The Hell of It All (16 page)

In order to maintain their mad conviction that the economy is real, City traders adopt all manner of belief-bolstering strategies, such as awarding themselves vast bonuses when they ‘do well’ in the ‘stock market’. This reinforces the notion that it’s possible to play the market with a modicum of skill, which it isn’t, because (a) it isn’t there in the first place and (b) it’s random. They’re like pub gamblers convincing themselves they’ve developed a ‘system’ for beating the fruit machine, except they get paid in Ferraris rather than tokens.

In his excellent book
Irrationality
, the late Stuart Sutherland cited several surveys in which the advice of financial experts has consistently been proven to be markedly less reliable than random guesswork. Professor of psychology Richard Wiseman went one further in his book
Quirkology
, conducting an experiment in which a professional investment analyst, a financial astrologist and a four-year-old girl all chose stocks to invest in. The four-year-old couldn’t even read, so her choices were made by writing the names of 100 stocks on pieces of paper, throwing them in the air and grabbing a few off the floor. No prizes for guessing who consistently came out on top, by an impressive margin, even when the value of the stocks was tracked for a full year.

In other words, the French rogue trader is only really guilty of dreaming that little bit harder than everyone else. Rather than punish him, perhaps they should simply wish him out of existence.

After all, it’s been done before: a Chinese metals trader called Liu Qibing racked up immense losses in 2005 by betting the wrong way on the price of copper at the London Metal Exchange. In the immediate aftermath, despite fellow traders claiming to know him as China’s main copper trader, the Chinese State Reserve Bureau simply denied he’d ever existed in the first place.

This is already shaping up to be a vintage year for celebrity deaths. First Heath Ledger, then Jeremy Beadle. In both cases I first heard of the sad demise through the miracle of text messaging. Friends clearly felt compelled to be the first to break the bad news: in Ledger’s case this was probably because his death came as a shock (an especially tragic one, given his age), and in Beadle’s … well, my theory is that everyone in the country secretly loved Jeremy Beadle, but kept it quiet because the general consensus seemed to be that he was ‘hated’. And when he died, we all felt slightly guilty that we hadn’t piped up sooner. There was a palpable sense of ‘aww’, because whatever your views on his TV shows, there was little doubt we’d lost a real character – and that somehow we’d failed him.

Anyway, having my mobile beep twice in a fortnight, like a coroner’s pager, made me feel as though I’d unwittingly subscribed to some kind of instant deathwatch service. Which isn’t a bad idea, actually. Let’s brainstorm!

OK. It’s called ‘eVulture’. You sign up for free on a website, and choose the category of celebrity you’re interested in. This being an age of dazzling consumer choice in which the customer is routinely indulged like a spoilt medieval prince, the whole thing is super-configurable. You can decide to ignore everyone but the biggest Hollywood star, for instance, or specialise in minor characters from half-remembered TV shows, the sort of person whose passing probably wouldn’t be mentioned in a mainstream news bulletin. So if you want to be contacted the moment one of
Blake’s 7
shuffles off this mortal coil, or the Milk Tray man winds up in a box of his own, this is the service for you.

Meanwhile, back at eVulture HQ, a team of dedicated researchers monitors the news feeds, scans the death notices in local papers and, if necessary, phones around to ask if anyone’s seen that bloke who was in that thing lately. GPs are bribed to report any celebrity who dies on their watch (at the end of the year,
they receive a hamper full of cakes and wine – the quality and quantity depending on the number of tips they passed on).

As soon as a death is confirmed, the relevant subscribers receive a text alert, which arrives with a discreet little advert attached (that’s how the money rolls in). Anyone receiving a deathtext is likely to feel slightly depressed for a few minutes: an ideal condition for advertisers, because you’re talking about people with their guard down here. Research suggests that messages for comfort products such as chocolate or alcohol should perform particularly well under these circumstances. There’s also scope for some revenue-generating user interaction, too, such as an option to send flowers, sign a virtual book of condolence, or order a rush-released DVD box set containing the deceased’s greatest performances.

Future plans include a scheme in which celebrities are voluntarily fitted with microchips that monitor their current health status, and automatically transmit a personalised farewell message to fans the moment their heart stops beating. At present, we can only offer raw text messaging, but soon hope to provide a full range of MMS-epitaph features such as animated icons, background music, and CGI video clips of the star in question waving goodbye and ascending to heaven.

That’s the business plan in a nutshell. I’ve copyrighted the idea, but if someone else wants to set it up, I’m more than happy to let them. You work out all the complicated stuff; I’ll take 25% of the profits. Actually, scratch that. Under that setup, I’d soon find myself looking forward to celebrity deaths – willing the cast of
Hollyoaks
to die so I could buy some new gold fittings for my yacht or something – which probably isn’t good for the soul. Plus it’d make good business sense to go around actively bumping people off. No. I can’t do it. Plough my share into wind farms or something. That should help eVulture subscribers assuage their guilt, while simultaneously providing a fitting tribute to the deceased. Perfect.

Incidentally, in case you’re appalled by the idea (on the flimsy grounds that it’s monstrous), it’s worth noting that despite its name, eVulture only steps in once death has occurred. Not before. The tabloids already have the ghoulish-rubbernecker market sewn
up, as evidenced by the hand-rubbing coverage of Britney Spears’ increasingly tragic predicament, or the extended hounding of Amy Winehouse, all of which strikes them as a tremendous paper-shifting wheeze.

If Britney Spears appeared on a window ledge tomorrow, a fight would break out below. Half of the assembled hacks and paps would scream at her to jump, and the rest would urge her to go back inside, but remain as tormented as possible. One or two might offer professional help, provided that it resulted in an exclusive.

And in the resultant coverage, the mob itself wouldn’t even be mentioned, none of their shouts or cackles recorded, as though they had exerted no influence at all. At best, a few detached smartarses might mutter something boneheaded about publicity-courting celebs bringing it on themselves. And then the lot of them would vanish into smoke, only to reappear at the scene of the next ‘inexplicable meltdown’.

Under the circumstances, eVulture looks positively acceptable.

This week, millions of people across the country will celebrate the crippling delusion known as ‘love’ by sending flowers, booking restaurants and placing stomach-churning small ads in newspapers. Valentine’s Day – the only national occasion dedicated to mental illness – is a stressful ordeal at the best of times.

If you’ve just started seeing someone, the day is fraught with peril. Say your current dalliance only began less than a month ago: is sending a card a bit full-on? What if you ignore it, only to discover they’ve bought you a 5kg Cupid-shaped diamond in a presentation box made of compressed rose petals?

Few things are worse than receiving a heartfelt Valentine’s gift from someone you’re still not sure about. It’s a crystallising moment: chances are you’ll suddenly know, deep in your bones, that they’re not the one for you. And while your gut contemplates that sad reality, your brain repeatedly screams at your face not to
give the game away, and you have to gaze at them with a fake smile and a fake dewy expression, until the pressure and shame involved in maintaining the facade makes you start to hate them for pointless reasons, like the stupid way they sit, or the stupid way they breathe, or the stupid way their pupils dilate when they look at you, planning your life together.

For those in established relationships, it’s a perfunctory, grinding ceremony. On February 14 restaurants nationwide play host to joyless couples begrudgingly sharing an overpriced meal in near-silence, each of them desperately trying to avoid a row because, well, it’s Valentine’s Day, and nothing says ‘I sort of love you, I think, although I can’t really tell any more’ quite like the ability to sustain an awkward, argument-free detente for one 24-hour period a year.

And, of course, if you’re single, it’s a thudding reminder of your increasingly desperate isolation. You’re stranded somewhere out on Thunderbird Five, picking up chuckles and kissy-sounds from the planet below, separated from the action by the cold gulf of space. It’s especially sharp if you’ve just been dumped and are feeling pretty raw about it, thanks. Under those circumstances, it’s a cruel joke: you’re like a one-legged man on National Riverdance Day.

What’s required is something to redress the balance: an Unvalentine’s Day, if you will. A day that actively celebrates love’s festering undercarriage. February 15 is ideal: there will be plenty of willing participants by then. Of course, if Unvalentine’s Day is going to succeed, it will require commercial backing – which shouldn’t be a problem, because there are loads of money-spinning opportunities here.

First off, how about a range of Unvalentine cards containing bitter messages for ex-lovers? Typical example: a mournful cartoon bunny with a harpoon lodged in its chest cavity, staggering blank-faced into oncoming traffic, with YOU RUINED MY LIFE printed across the top in massive, scab-red lettering. Or perhaps a Photo-shopped image of Hitler snoozing in bed, accompanied by the words HOW CAN YOU SLEEP AT NIGHT? Naturally, each card would have a little poem on the inside, something such as: Roses
are red/ Violets are blue/ I’m a meaningless robot/ Molested by you.

There would also be a range aimed at disillusioned long-term couples: epithets include I CAN’T TAKE MUCH MORE OF THIS, IT ISN’T REALLY WORKING, and our bestseller, the starkly effective DYING INSIDE.

The aforementioned restaurants can get in on the act too, by hosting Unvalentine meals specially designed for couples on the verge of a break-up. There’d be no red wine, so you can chuck drinks over each other without ruining your clothes, and all the food would be incredibly spicy, so when you tell your partner of seven years that you’re seeing someone else, and tears start pouring down both your faces, anyone nosey enough to look on will simply think you’re reacting to the chillies. The toilets would be manned by male and female prostitutes, so you can indulge in some cathartic, self-hating rebound sex within five minutes of getting the old heave-ho.

Cheating on your partner, incidentally, is actively encouraged on Unvalentine’s Day. Consider it a 24-hour carte blanche to shag whoever you please. Developing an obsession with someone in the office? Get it out of your system on February 15! Let’s face it, it’s probably good for both of you in the long run.

As well as celebrating the death of existing loves, Unvalentine’s Day can also accommodate all the loves that never were: the thwarted crushes, unrequited yearnings, and hopeless unspoken dreams. So if there’s a friend you’re desperately holding a candle for, even though they’ve pointed out time and time again that it’s never going to happen, this is your ‘me-time’: you’re permitted to call them up and howl down the phone for half an hour, or stand pleading outside their window like a sap. And for one day only, it’s illegal for anyone to pity you.

In summary, Unvalentine’s Day promises to be the most coldly practical celebratory festival in history – a far healthier affair than Valentine’s Day itself. True love is so uncontrollably delightful, there’s no need to set aside a mere day in its honour. As for love’s torments – well, it’s probably best to compress and release them in
a single, orderly burst, once a year. And that day is February 15. Mark it in your diary. Beside the tearstains.

Morning, citizen! The grandly titled Julian Le Grand, chairman of a ministerial advisory board called Health England, has a humdinger of an idea for you: smoking permits. He proposes a ban on the sale of tobacco to anyone who can’t flash a licence at the cashier.

Good news for smokers: Le Grand reckons said licence should cost only £10. Bad news: he wants to make the application process as deliberately complex as possible. You’d have to fill out a lengthy form, attaching a photograph, proof of age and a fee, and send it all to a central Smoker’s Permit processing centre and wait for your licence to come back, by which point, let’s face it, you would have probably died. Oh, and the licence expires after a year, so you have to apply all over again each time it runs out.

Why leave it there? Why not make it expire every 24 hours, so you have to reapply each morning? Or include a Sudoku on the application form? Or force the tobacco companies to sell cigarettes inside complicated Japanese puzzle boxes? Or change the name of the brands each week, without publicising the change, while simultaneously making it illegal for a shop to sell you anything you haven’t asked for by name, so you have to stand at the counter fishing for codewords for an hour?

Or here’s a good one, Julian: make it a requirement for smokers to walk around with a broomhandle stuck through their sleeves, running behind the neck, so their arms are permanently splayed out, like a scarecrow’s. To spark up under those conditions, they’d have to work together in pairs, flailing around in the outdoor smoking area like something out of
It’s a Knockout
.

His paper, incidentally, also proposes ‘incentives for large companies to provide a daily “exercise hour” for staff’. Welcome to your future life: having struggled into work suffering withdrawal pangs because today’s smoking licence didn’t arrive in the post, you’re forced to spend 60 minutes doing squat-thrusts in the car park.
And each time you start crying, a man in a helmet comes round to gently remind you that it’s all for your own good. Through a loudhailer.