Meanwhile, the kids are pottering over a laptop nearby. One of their nerdy friends is helping them download a new game. “This box pops up on the screen, and then you click this bit here which says ‘accept all,” he says.
It takes three seconds for his words to reach my brain. Accept all? “Hey, wait, STOP,” I say, racing over to where the kids are sitting. It’s too late. The nerdy friend has okayed an option to “automatically accept all downloads from this organization”.
“But who is it? Do you know anything about them?”
Nerdy friend looks blank. “I know they made this cool free game,” he says.
Time for a lecture. I raise myself to my full 163 cm height and put on my Teacher Voice. “You kids need to learn: there’s NO SUCH THING as a free lunch.”
The kids respond in chorus: “It’s not a free lunch, it’s a free game.”
I patiently explain that the “no free lunch” phrase is a metaphor about time bombs in gifts from strangers. “You have given people we know nothing about, people who are VERY LIKELY to be thieves, murderers, serial killers or financial planners, full permission to download anything they like, spyware, viruses and so on, to your computer, for ever more.”
Turning to the nerdy friend, I say: “Sorry, son, but you may as well just throw away your laptop now.”
He is entirely unfazed by my criticism. “It’s not MY laptop,” he says. “It’s yours.”
I spend the rest of the evening downloading every anti-virus program developed since Charles Babbage invented the computer in 1822 and got his first virus the following week.
Friday, November 28
Sudden drop in temperature. Winter has arrived. The bank account executive sends me another email reminding me that three weeks have passed and she is still waiting for proof of “regular salary”. Time is running out on the mortgage application.
I email back a reply: “This is an auto-reply. Mr. Jam is on a major speaking tour at the moment. He will reply to your email on his return.” That should hold her off for a while.
Saturday, November 29
Luo Jinglei writes from Beijing to tell me that my website can no longer be accessed from anywhere in China. It appears to have been banned. Uh-oh. What have I done now?
V.
AN UNEXPECTED CHRISTMAS GIFT
Chapter Twelve
A LONG SHORT JOURNEY
In which the vidushak realizes how the propensity for nothing ever to change hides the fact that nothing ever stays the same
Monday, December 1
Dear Diary, today, a miracle happens. I get a seat on a rush-hour bus. This means I can sleep sitting down instead of wedged between strangers (though that can be surprisingly comfortable).
But I am busy descending into a deep coma when I feel I am being watched. Opening my eyes and gazing out of the window, I find a huge multicolored face in the heavens looking back at me. In a jet black sky are two shining eyes, one yellow, one red, and a big white smile, glowing like a toothpaste commercial. My first thought is: Oh, no, a huge toothpaste commercial! The Colgate people have purchased the solar system! But the lack of a red logo makes me realize this is no ad. There are only two rational explanations: (a) I’m having a hallucination; or (b) the Earth has drifted off course into a Universe of Inter-Galactic Circus Personnel.
As the bus rattles along the roads, scattering cyclists and pedestrians as normal, the giant face moves with us. It must be A SIGN of something. But what?
Tuesday, December 2
The next morning, I scan the newspapers to learn that folk in many countries saw the face, caused by a horizontal sliver of moon (the smile) appearing under Jupiter and Venus (the eyes) in a clear night sky.
At breakfast, I ask two readers, one deeply religious and the other devoutly anti-religious, for their opinions.
Religious friend: “It’s a sign from God. He is happy with us.”
Anti-religious friend: “Well, as you know, I don’t believe in God, but I do think that when we really need something, we unconsciously visualize it and the universe kind of makes it happen. The universe has affirmed us.”
In other words, they both thought the same thing.
Later, at my computer, I look up the National Geographic website for a purely scientific interpretation. “The heavens smiled down on Earth,” the website says.
It is interesting that not one writer described it as a coincidental intersection of lifeless, soulless, bits of gas and rock millions of miles away. Everyone preferred to see it as A Message. Clearly, rationalism is out of fashion. This has got to be a good thing.
At mid-day I get a phone invitation to speak to a women’s group. “Will they be ovulating?” I ask.
There is a long pause. The caller asks: “I don’t know. Is that an issue?”
I tell her that it might be. She says she will contact the event organizer and see if she can find out. She fails to call back. I shouldn’t have said anything.
* * *
People don’t read the small print these days, says a reader named Elaine, commenting on last week’s diary entry about the lamentable kid who clicked “accept all” from a virus-distributor on my computer. She tells me about a software retailer in the UK who asked each online buyer for rights to his or her immortal soul. Thousands clicked to accept the deal without reading it. The firm didn’t know what to do with all these souls, so eventually wrote emails transferring the rights back to their original owners. “Surely the obvious thing to do would have been to sell them to the devil?” I reply. “I understand he’s keen on that sort of thing.”
That evening I watch the kids carefully when they are using the computer at home. Note to parents: Listen carefully for the following utterance. “Trojan worm? That sounds like a cool new Pokemon. Let’s download it onto Dad’s laptop.”
* * *
Five days until the Marathon. I should have trained more.
Wednesday, December 3
People say today’s youngsters have no vision. Not true! On a “writer-in-residence” gig at a school today, arranged by Danny Bait’s people, this writer is approached by a group of highly ambitious teenagers. “We want to be famous,” says their leader, a tall 14-year-old named Charmaine Chik. Her shy posse nods vigorously. This is a curiously rare attitude in Asia, I realize, but not necessarily a bad thing. I assure them of my best efforts to help. “Sure. Now, what sort of work do you want to do?”
They freeze, baffled. Clearly they did not expect such a question. A meek girl says: “We don’t want to WORK. We want to be FAMOUS.”
Ah. Got it. “I see. THAT sort of famous.” You can’t blame these kids. Today’s celebrities don’t seem to feel the need to actually do anything other than get arrested at regular intervals.
I tell the girls that totally effort-free notoriety is hard to achieve, but anyone can be famous in their own circle. That’s what you need to aim for, I say. “For example, my on-line writing is read by a large number of discerning spambots.”
The girls greet this brush-off with contempt. “You’re not really famous,” says Charmaine. “We want to be superstars, featured in TMZ and Apple Daily and stuff.” They ask me to give them a fail-safe route to world fame when I speak to their class, an event scheduled for the following afternoon.
Reaching my noodle shop desk after school is over, I quickly email a couple of image consultants asking for quick routes to fame. Eve Roth Lindsay of Savvy Style replies: “How about running naked in front of the President of the US with a website written on your chest? Oh wait, that’s been done. How about a sex tape that you categorically deny you are in? Oh wait, that’s been done too.” Ameena Chowdhury, a private consultant, says: “There’s only one absolutely guaranteed way to jump from being a complete nobody to being so famous you appear in history books. You have to assassinate a world leader.”
On the way to the bar that evening, I think about how I can build the advice from professionals into my standard inspirational speech for schools.
“Remember, boys and girls, work hard, play hard, make sex tapes and kill world leaders.” This may be fine advice to give children in the west, but it just doesn’t sound right in Asia.
Benny comes to the rescue. “Thanks to globalization and the internet, your students may already be famous somewhere,” he says, and proceeds to tell me the story of Allen Rout, a resident of Florida in the US. Mr. Rout posted a picture of his baby on the internet. Ten years later, he accidentally found that his baby had become an internet meme as Happy Baby, and was super-famous in Japan, being present on huge numbers of TV shows, posters, websites and so on.
Someone else in the bar told me that Bert, a puppet from Sesame Street, accidentally appeared alongside Osama Bin Laden on posters in Bangladesh. The puppet was portrayed as an international criminal mastermind.
* * *
Four days until the Marathon. Oh dear.
Thursday, December 4
Back at school, I tell Charmaine’s class about Allen Rout and Bert from Sesame Street and say: “Thanks to the web, boys and girls, you may already be a star in Croatia or Dhaka or somewhere. The bad news is that it may be as an international criminal mastermind.” They decide that that’s cool. I told you today’s youngsters had ambition.
* * *
In the evening, the wife and kids return home clutching a newspaper. In it is an article which says that the family of incoming US President Barack Obama is also going to adopt a dog. There’s a lengthy discussion of what sort of dog it will be.
“Will the newspapers interview our dog, too?” the kids ask.
“No. Our dog has requested no publicity,” I tell them.
Oldest Daughter notices that the next US President’s dog is expected to be a “rare breed”.
“Is that better than ours?” she asks.
I tell her: “Mr. Obama’s dog may be a pedigree. But Mr. Obama himself is a mongrel, just like our family and our dog.” The dog shows his enthusiastic agreement by throwing up on my shoes. I take that as a compliment.
* * *
Three days until the Marathon. Gulp.
Friday, December 5
Amazing. The list of communist jokes from actual communists arrive from Ms. Luo. They’re not bad—although I am sure I have read some of the lines before, listed as Polish jokes or Soviet Union jokes. I guess there must be a limited number of communist jokes in the world, and they get passed around between the groups of individuals suffering from that ailment.
Here are Ms. Luo’s top four:
1. The Presidents of China and the USA are having a meeting. “We have total freedom,” said the US leader. “A man is free to walk up to the White House, shake his fist, and yell: ‘The US President is an idiot.’”
“So do we,” says the leader of China. “Any citizen is free to walk up to the Great Hall of the People, shake his fist, and yell: ‘The US President is an idiot.’”
2. Q: What is an exchange of opinions at a Communist Party meeting? A: You come to the meeting with your opinions and leave with theirs.
3. Q: What’s the difference between communism and capitalism? A: In China, you have to queue up at a government store, wait hours, and you get a piece of unhealthy food that will kill you. In America, you can get the same thing in a few minutes on any high street.
4. Q: Did you hear about the Chinese government newspaper that started a letters page for anyone who wanted to criticize the authorities? A: Readers were required to include their name, address, phone number and next of kin.
* * *
Two days until the Marathon. On the advice of a reader, I take out special insurance. It actually costs a significant amount of money, even though I opt for payout on death only.
Saturday, December 6
Even more amazing. The honesty of Ms. Luo’s boss has inspired other communists to send in their favorite jokes. Here are three more quite good ones.
1. Q: Why do Public Security Bureau officials operate in groups of three? A: One to read, one to write and one to keep an eye on the two intellectuals.
2. A communist party chief goes to Paris. He yawns at the Louvre, is bored by the Seine, and in uninterested in Notre Dame. Nothing impresses him until he sees the Eiffel Tower. “Tell me,” he asks the tour guide, perking up. “How do you keep an eye on nine million people with only one watchtower?
3. Three workers are locked up, sharing a cell in the state prison. The first says: “I was late for work and they accused me of sabotage.” The second says, “I was early for work and they accused me of spying.” The third says, “I was on time for work and they accused me of having a western watch.”
* * *
Marathon tomorrow. Aiyeeah.
Sunday, December 7
Marathon Day is here. It’s 5 o’clock in the morning. As dawn breaks, Sze Sze and I are standing in the middle of a huge crowd of people. It’s freezing cold today, but that’s probably a good thing, Sze Sze says. I am interested to note that instead of a starting gun, they have a machine that makes a very loud farting sound. Suddenly it gives a particularly loud blast: PPPPPAAAARRRRRPPPP!
Everyone starts to move.
I run.
My feet are a blur.
This feels GOOD.
I am motion, I am speed, I am the wind, I can fly!
The euphoria lasts maybe 50 meters. Then I start to get tired. “Geez, I’m already exhausted,” I tell Sze Sze.
He replies: “I know. And we haven’t reached the starting line yet.”
That’s when I realize just how hard marathons are.
* * *
A few minutes, hours, or possibly days, have passed. I am dragging my aching bones along as steadily as I can. Each footfall seems to shake my splintering bones. This is agony.
Eventually, I run completely out of breath. I am moving forwards on will power alone—and my supply of that is depleted. At this point, I can see hundreds, probably a thousand runners in front me. SO depressing. I feel like I can barely go another step. I decide to run for just one more minute and then stop and walk the rest of the way. I count down in my head. 60. 59. 58. 57. As the seconds pass, I slow to a plod.
Then a frisson of excitement filters through the runners. There’s some sort of disturbance ahead. Huh? We all look up. People in front are changing direction.
We have reached a large U-turn sign and are being channeled to the other side of the dual carriageway, facing the direction in which we’ve come. Yay! We are on the home stretch!
I approach the bend, turn a semi-circle and head home on the other side of the road. What I see from that angle makes my jaw drop. Yes, there may well be a thousand runners ahead of me—but there are tens of thousands behind me, looking jealously in my direction. I may be behind some people but I am WAY AHEAD of others. This is clearly a metaphor for the modern man’s struggle through life.
Instead of thinking of myself as being behind 1,000 people, I’m thinking of myself as being in the front 20 per cent. Whoah! I da man! My exhaustion instantly vanishes. I pick up my feet. I puff out my chest. My expression changes to one of blasé confidence. I increase my speed. I’m back in the game. All I needed was an audience.
Not surprisingly, I become philosophical at that point. That moment teaches me that the ability to continue against the odds is not physical at all: it’s purely mental. It also teaches me this: The male ego measures roughly 1,015 billion cubic kilometers, the size of Jupiter. I double my speed as I pass thousands still on the outward stretch. Eat my dust, crawlers. I’m going HOME.
Another half hour passes. I have slowed down again and am plodding along slowly, every step wreathed in pain. I note that the organizer has thoughtfully supplied cheering fans, each supplied with a pair of clapping tools. But at one corner is a girl clutching a single inflatable applause tool, having apparently lost the other. What is the sound of one hand clapping? An embarrassed silence. She stands glaring at us. It is clear that a single horrifying thought is filling her head: “Fifty thousand people are filing p
ast me and every single one is thinking, Wow, she’s only got one clapping stick, is SHE dumb.”
I laugh and speed up. Another finding: Joy = energy.
* * *
Amazingly, your humble epigrammatist makes it to the end without the promised heart attack. I suppose this is good news, but I can’t help feel a bit cheated. The insurance premium I paid has gone down the drain, never to be reclaimed. I mean, thinking about that has got to hurt, right?
Monday, December 8
Ouch. All my bones ache so I shuffle around slowly like an old age pensioner. A man of about 70 creeps into the Quite Good at twice the speed I can move. He hands me a brown envelope. He tells me that he doesn’t know how to use the internet, but he was a communist official for more than 40 years and wanted to share his favorite joke. Here it is:
A man orders a car in China. “Pay now. It will be delivered in six years,” the salesman says.
“Six years! What month?”
“October.”
“What date?”
“The 31st.”
“Morning or afternoon?”
“Morning.”
“No good, that’s when the plumber said he would come.”
Tuesday, December 9
Oops. This morning an angry phone call from a Russian-accented voice wakes me up. A guy called Valeri complains that some of the Chinese communist jokes I printed were stolen from Russian communists. I console Valeri by offering him space to share his favorite communist joke.
The Curious Diary of Mr Jam Page 29