When I was at college, doing my A levels, there was a story going around about one of the kids who, upon being asked if he had a light, responded without apparent irony, “Only the light of Jesus.”
This was useless to his interlocutor, who still had an unlit Benson and Hedges and five minutes in which to smoke it and get himself to his next class, which was to be held in a portacabin on the far side of a muddy field, about a ten minute hike away from the portacabin which served as our student common room. (We were allowed to smoke in the common room, because it was in the Before Times when no one gave a shit, and also, it was a portacabin.)
To be fair, there was no real urgency about getting to classes. I did an entire psychology A level without going to any, mainly because they were held in the far-flung classrooms across the field, and I didn’t want to sit in a freezing portacabin hearing about some bloke who tortured baby monkeys when I could be sitting in a freezing portacabin smoking cigarettes with Goths (proper ones). I had a whole system set up so if the psychology teacher, Mike Amos, was ever within a hundred feet of me, cries of ‘Amos!’ would ring out around the portacabin and the magic mushroom field, which was the other place the Goths frequented. I’m not sure what I thought would happen if Amos got hold of me, but he had a reputation for being ill tempered and rumour had it that he wasn’t above punching students in their insolent little bitch faces, so I - being an insolent little bitch - didn’t want to risk it.
I was sort of interested in psychology but only the good bits, like the bit where they make people electrocute each other to prove that we’re all Nazis. Anyway, I wasn’t missing much, because it turns out that the only truly lucrative career path for someone with a casual degree in psychology is influencing people into buying shiny tat they don’t need and can’t afford.
In my case, it’s quite easy to manipulate me into buying stuff, as long as what you’re selling is some kind of depilation device which guarantees a hair-free bikini line. (I have to assume that even the concept of the ‘bikini line’ was invented by the marketing department of Immac or Veet or whatever the fuck Lady Shaver. Bring back the bloomer line, I say. Anything above the knees should be rewilded.)
Influencers know how to exploit your vulnerabilities; they learn that in psychology school. They know fine well, for example, that few things in life are more likely to make you want to spend money on an overpriced hair removal gadget than the experience of sitting on a bathroom floor crying because you haven’t had sex for three years and you don’t know how you’re going to explain to your new boyfriend that, in a misguided attempt to ‘tidy up’ down there, you have caused your undercarriage to look like a scene from one of those aerial videos of Brazil after a particularly brutal round of deforestation.
Much as students give electric shocks to innocent people, and others lie about the length of a piece of string in order to fit in with their friends, I have an innate vulnerability to influencers on account of my unruly nether regions.
I know all about influencers now, because I recently watched an entire season of something called Byron Baes. This is a reality television show about Australian influencers, and its utterly execrable vapidity makes it possibly one of the most appalling hate crimes I have ever witnessed. I loved it.
If Byron Baes is anything to go by – and I’m convinced that it is accurate in every respect – influencers are probably the worst species of humans ever to have walked this earth. These vacuous, banal, interchangeable nothing-people say things like, “Cleopatra was one of the first beauty influencers,” and “I’m a very spiritual person, which is why I feel it’s so important to balance my energies with this crystal-infused mountain water, very reasonably priced at only $29.99 a litre.”
For all their talk of chakras and inner peace, they would be the first to turn the dial up to maximum on the electric shock machine. And they’d step over any number of charred and twitching corpses to get to a free gift bag or instagrammable selfie opportunity. These are the people who, upon being faced with a heartbreaking Holocaust memorial, see the perfect venue to promote a new line of overpriced, celebrity-endorsed hair removal creams.
I’m not convinced that Mike Amos, even with all his psychology know-how, would have had any useful ideas about how to halt the rise of influencer culture. And neither do I, despite the fact that by some process of osmosis I did learn something about psychology under his tutelage. Indeed, I got a D grade in my final exam, which the careers officer assured me was not a fail and meant that I did technically have an A level in psychology. It still felt like a fail, if I’m honest. It was a time in my life when I was doing a lot of failing, although when wasn’t it? Between the ages of seven and 49, it was pretty much all failure, disappointments, and fuck ups.
Which brings us back to Jesus.
Now, God, okay. God, I can get along with. Over the years, I’ve thought a lot about God. I’ve even prayed to God, and not only about my bikini line. I think I probably believe in God, depending of course on what you mean by God when you ask if I believe in God. God is good like that - kind of vague and wishy washy, like, whatever you believe is cool, man, no stress, let’s spark up this doobie and get awestruck by some pretty rocks I made.
But Jesus is way more demanding. Jesus is like, yo, they flipping nailed me to a cross, guys. Are you just going to sit there waxing your fanny like that never even happened?
I’m no theologian, but Jesus is kind of hardcore, when you think about it. Like, being crucified is one of the few things that’s probably nearly as painful as waxing your crotch.
The problem with Jesus is his brand image. He’s either doing his whole intense martyr thing, or he’s just a bit cringe. Like, he’s trying so desperately hard to be down with the kids at the youth club, you can’t help but feel embarrassed for him.
He’s all like, See these holes in my hands? I did it all for you, bruh. No cap.
And you’re like, Bruh, did I even ask you to do any of that? Bruh.
Maybe Jesus just needs a rebrand and a couple of sponsors. Hello disciples, it’s your friend here, the big J-dog, and today I’m going to be showing you this incredible at-home epilator. Not only has it made my skin smooth and hair-free, it’s also managed to remove some of the thorns that were left in my side after they flogged me with branches when I DIED FOR YOUR SINS, REMEMBER? HUH? DO YA?
Jesus is definitely a very spiritual person, which is one of the key characteristics of successful influencers. The problem is that he’s not lighting anyone’s cigarette. He’s not taking selfies as he walks on the surf in some beach paradise (or just, you know, actual Paradise). And he’s not offering me a pain-free way to depilate my bikini line. So I dunno, J-dog. Maybe try for that psychology A level? Might help?
He’s not the messiah; he’s a very successful intimate waxing technician.
“I’m pretty sure my sole needs saving.” Better “I’m pretty sure my soul needs shaving…”. You are funny!
You are awesome. You have good things to say.
Anytime I hear the word influencer I want to put a clove ciggie out in someones eye.