Nearly 40 years ago I was introduced to a builder called Ambrose in a very dodgy pub in Birmingham. The moment has remained with me partly because Ambrose struck me as an unusual name for a builder, but mainly because his handshake was so fierce it felt as if there wasn’t an unbroken bone left in my hand. I didn’t yelp out loud – it wasn’t a place for yelping – but my eyes were definitely watering. I had to lift my pint to my lips left-handed.
How firm should your grip be? I’ve been grappling with this question ever since I started shaking hands with people. When was that, I wonder. At what age do you begin shaking hands? There must be a moment when someone decides the time has come. This could be a parent, perhaps, who might see it as a rite of passage akin to teaching you to tie your own shoelaces, or tie a tie, or ride a bike, or open a bank account, or go to a pub for a pint. Come on, son, you’re a big lad now – it’s time you started shaking people’s hands when you say hello. Or, more likely, some time in your early teens an uncertain adult, unsure how to greet you, offers you an outstretched hand. Astonished, you freeze, leaving them hanging. And then you realise you have no choice but to take the hand and submit to yours being squeezed and possibly pumped up and down as well.
I don’t remember my debut handshake – losing my handshaking virginity, so to speak. All I know is that I’m very glad it wasn’t with Ambrose. But his boa constrictor of a greeting did get me worrying about my grip. And it’s been a concern ever since. How soft is limp? How firm is too firm? When does firm cross the line into vice-like? A few weeks ago I met a father and son. The lad, in his mid-teens, was wildly impressive in every way bar his handshake, which was as flaccid as flaccid could be. Someone needed to tell him. But who? I suppose it could be his dad’s job but, given that fathers and teenage sons rarely shake hands with each other, how’s his dad going to know?
After 40-plus years of trial and error, I think I’m now getting close to establishing what constitutes optimum pressure. Having started off too limp – a common rookie error, I assume – post-Ambrose I started squeezing with all the muscle I could muster. Before long, a woman to whom I was introduced winced and withdrew her hand in pain. Mortified, I apologised, and for a while I eased right off and went back to a wet fish of a grip. And so on, back and forth, never feeling it was quite right, but slowly getting there. When I was learning to play golf, the teacher gave me a club to hold that squealed if your grip was too tight. Someone ought to invent a rubber hand that does the same thing.
There are other variables to consider, such as how much pumping up and down you should do. And how long you should hold on for. I’ve a very old friend who shakes very firmly but noticeably briefly, withdrawing his hand quickly and deliberately. I’m not sure why, but as he’s from Birmingham I suppose he too might have met Ambrose back in the day and doesn’t want to go through the same pain again. I’ve never mentioned any of this to him, but sometimes I deliberately hold on to him, just for the hell of it, for the enjoyment of the quick game of tug-of-war that ensues.
I now realise I never gave my daughters guidance on any of this. Bad Dad. But I’ve just asked my younger one to demonstrate her technique and I’ve been well impressed. Strongish grip, three quick pumps, and away. Excellent. I’m sure my wise counsel would have made it all a lot less straightforward for her.
An evening with Adrian Chiles
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Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist
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