The solution was to listen.
It all came from piss. Not a metaphor. Literally, piss. Some nobody who planned on being a somebody filmed himself urinating in, on and around the Sistine Chapel.
Once inside, did you know there is a man at a lectern with a microphone? I didn’t; had to look it up. He’d shush at so much as a rustle of paper. Christ, imagine the cacophony as our miscreant pulled out a sort of homemade sprinkler, attached it to his, erm, pipe, and doused Michelangelo’s fresco.
‘Drippy nuns,’ that’s what he shouted. He covered half a convent. The Yellow Sisters of the Sistine Chapel, the title of the YouTube video; picture the thumbnail.
You can’t watch it anymore, though, of course.
There were probably other, similar shenanigans. But this one stole the headlines. The sodden ceiling of virtue. Heaters and driers wheeled in to try and rescue it.
This furore was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Parliaments across Europe, across the world; every country experienced their own version of the debate—how do we stop all the pissing about? Sorry, last pun.
They passed laws, quicker than anything we had ever seen. The Pope has that effect. Politicians said things like: this can’t go on, turn off the internet, ban young people and make phones dumb again.
That last one wasn’t half bad, a lot of people missed that old game on their bricks, snake, was it?
Draconian, of course, and half-baked. It would have only made things worse. Then came a voice of reason. Smooth syllables met jagged anger. Measured where most were chaotic. No malice, not a hint of vindictiveness. Like a mother, but better. Everyone’s mother: mi-ma, Momo and childhood pet dog all rolled into one.
‘People are lost in a sea of bullshit. These are just cries for attention.’
Okay, maybe not so smooth.
A shout came back. A denial.
‘They must be punished!’
Agreement rippled around the chambers. Stupid babies. Take away their toys. Leave them in the dark. That will show them.
‘They’re not babies, though. If isolated, adults will become hateful. Repressed. Pissing in the chapel will become stabbings on the streets. I promise you that.’
Ironic that cries came as a response. Well, what would she do? If she was so smart, if they’re not babies. What on earth would she do?
‘Everyone is trampling on each other to be heard. Stumbling on uneven ground. Build a ramp. Give everyone their fifteen minutes.’
Silence. Then murmurs. Calls to explain herself. So, she did.
‘Random. Dispassionate. Unbiased. Switch off what we have now; I agree. But then reset it, give them an outlet, a pressure release valve. Everyone on the planet gets their chance.’
Maybe you’ve had yours. Maybe you know someone who has. It changed everything.
For starters, the randomness meant it became harder to orchestrate grand pranks. People couldn’t be performative if there was no schedule, if there was no guaranteed time to drop content, then no one could build a following.
Certainly, what happened in the chapel couldn’t be repeated. And for a while I think people were content with that short term win.
But then we got a huge gulp of fresh air. Humanity’s collective lungs were expunged of junk. The adverts disappeared. Platforms were gone and, funnily enough, the psychological need to consume diminished. You didn’t need the energy drink, the trainers or the third VPN subscription anymore.
It also played into our love of risk. Human beings get giddy at an element of chance. That improbability that you would be the chosen one. Any time of the day, all day, forever, your phone might spark into life.
What if you were on the toilet? Asleep? Trying to eat your dinner.
Didn’t matter. A klaxon would blare; a countdown would chime. Three, two, one and you’re on.
Fifteen minutes. Connected to everyone, everywhere all at once. What would you do?
Some get caught unawares and off guard. That’s some of the best content.
The Grace Duffy case; have you heard about this? Saved as her kidnapper’s phone clicked on. Found before he’d even managed to assemble the newspaper cuttings for the ransom note.
Affairs aren’t my cup of tea, but hey, if you’re dumb enough to have your phone in view of your extramarital activities then you’ve only got yourself to blame. The CEO railing not one but two secretaries, the klaxon is loud enough. Jeez, buddy, save some for the rest of us.
But then there are the little wins. Nothing major. A bloke helping someone with their shopping. A teacher giving a glowing report at parents’ evening.
So much good because of the pocket people. That’s the term. Those living in the moment as their fifteen minutes fritter away, phones muffled and stuffed into coat or jeans.
It’s a spectrum, though. Everything is. There are the lifers. Those that place their fifteen minutes— fifteen minutes that might never come by the way—on a pedestal.
Routines memorised, notebooks, post-its and documents plastered everywhere. Many of these people refuse to leave their house. They isolate themselves; theories abound that these are the types that would try the chapel stunt, in the old days. I feel sorry for them, but it’s their choice.
My favourites are the regular people who look at the phone like it’s an alien. Wide-eyed, curious smiles. No filter, no performance. It might be three in the morning, boom, they’re up, they’re on. What have they got to say?
I’ve seen bedroom stand-up sets that would command the biggest fee from Saudi or Netflix, whoever pays the most nowadays. And I’ve seen lifers who lose their mind; the bottlers, the wilters and those who clam up, cease functioning, overwhelmed by their time.
One guy, Chet, had a dance routine. I only know that because he said it, I didn’t see it, nobody did. Chet practiced his entire life only to not notice the phone fall flat as he started tap dancing. Fourteen minutes and thirty seconds later, he picked it up. His face, gawping and blinking like a deer in eight billion headlights, a classic.
People were sceptical. No, that’s too weak. People were fucking irate. We had become dependent on chronic instant dopamine. Reels, shorts, threads and posts. But it was all an illusion. E numbers in video form. I need happy eggs, don’t dare give me battery hens. Oh, Mr Animal has built a school out of custard, I’ll watch on the toilet.
The day it started, the day it reset, it wasn’t just our phones that came to life. We did, again.
The very first fifteen minutes was instrumental in setting the tone. An older woman from Japan, her phone on a table. She never looks at the camera, not once. I think she’s aware it’s happening, but she just carries on with her life. In a way it was the perfect start.
Over the course of her fifteen minutes, she drinks a glass of water and reads a book. That’s it. I had to look the book up, not being familiar with Japanese literature and all, it’s titled The Premonition and is a story about forgetting something important about the past. Nice.
From Japan to Tulsa and a man making a sandwich. He didn’t say much at first but opened up towards the end. Stevie Nicks was dynamite and so was a splash of red wine vinegar in the mayo.
After the first hour people understood. Those who had no interest in the lives of others could simply do something else. By deplatforming the few and bringing everyone under the same authentic umbrella, it took the buzz out of being an influencer.
There was no call to action, no follow-up, no subscribers to entice to that big old button.
The sphere of influencers, flattened. Now people got on with their lives until such a time that klaxon blared.
Of course, with an entire civilisation to get through and birth rates what they are, we’ll never finish. Two hundred and twenty-eight thousand years, I think. We’re about twenty in now, so a way to go.
And as my time comes to an end, let me finish with this.
I appreciate you, dude who pissed so hard he changed the world.
I would have been lost in the shuffle if things had continued the way they were. Everyone was talking, no one was listening. We turned everything into a popularity contest.
And now we just live. Authentic and true to ourselves.
I’ve found a hobby in history because of it.
I hope you enjoyed my report on what saved humanity.
For those who stuck around, thank you for listening.
That’s been my fifteen minutes.
——
Three, two, one and you’re live
——
Yo, what? I’m on! What do I do? Hi, by the way. Are there people in like, Australia watching? That’s wild.
Erm, so I’ve got a guitar. Want to hear me play?
This is sick.
Hey Mum! I’m on TV!
By Louis Urbanowski
Stories by Louis Urbanowski 