Twitter confirms what you have always suspected: the lives of wealthy, successful people are just as futile as your own. It’s reassuring. But it also confirms the old adage that money is wasted on the rich.
If I had serious money, I would get jobs with the sole intention of seeing how creatively I could get fired from them.
If I was a secret millionaire waiter, I would deliver plates of half-eaten food to rude customers and offer them a deadpan reply when they complained.
“That’s as Chef made it, sir.’
‘Gordon Ramsey was here last week, sir, and he responded most favourably to his half-chewed steak.’
If someone ordered a side dish, say a plate of olives, I would give them a photograph of some olives clipped to a paper plate. Then I’d add an 80 per cent service charge to their bill and ask them why they hadn’t touched their olives.
My ideal fake job would be working in a booth in an amusement arcade. Whenever someone passed me a 20 pound note and said ‘Change this for me, mate’, I would tear it in half and hand it back to them. ‘Changed!’
I might need to wear a stab vest for that one.
I would go to job interviews and light a cigarette the first time I was asked a stupid question. I would feign surprise at the ensuing outrage.
Once I’d got all that maliciousness out of my system, I’d turn to philanthropy.
I would hang out in coffee shops, waiting for someone to be unforgivably rude to a nervous, depressed barista. I would offer the barista the gift of freedom: I would slip him or her an envelope bursting with 50 pound notes, and the suggestion that they quit on the spot, and take whatever remonstrative action they deem reasonable against their obnoxious former customer.
Comments challenge! Come up with the funniest comparison you can. For example:
- Damien Hirst is to art as a park flasher is to interpretive dance.
- Dan Brown is to literature as sewage is to raw shellfish.
What have you got? Make my eyes bleed.