Apparently it’s easy to make money on YouTube by teaching a course in your specialism. Mine is having no friends. And I share my aversion to humanity with a number of very distinguished names. Isaac Newton, Charles Darwin, Emily Dickinson and Howard Hughes were all solitary creatures who didn’t allow social frippery to dilute the focus of their ambitions.
Psychologists tell me I have ‘autism’, which is promoted so widely in our society that we ought to call it ‘taughtism’. But I take issue with these experts. I don’t believe I have a neurological disorder. And I’m not some crazy hermit who lives in a cave or a ditch. I simply can’t help noticing that most human beings are a waste of space – myself included. I have a handful of acquaintances whom I see infrequently and always at their instigation. They’re talkative, gregarious types who only contact me when they’re scraping the bottom of the barrel. I’m happy to be scraped.
My companionship is very low calibre. I can’t match anyone in conversation. My mind is sluggish, my opinions secondhand, my delivery hesitant and underpowered. I hear myself wittering away and I wonder why I don’t just shut up. I can barely recall making a witty or worthwhile comment in my entire life. Once maybe. In 1985 I shared a house with Shirley and Jeremy and we were discussing old age. Shirley: ‘I don’t want to live to be 104.’ Me: ‘You will when you’re 103.’ Or maybe Jeremy said that.
Avoiding social events is a skill that involves fibs. To dodge a wedding, invent a christening. (And vice versa.) Skip a funeral by letting the relatives know that your aching heart is too fragile to endure the burial rites. Finding an excuse to bunk off a family birthday party is trickier because your loved ones know about your gamesmanship. A gift is usually required as well, which makes things worse. I hate presents. I always see them as insults. Toiletries: you’re unwashed. Books: you’re unread. Clothing: you’re unkempt. Timepieces: you’re unpunctual. Hankies: you can’t even wipe your own nose. I think I’ve solved the birthday problem once and for all. I give the celebrant a nice new padlock in some shiny wrapping paper. This unusual gift stimulates conversation at the party and delivers a flattering message: ‘You own something that your enemies want to steal.’
I simply can’t help noticing that most human beings are a waste of space – myself included
Some social gatherings are unavoidable. Drinks parties, for example. Who invented these horror shows? A room full of strangers dosed up with alcohol to numb the pain of being in a room full of strangers. Every-one hates drinks parties. Everyone goes to them. Everyone wishes they could leave. Everyone stays longer than they meant to. When I’m talking to a guest at a drinks party, I feel my mind dividing into an inner and an outer voice. My outer voice, the Public Spokesman, tries to chat agreeably about books or politics or whatever the subject is. My inner voice, the Escape Committee, submits a list of plausible getaway options. I could wave at an imaginary friend and melt into the crowd. I could beg permission to slope off for a cigarette. At a pinch, I could fake a seizure and stagger out of the room clutching my chest. To make the nightmare worse, I’m aware my fellow guest is experiencing an identical torment and is secretly longing for me to vanish into thin air and make way for a more attractive and well-connected companion.
That’s the truth about drinks parties. All of us are praying for the sudden departure of the person we’re lumbered with. It’s like 100 failing marriages in a single room. But I have a solution. The Jeff Bezos technique: think like a billionaire. Jeff doesn’t go to a drinks party for the free grog or to hear unsolicited advice about Amazon’s landing page. He meets the people he wants to meet and then he clears off. He has better things to do. So do you. Find your inner Jeff Bezos. Once you’ve said hello to the host, you can depart with honour. And your sense of liberation may inspire you to stay a bit longer. Not me, of course. I often travel across London to a party and leave about 90 seconds later. It’s not a bad form of entertainment. You can have a nosy around the area. Look at the firebombed churches, the boarded-up police stations, the hunched teens on park benches torching their lungs with weed.
The ultimate prize of the lone wolf is to die in peace. I feel sorry for those ageing movie stars who spend their final days in a private hospital surrounded by fidgeting relatives and the odd fair-weather friend hoping to sneak a ‘last photo’ and flog it to the tabloids. Advance preparation is required and I’ve left instructions with certain family members to ensure that my departure is serene and dignified. The location: a single room. The guest list: nonexistent. I intend to quit this life in a state of perfect solitude guaranteed by a firearm concealed beneath my deathbed. Loaded and unlocked. If I’m disturbed by a nosy well-wisher, he’s going first.
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