Thinking About It Only Makes It Worse (35 page)

The 200-point rise in the FTSE 100 share index on the day that Richard Hammond was banned from driving gave economic theorists a lot to think about. “People just loved that story – it was the perfect misfortune for that public figure to undergo and the schadenfreude seriously lifted the public mood for several hours, which added billions to stock prices … Markets are emotional places and we can't underestimate the importance of this sort of boost at difficult times like these,” said a leading analyst from HSBC. The government was quick to see the potential of this insight and over the next few weeks Cheryl Cole suffered an outbreak of Bell's palsy, Seb Coe dramatically succumbed to male pattern baldness and Eamonn Holmes got stuck for several hours in the doorway of a branch of Greggs.

“I don't see why the NSA should have the monopoly on surveillance #hypocrisy,” tweeted teenager Obadiah Jenkins (those old names really are coming round again!) from his prison cell.

The self-styled “nerd and wanker” was convicted of several breaches of the European convention on human rights, as well as a violation of French airspace, for filming an intimate royal moment using his Google Android parcel-taped to a remote-controlled
helicopter. Jenkins had been holidaying with his parents, Kylie and Han, at a caravan site only a mile from the chateau where the duke and duchess were the honoured guests of a social-climbing Russian kleptocrat.

Royal watchers were appalled by what Obadiah referred to as “the ultimate in royal watching #doingit”, but perhaps the most upsetting consequence was a distressed yet perceptibly aroused Nicholas Witchell attempting to describe the footage on the
10 O'Clock News.

“I don't think we're really changing anything,” said a spokesperson for Eon Productions. “Just making explicit what has long been heavily implied. There are lots of vampire films where they're too cool to use the word ‘vampire', but it's clear from all the blood-sucking. Similarly, I think the fact that Bond's face keeps changing and he's apparently holding down the same extremely physical job after more than half a century makes it pretty obvious that he's a time traveller who can regenerate.

“We just never see his Tardis because, most nights, he's pulled. But it's been evident from the start. For the avoidance of doubt: we don't envisage a royalty payment to the BBC.”

“It was like something out of
Blue Planet
,” a traumatised witness said afterwards, “when all the orcas gang up on one humpback whale.”

His wife disagreed: “I think it was more like the Ewok bit from
Return of the Jedi
– where they attack the imperial walkers. It showed incredibly innovative use of bicycling technology. Except then they ate him, which the Ewoks didn't do. I was really rooting for them until they ate him.”

The couple had been stuck in slow-moving traffic on London's North Circular Road when dozens of cyclists sliced through the gridlock and surrounded an Eddie Stobart truck.

“I think they wanted a Stobart,” another onlooker said. “They passed an M&S lorry and an Ocado van and left them both alone.”

Most of the cannibal riders were subsequently arrested but remained unrepentant. “We only ate one of them,” they said in a statement. “They've killed loads of us and it barely makes the news but we eat just one of them and suddenly that's more interesting than Syria or Tulisa's new tattoo!”

“Quite simply, they shouldn't have been allowed to enter,” spluttered Brian Sewell when the controversial decision was announced. His evening was only made worse with the news that, in the absence of anyone from the organisation itself, the notorious terrorists had nominated him to receive the award on their behalf.

When the radical Islamist group expressed their intention to try for the award, eyebrows were raised – and they headed even further towards the art community's hairlines when the al-Qaida entry actually arrived.

“I think we'd all assumed it would be a video of a beheading or something,” said one of the judges. “So when we were confronted with an adorable watercolour of some gambolling New Forest ponies on a summer's day, we were taken aback. And of course the very incongruity made a profound statement.”

With the spring came news that, after years of intense and secret negotiation with the world's various Christian denominations, Google had finally managed to secure the global rights to Christmas.

In an impish masterstroke, the corporate giant made the announcement on 1 April, with the result that humanity's consternation was mitigated by most people assuming it was a joke. But not since Disney acquired
Star Wars
has a franchise been exploited with such fearless celerity as, over the summer, the search engine bought Valentine's Day and announced plans to revamp it as a sequel to the midwinter knees-up.

“What has Santa been doing since Boxing Day?” said a Google spokesman. “The answer is obvious: giving dating tips and making sex toys. We're going to get him back out on his sleigh spreading a romantic vibe with loads of click-through opportunities to local florists and restaurants. I am in love with this idea.”

“The whole team was thrilled,” said Gareth Jones, the manager of the popular branch of the French-style restaurant chain. “But then the wind was rather taken out of our sails when Antony Worrall Thompson started comparing us to al-Qaida. I mean, what's that about? They're extremist murderers and we're an affordable brasserie!”

Mr Jones, a practising Muslim, was unmollified by Worrall Thompson's hasty backtracking: “I only meant that they were similar in terms of being the extremely surprising recipients of awards,” the chef explained at a launch event for his new range of spoons.

“It's not like we won,” said an exasperated Jones. “We came third. And this is a bloody good branch of Café Rouge – just ask anyone.”

I’d like to thank:

My editor, Laura Hassan, for being consistently encouraging and wise (assuming that it is wise to be encouraging).

Robert Yates and Ursula Kenny at the
Observer
for editing my column and, in the case of Robert, asking me to write for the paper in the first place.

Luke Bird, Anna Pallai, Kate McQuaid, John Grindrod and Julian Loose at Faber & Faber.

Sara Montgomery and Lindsay Davies at Guardian Books.

My agents, Michele Milburn and Ivan Mulcahy.

Toby Davies, Tom Hilton, Jonathan Dryden Taylor and my brother Daniel Mitchell for reading many of these columns and excising countless pieces of crap.

Robert Hudson for tremendous help on many occasions, particularly in the early days before I really knew how to write things I wasn’t going to read out myself.

And my wife, Victoria Coren Mitchell, whose ideas, advice and jokes have hugely improved many of these columns and are the least of the blessings she has brought to my life.

This bit is supposed to send you on your way with a warm feeling. A good warm feeling, that is – like after a glass of brandy, not a lapse in bladder control. The fact that too many of the former can lead to the latter’s onset is not the least of the mysteries of the human condition.

I’m not sure mentioning the dehumanising effects of alcohol is striking the right tone. Sorry.

Yes, so imagine a sort of engaging blooper reel of me writing things on my computer and then for some reason bursting out in uncontrollable tearful laughter. Not at my own jokes, I hasten to add – that would be awful. But perhaps at some typo. Maybe I’ve written “boobs” instead of “the euro” or something similarly saucy and incongruous and I lose it because I’m just a regular guy, yeah?

And then the boom comes into shot and a couple of guys in headsets appear, and an arty woman with pens in her hair holding a clipboard, and we all have a good old giggle together, before they hurry off and I try and type “the euro” again, and this time it comes out as “fart” or “gurgle” or “cake” or “George Orwell”. Cue more hilarity and a charming insight into the “process”, which, when all’s said and done, is just a hell of a lot of fun.

Unfortunately, since this is a book, there isn’t the facility for showing video clips, so, as I say, you’ll just have to imagine all that. Unless you’re reading on a Kindle or something, in which case God knows. I dare say you can click on most of the words
and buy stuff. I should have mentioned
Peep Show
more. That brandy paragraph was probably co-sponsored by Courvoisier and Tena Lady.

The other problem, of course, is that this book was written alone so there are no techie colleagues to slap me on the back when I start to smirk. Any blooper giggling occurs unobserved, which is lucky because sitting in a room laughing on your own is, in fiction at least, a sign of unhinged villainy – and, in real life, suggests that social services have dropped the ball as usual.

A friend of mine once lived next door to a woman who just sort of screeched and giggled and yelled for no reason all the time, which was obviously very sad but, much more relevantly, extremely annoying. And the council did nothing, of course. And then her collection of columns was published to sniffy reviews, despite a cover quote of fairly unspecific, but nevertheless genuine, goodwill from a comedian. Not all of this paragraph is true.

Last impressions count – that’s the point. I remember the end credits of
Cry Freedom
listing all the people the apartheid regime had covertly murdered, and that certainly made it a difficult film to call shit. Although, in fact, it also wasn’t shit and perhaps the list would have seemed wrong if it had been. You’ve got to get it tonally right. Liam Neeson getting the giggles about some squeaky jackboots would not have helped the credits of
Schindler’s List
and, conversely, a list of the abuses of the British Raj was, in the final edit, cut from the closing titles of
Carry On Up the Khyber
.

I’m pretty sure I didn’t get this tonally right. I must have overthought it.