It’s been a long time coming — the rise and rise of surveillance capitalism. We all made our little mindless choices when we signed up for “connection” and posted pictures of all our pets, children, pot plants and feelings, however petty and trite — on our platform of choice, on a daily basis. The lure was strong. I mean, you could even find your long-lost teenage boyfriends. In my case, this strategy paid off wonderfully — one was living in Silicon Valley and embroiled in a huge scandal (it must be noted: as the whistle blower). I always knew he would go far.
It was a hoot while it lasted. Obviously, it's ongoing, but is it still a blast? Take the former CEO of some formerly inconspicuous tech company and his side chick — the head of HR. There was a time where this sort of thing would have been fodder for knowing office gossips at the water cooler. But water coolers have been retired due to rising costs and the ever-diminishing profit margin. And with the loss of the water cooler, the thrill of the salacious questioning of the “powers that be” and all the machinations that arise by placing quantities of Homo sapiens in confined spaces and unleashing their primal instincts on the so-called professional landscape.
There was a time when that enforced propriety and office decorum would explode all over the place at the Christmas party. The combined effects of free booze and the thrill of interdepartmental engagement, breaking up the silos and untrammelled hierarchical mingling with the workers, would let off giant explosions of inappropriate miscegenation and messing around in the basement. By Monday morning it was all out of everyone’s system and the biggest culprits would studiously ignore each other for the following year.
These ritualised releases of social and workplace tension are now, sadly, also gone. Nobody can afford a Christmas party. Never mind that hardly anyone coincides in the office long enough to form attractions, what with the work-from-home arrangements that can't ever be undone because, why wouldn’t you prefer to sit at home in bed in your pyjamas taking your meetings with the camera most definitely off. How would you cultivate a passion for Johnny in accounts if all you ever get to know about him is his disembodied voice and his initials?
Which is why there's something compelling about the global “kiss cam” crisis at the Coldplay concert. There you are, viva-ing your vida with a sky full of stars — and next thing, you’re skulking behind a plastic stadium chair watching your life implode as Coldplay singer Chris Martin takes the piss. The entire world had a nostalgic pang for the antique ways of the office and piled in like rabid, flea-infested medieval villagers at the stocks. And all of that is OK, because, God knows, we need standards around this place. How are you going to run the corporation if you're shagging your subordinates or even taking a romantic interlude with them in anticipation of a shag?
The king of shamelessness sits in his tanning booth at the White House and shows the entire world and all our marvellous leaders how it’s done. Brazen it out.
I don’t know what's become of us? But what I found really refreshing in all of this testimony to that not a single moment is private — even your goddamn TV is watching you, in addition to the lead singer of a super band — was this very public enactment of shame. I don’t know about you, but I thought shame was a thing of the past, like the Walkman or the Penny Farthing. Has anyone actually seen any evidence of it lately?
The king of shamelessness sits in his tanning booth at the White House and shows the entire world and all our marvellous leaders how it’s done. Brazen it out. The dogs bark and the caravan moves on — you catch the flies with honey, or something like that. It’s the lesson every Tom, Dick and two-bit Harry has totally internalised: ignore it all for long enough and the crown is yours.
Perhaps instead of delighting in the downfall of the Coldplay cheaters we should celebrate that they clearly felt really ashamed at getting caught in a public display of affection. Most of the grifters in charge of this wired-up world would simply shrug it off and go shopping at Louis Vuitton to dispense some blessings.
Would you like to comment on this article?
Sign up (it's quick and free) or sign in now.
Please read our Comment Policy before commenting.