From time to
time we all like to indulge the misconception that our daily lives are special
and fascinating and wholly worthy of extended viewing. Channel 4’s Big Brother
pandered to this growing modern conceit, allowing the chronically idiotic and
the terminally inane to flaunt their soul destroying selves on national
television for all to see. Facebook and Twitter have continued this trend with
people validating themselves by how many ‘followers’ they have or how many ‘like’
that photo of them impishly pouting in a glitter encrusted mirror. Since God
got found out, the absence of a voyeuristic audience to watch us shower, shop
and shite has seemingly left us feeling pretty useless. The greedy vacuum has
been neatly filled by the most postmodern of sicknesses- what could be called, ‘Big
Brother’ syndrome. This strange affliction leads us to conjure omnipresent
watchers to make us feel oh-so special. Subsequently, hide and go seek becomes
a popular pastime for fully grown adults seeking to shield their intriguing and
endlessly exciting lives from starving eyes. My aunt has recently refused to shop with bank
cards, only cash, for fear of ‘the powers that be’ compiling data on her.
Correct me if I’m wrong but I’d be inclined to reckon that the AIB, struggling
against global recession, has better things to be doing than sending petty hate
mail berating my aunt for grabbing that multi-pack of Maltesers the day after
she picked up a new treadmill.
In 2008 in
Suffolk, attempts to bring in CCTV cameras to trace stolen or criminal vehicles
were met with fierce and self-righteous outcries against police surveillance
from village folk. It truly begs the question, why would any Orwellian eyes
waste their time watching your average, law-abiding 30Kmph motorist as they
extract ear wax from their dull ears? Seemingly, Mr. and Mrs. Jones felt the
route they took to their ginger beer soaked family picnic was a detail that
should only be released following the gradual removal of all their finger
nails. It’s depressing but many people now appear to feel entitled to the
spotlight, every single minute of their stinking lives. Society’s wildest
fantasies are now epitomised in ‘The Truman Show’, veritable masturbation
material for the masses. People can’t even step out their front door without
alerting their gran, girlfriend and Gary the goldfish via Facebook that they
are ‘@in the porch’. Jim Corr, possibly irked about looking like a two year
olds Magna Doodle scribble, has cried of omniscient dark forces carefully
tracking his every move. His attention seeking antics are a classic case of BB
syndrome- a lunatic who spent most his career invisible in the shadow cast by
his sisters’ breasts and could’ve walked into any pub in Ireland with ‘I AM JIM
CORR FROM THE CORRS’ perfectly scrawled across his chest in his own excrement
and barely provoked a glance.
It is of
course smugly satisfying to imagine now and then that you’re worthy of such ‘Big
Brother’ attention. In all-too-frequent moments of narcissism, my own watcher
fantasies are fuelled by the sight of the Russian Embassy standing imperiously
on the other side of my street. On
overcast Monday mornings I like to imagine two ex-KGB hitmen perfectly
camouflaged in garden shrubbery, meticulously counting each and every sultana in
my soggy bowl of cereal and recording the details in a mink lined notepad with
a pen that doubles as a lethal radium dart. Or when I pass the Embassy gates on
windy nights I revel in vain delight imagining the grainy black-and-white shots
of yours truly stashed so very carefully in a wax sealed envelope marked ‘Counter
Intelligence- Highly Confidential’. These notions are as deluded as they are
fanciful however. In reality we’re mostly cringingly painful to watch, like a
nudist octogenarian with a penchant for jumping jacks and baby oil rubs.
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