Click. Clip.
Microphone. Headphones.
A famous man with a well-honed look of empathy, of intelligence.
Giving us earnest. Giving us relatability. Giving us guru.
Not a professor. Not an expert. Not a doctor. Not a scientist.
Not someone living a life like ours. But saying he does.
A success in business. By the definition of some. His followers. Admirers.
A broadcaster. Professional enough. Presentable enough.
But genuine warmth? Charisma? His talent is turning up.
His talent is wanting it.
Want it until your eyes bleed. Want it, want it.
Underneath.
On the surface he is calm.
Influence them. The public.
Click. Clip.
A famous woman with a well-honed look of empathy, of intelligence.
Giving us earnest. Giving us relatability. Giving us guru.
Not a professor. Not an expert. Not a doctor. Not a scientist.
Not someone living a life like ours. But saying she does.
A success in business. By the definition of some. Her followers. Admirers.
A broadcaster. Professional enough. Presentable enough.
But genuine warmth? Charisma? Her talent is turning up.
The talent is wanting it.
Want it until your eyes bleed. Want it, want it.
Underneath.
On the surface she is calm.
Influence them. The public.
Click. Clip.
A man in his study. Or is it his bedroom?
Microphone. Headphones.
His team are losing.
Good. He’s in business. Just the way he likes it.
Rants. Mangles English. Throws headphones.
Bemoans his life, posting clips. About a football team.
A team from a city he isn’t from. And didn’t support as a kid.
Didn’t support anyone as a kid.
But now. Latch on. Watch the football. Watch it move.
Oh no! The other team have scored. Clowns.
Throw the headphones. Push the chair over.
Perform to the little camera.
Not an expert. Not a pundit. Not a player. Not an ex-player.
Who knew they needed his opinion?
Thousands. And thousands. Click.
Each click an infinitesimal contribution to our demise.
They are all at it. Presidents. Would-be Presidents. Ex-Prime Ministers. Would-be comedians. Poundshop gurus. Media moguls. Spinfluencers. Show-offs. Twunts. The desperate. The needy. The narcissistic. The confused. The confident. The people who think they should at least try it. The genie. The bottle.
The age of clips. The age of clicks. The age of bullshit.
Straight into that thing in our hands.
*
A man.
Forty-something. Black hair engaging in battle with the grey ones that are also starting to get the better of his beard. Imagines himself involuntarily wincing. There was no wince. An impassive, granite face. He walks to his first-floor window. Places the phone on the windowsill. And opens it, a blast of November air.
He extends his arm. Drops the phone. Unlike the adverts, it smashes.
He shuts the window.
And packs an overnight bag….