is broken.  Slowly, people start talking, wine glasses are picked up, people leave to go to the toilet.  Business as usual resumes.
 
Tonight it felt like someone shared something really personal.  Something really important.  He did so in a way that totally captivated 300+ people.
 
I hope I learned something from this, and I hope others did too.
 
I was guilty of seeing this name on the bill and rolling my eyes thinking “not another sports person telling us how leadership on the pitch is the same as in the boardroom to make a quick buck on the speaking circuit”.  I couldn’t have been more wrong.
 
Nigel Owens, thank you for making us laugh and much more importantly, thank you for sharing your story with us tonight.