Thinking About It Only Makes It Worse by David Mitchell

they take these intriguing new recruitment tactics further? How else might fascists perk up their image now they’re dispensing with all the tiresome Teutonic discipline and hate-sponsored pseudo-science and returning to their berserker roots?

Music
    Can you imagine the Cookie Monster listening to Wagner, a nationalistic anthem or a marching band? Of course not – he’s far too fidgety. The modern neo-Nazi wants a tune that’s a lot more energetic and fun: Yakety Sax, Killing in the Name or the theme from
Ski Sunday
are all perfect upbeat accompaniments to any frenzy of hate.
Hashtags
    Everyone knows that extremists say horrible things on social media, but a hashtag is a great way to put even the most vile remarks into a more upbeat context. Threats of violence in particular can be leavened if made cartoonish with postscripts such as #biff, #blam, #kersplat or #everydayracism.
Dress
    The black shirt and the brown shirt, those staples of the fascists’ glory days, have been lost to the jazz musician and the 1978 Coventry City away strip respectively (I used the internet in the preparation of this section). And anyway, they’re far too staid for the wacky fascism of the Cookie Monster Nazis. So what about Hawaiian shirts? They’re fun, they’re crazy, they’re slightly anarchic (within blandly uninventive parameters) and, like pineapple on a pizza, they provide the sort of meaningless nod to multiculturalism that helps less committed racists salve their lacerated consciences.
Dance
    How better to separate actions from any sense of their meaning than with dance? The global success of Gangnam Style has shown the way. The extreme right needs to move on from the discredited fascist salute and develop some new gesture or move which can be aped by millions on YouTube. Something like a double thumbs-upwhile running on the spot, David Brent’s dance from
The Office
or just a spot of rhythmic mooning would be ideal.
Baking
    The choice of the Cookie Monster suggests that, at a time when
The Great British Bake-Off
has both made baking trendy and aligned it with a sense of national identity, the far right wants to reclaim the fascist oven from the shadow of Auschwitz. But, unlike their mascot, modern neo-Nazis don’t just like cookies – they’re into cakes, pies and puddings, but not soufflés, which are homosexual. An inspiring recipe book could be the
Mein Kampf
of the 21st century, providing busy racists with the perfect high-carb treat to set them up for a night’s angry shouting outside a mosque.
    *
    On reading that
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
has ended its final run, I was amazed to find myself caring. To my surprise, it made me sad. I didn’t know I gave a damn about that show – I certainly never particularly enjoyed it – but it turns out I’d been quietly assuming that it would continue and, unbeknownst to my conscious brain, deriving comfort from that assumption. Suddenly it was gone and I missed it, like an old pot plant that you only remember is there when it dies.
    Mind you, I’m glad I didn’t watch it more – on the dozen or so occasions I caught an episode, I mildly regretted the time spent. It wasn’t very entertaining, just moreish – the televisual equivalent of Twiglets. You grimly munched through it because, for some reason, it seemed easier than not.
    You must be familiar with the feeling, unless it’s all Radio 3 and the
TLS
round your place. You stick around for another couple of questions, and then a bit longer to see what thecontestant will win, because it would be very slightly interesting to witness someone’s avarice comprehensively slaked on camera. Real-time evidence of a deadly sin, a pre-watershed money shot. But no one ever won the million when I was tuned in. So when the credits rolled, I only had two or three uncontextualised pieces of trivia to show for the fact that I was now an hour nearer death.
    Ageing is the key to this. Disposable TV shows of this kind are supposed to