This is actually Bullshit

This Is Actually Bullshit

I am currently sitting on my sofa watching MasterChef.

And I've just had the overwhelming thought:

Why the fuck is this interesting to us?

Someone has made some food. Someone else has tasted the food. There has been an overdramatically concerned face over a sauce. Somebody's potatoes aren't quite right. Joe might not go through.

And apparently I care.

Except suddenly, I don't.

Because I had this strange moment where I stepped outside of the whole thing and looked at us.

Humanity.

What are we actually doing?

There are enormous things happening in the world right now.

Documents connected to Jeffrey Epstein continue to expose deeply disturbing allegations and associations involving wealthy and powerful people. There are questions about abuse, power, institutions, accountability and who knew what. Some things are established fact, some remain allegations, and plenty of claims circulating online go far beyond what the evidence actually demonstrates.

But even without embellishing any of it, what is documented is horrifying enough.

And I'm sitting here thinking:

Oh no. Joe didn't go through.

Who fucking cares?

Seriously.

Who cares?

───

This isn't actually about MasterChef.

MasterChef has merely had the tremendous misfortune of being on my television when I apparently decided to have an existential crisis about civilisation.

I like television.

I like films. I like ridiculous programmes. I like watching things that require absolutely nothing from my brain. Sometimes I actively seek them out because I don't want to think anymore.

We all need rest.

But I suddenly wondered whether we've confused rest with distraction.

Because we are so accustomed to being distracted that we don't even recognise distraction anymore.

We call it relaxing.

We finish work and put the television on.

We pick up our phones during the adverts.

We scroll while we're watching something else.

We read about celebrities.

We watch strangers cook.

We watch strangers date.

We watch strangers argue.

We watch strangers renovate houses.

We watch strangers react to other strangers doing things.

Then we go to bed and scroll some more.

And somewhere underneath all of that, the actual world continues happening.

───

There is a phrase from ancient Rome that gets thrown around a lot:

Bread and circuses.

Keep people fed. Keep people entertained. Keep them occupied.

And perhaps they'll be less interested in looking too closely at power.

Obviously, modern society isn't ancient Rome and entertainment isn't automatically some sinister coordinated plot (maybe) designed to stop us overthrowing governments between episodes of Bake Off.

But Christ, sometimes you can see why the phrase survived.

Because the circus never disappeared.

And now we carry it around in our pockets.

Twenty-four hours a day.

There doesn't even need to be somebody sitting in a dark room deciding what should distract us.

We've built an entire economy around capturing human attention.

Our attention is valuable.

Companies compete for it.

Algorithms learn how to keep it.

Notifications demand it.

Streaming services automatically begin another episode before we've even decided whether we wanted one.

There is always something else to watch.

Something else to buy.

Something else to be outraged about.

Something else to scroll past.

Something else to prevent the horrifying possibility that we might sit quietly for ten minutes and actually think.

───

And then I arrive at the uncomfortable question.

Why aren't we doing anything?

I don't mean that everybody should switch off MasterChef, grab a pitchfork and march towards Parliament.

Please don't cite me at your trial.

I mean something much simpler.

Why do enormous revelations seem to arrive, briefly dominate conversation, and then disappear beneath the next thing?

Why are we capable of being horrified by something on Tuesday and barely remembering it by Friday?

Why does almost everything now seem to have a lifespan of about 48 hours?

A scandal.

A war.

A political revelation.

A humanitarian disaster.

An investigation.

A whistleblower.

Something that should fundamentally alter how we understand the world.

And then:

Anyway, here's what everybody wore at an awards ceremony.

And off we go.

Perhaps we're overwhelmed.

Actually, I think that's probably a huge part of it.

What exactly is one ordinary person supposed to do with the knowledge that powerful systems may be corrupt (probably)?

What am I personally supposed to do about war?

Or billionaires?

Or governments?

Or exploitation?

Or technological changes happening faster than legislation can understand them?

I've got washing to put away.

I've got children.

I've got bills.

I've got a body that occasionally decides walking is an optional feature.

I've got dinner to make.

Human beings cannot exist in a permanent state of outrage.

We'd completely burn ourselves out.

So maybe we retreat into smaller worlds because smaller worlds are manageable.

Joe's sauce can be fixed.

The world's systems are slightly more complicated.

───

But I don't think exhaustion explains all of it.

Because we seem to have become extraordinarily comfortable with spectating.

We watch everything.

Even our own lives sometimes.

We watch people living instead of living.

We watch people debating instead of talking.

We watch people protesting instead of asking what we believe.

We watch people exposing things and think:

Jesus. That's terrible.

Then our thumb moves upwards.

Next video.

And that's probably the part that's bothering me tonight.

That distraction has become so constant that we barely notice when we're doing it.

There is almost never a gap.

And without gaps, when exactly are we supposed to notice what we think?

───

I don't know what the answer is.

I'm certainly not suggesting we abandon joy and spend our remaining years sitting solemnly around kitchen tables discussing institutional corruption.

That sounds dreadful.

Joy matters.

Art matters.

Stories matter.

Football matters if you love football.

MasterChef probably matters enormously to Joe right now.

Human beings need play and silliness and beauty and nonsense.

But there is a difference between choosing entertainment and being permanently entertained.

Between enjoying the circus and forgetting there is a world outside the tent.

Because the most valuable thing we possess isn't money.

Maybe it's attention.

Where we place it.

What we notice.

What we're willing to question.

What we refuse to look away from.

And who benefits when we're looking somewhere else.

───

Anyway.

I've apparently ruined MasterChef for myself.

Joe didn't go through.

And somewhere between his disappointing sauce and somebody else's beautifully cooked lamb, I accidentally remembered that I live on a planet containing eight billion people (apparently), enormous concentrations of power, extraordinary technology, wars, corruption, beauty, suffering, love, exploitation, possibility and enough unanswered questions to occupy several lifetimes.

And we're all just...

watching telly.

For fuck's sake.

What are we doing?