Sean Thomas has narrated this article for you to listen to.
Four days ago I was so bored that I considered starting a terrorist groupuscule. I had no demands, no ideology, no manifesto. I just wanted directionless chaos. I even got as far as ChatGPTing ‘How to start a violent movement’ before realising all movements require meetings. And meetings are dull.
You may think I’m exaggerating. But the truth is, I have a lifelong fear of boredom. To put it another way, I can handle peril, I can handle regret, I can handle doing lines of Californian coke so long they risk a heart attack. What I can’t handle is monotony.
For example, in my early thirties I visited a warzone in southern Lebanon to escape the tedium of an otherwise routine travel assignment. My German photographer friend and I were kidnapped by Hezbollah and held in a village that was under fire from the Israelis. We were lucky to survive – so lucky I now see every sunrise as a kind of clerical error. And yet, somewhere in the middle of that terrifying experience, I had a happy thought: this is the least bored I have ever been.
That, I admit, is not normal. And so it has been throughout my life. I have almost drowned in the Antarctic, been thrown off a troop train in Siberia, been in and out of jail, rightly and wrongly, and done so much heroin that I frightened Irvine Welsh into fleeing a Soho supermarket. My attempts to escape boredom have been so extreme they sometimes verge on predictable.
The nihilistic philosopher Emil Cioran suggested all history is the result of our desire to avoid boredom. As an obvious example, revolutions and civil wars are often started by the bored provincial bourgeoisie. In other words, by young men who have enough money to experience ennui, because they don’t have to plough the fields to eat, but not enough power and responsibility to escape the tedium of existence. Plus they are in the sticks, where nothing happens.
Think of Hitler enduring empty afternoons in lethargic Linz, or Napoleon pacing away the days in comatose Corsica. Think of Robespierre from apathetic Arras, Stalin in tedious Tbilisi, Castro in yawning Oriente. Right now there is probably a bored kid in, say, Newent, wondering how to overthrow the Westminster system. I wish him the best.
However, if boredom fuels chaos, shouldn’t we be enjoying unprecedented peace? After all, we’ve basically abolished boredom, haven’t we? Everyone can summon the world on a phone, argue with imaginary or invisible friends, or play mindless games when stuck in a supermarket queue. Yet the world feels angrier and more chaotic than ever. Perhaps in our frantic attempts to cure boredom, we have overdosed on stimulation. Innovations designed to relieve tedium instead feed us outrage, horror and anxiety. Yes, anger banishes boredom, but is anger an improvement?
Perhaps, in the end, boredom is necessary and we should endure it. But that still leaves the question: why, a few days ago – despite my phone, the internet and the weird fun of AI – was I still so bored I nearly founded a radical splinter group? To which the honest answer is: booze. Or lack of it. At the moment I’m experimenting with two dry days a week. I’m worried that if I take it to three, I will invade Brittany. That would, after all, be in keeping with our unboring times.
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