A Message to Elon – Five Things I Did This Week

Dear Elon,

Thanks for your recent email asking me to list five things I did last week.  Although you wanted a response within forty-eight hours, I thought it best for both of us if I took my time and gave you a more considered answer.  There’s nothing worse than reactions that are impulsive or ill-thought out.  I’m sure you’ll agree.

Firstly, I watched you on a stage dressed like twelve-year old on a free-dress day.  It’s not clear to me whether that was the look you were going for or simply decided that getting dressed in the dark was a good idea.  It’s often said that ‘clothes maketh the man’.  Sadly, that’s not the entire quotation – it should actually read ‘clothes maketh the man a complete idiot’.  You, dear Elon, are a case in point.

Let’s start with the oversized sunglasses – I’ve no idea how you ended up with Kim Jong Il’s sunglasses.  I’d no idea you were even friends.  The oversized shades are something that you can only get away with if you’re a despotic dictator and, even then, because no-one has the nerve to tell you that you look terrible.  Then there’s the hat.

The oversized hat looks like something that should be worn by a much younger person who answers to a name like, ‘Scooter’ or ‘Chip’.  The entire ‘dark, gothic MAGA’ thing reeks of desperation and screams, ‘please like me and my cool hat!’ whilst ensuring your status as a socially awkward outsider remains cemented for eternity. 

As for the t-shirt, I had no idea until I googled it that the phrase ‘I’m not procrastinating, I’m doing side quests’ is some kind of gamer reference.  The reason I had to google it is because I don’t play video games.  And, even if I did, I’d probably do so in the privacy of my own home and not draw attention to it by wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with a gamer slogan.  In a way, I’m relieved.  As a middle-aged man, I thought it impossible that there might be someone out there who was less cool than I was – turns out there is, and that person is you, Elon.

That said, the three-quarter length black coat is ideal for anyone seeking to make the leap from eccentric, cuddly billionaire to full-fledged Marvel villain.  All that remains is for you to change your name to something sinister like ‘the Elonator’ and to threaten to block out the sun for the fun of it and the transformation will be complete.

Secondly, I saw you hold a chainsaw on that very same stage and realised that it was probably the first time in your life that you had, in fact, ever held a chainsaw.  For future reference, you don’t wave them around in the air like some kind of tree-felling maraca.  Also, next time you’re in public, don’t hold a chainsaw above your head whilst yelling ‘chainsaw!’ like a psychopath.  You’ll look like a complete lunatic.  Or, more to the point, like an even bigger lunatic.

The third thing I did this week was to watch the stock market take dive because your big orange buddy has decided to treat the world economy like my dog used to treat his favourite chew toy – he’d put it between his teeth, shake it around, slobber all over it and, at some point, bury it in the back yard.  I’m sure that, somewhere along the line, the analogy breaks down, but it hasn’t yet.  I’ll tell you, Elon, I’m more than a little concerned.  The only way I can describe how I’m feeling right now about your pal is that it’s like he’s someone who said they knew how to fly a plane and it’s only now when he’s in the cockpit at thirty thousand feet and behind the controls that he’s willing to admit that he doesn’t.

The fourth thing I did was watch you refer to someone as a ‘traitor’ because they went to Ukraine.  You did so on your own social media platform, X, which you have successfully transformed from the digital town square to something more akin to its sewerage treatment plant.  Yuck.

The fifth and final thing I did this week?  Simple – I wrote this list of five things I did.  Granted, it’s not the best use of my time (or yours – presumably there’s a democratically elected official you could be sacking), but here we are.  I figured you might appreciate the feedback.  I’m mindful that, as the (currently or – by the time I finish writing this sentence – formerly) richest man in  the world, you may need it.

My message, Elon, is this: no more side quests – go back to your day job and stop trying to destroy the jobs of others.  To borrow the powerful phrase coined by T.S. Eliot – ‘you came in like a wrecking ball’.  (On second thoughts, it might have been Miley Cyrus and I’ve just imagined you in the music video, swinging on said wrecking ball as naked as the day you were born whilst yelling ‘chainsaw’ at the top of your lungs.)  I look forward to receiving your list of accomplishments from the past week.  Hopefully one of them is ‘hired a stylist’. 

Yours hopefully,

Godmiddag!  IKEA and I

Four letters.  I, K, E and A; which, when put together (presumably with an Allen key) spell out the name of Sweden’s most famous exporter of flatpacks with elaborately absurd names.  IKEA is not my favourite place and, as a result, we go there on a strictly ‘as needs’ basis. 

Sadly for me, the need arose about two weeks ago and we duly trotted off to Springvale.  If I had to describe the IKEA experience in one word, I’d go with ‘controlling’.  Unlike other retail experiences, you can’t meander as you please; it’s more a ‘Wizard of Oz’ model whereby you ‘follow the yellow brick road’ past a procession of living rooms, bedrooms and studies before you stumble into a giant warehouse. 

Everything about it is bewildering – the giant metal trolleys that are the size of a Toyota Corolla and steer like the Titanic; the voyeuristic living displays that ‘neat shame’ you, right through to the grisly display toilets that come fitted with plastic guards warning that it’s strictly for demonstration purposes only.  It’s a nightmare, the very thought of which causes me to wake up screaming in Swedish. 

Let’s back up – it occurs to me that some of you may not understand the concept of ‘neat shaming’.  It’s where you’re presented with a completely unrealistic depiction of everyday life.  At IKEA that comes in the form of dozens of small living and dining rooms where there’s not a thing out of place.  It’s an insult.  Frankly, I can’t imagine a couch that doesn’t have a discarded Two-minute noodle wrapper lying on the floor in front of it and squashed up remnants of chicken shapes rubbed into the cushions.  A living room without discarded items of school uniform?  Please – no such place exists.

Truth be told, it’s not that I simply don’t like IKEA.  It’s that I’m afraid of it.  Specifically, I’m afraid that I won’t be able to assemble the furniture because I can’t understand the diagrams.  Not that we were looking for furniture.

We’ve entered a special time of life – one where crockery and utensils inexplicably vanish.  One day, you’ve got a drawer full of plates.  The next, the drawer is empty, as is the dishwasher and a surprise inspection of the bedrooms yields nothing you’d want to put your dinner on.  Forks are also a problem.  Clearly, someone I know hates forks and throws them out the window after use.  It’s the only logical explanation.

Luckily for us, IKEA has both crockery and utensils in abundance.  But they’re right at the end of the yellow brick road where, by rights, the Emerald City ought to be.  It takes us twenty minutes to get to the bit we want before we realise that we need a trolley and forgot to pick one up at the entrance.  Fearing the need to go back the way we came in, which would involve swimming against the tide for the first half and trying to navigate a slow-moving crowd whilst pushing an oversized trolley on the way back, we searched for an alternative.

After a few minutes, Katrina returned with an empty trolley that appeared to have been abandoned.  Scouring the crockery section, we selected an eighteen-piece set called a ‘Godmiddag’.  This seemed fitting as ‘Godmiddag’ is what we say when one of the kids breaks a plate.  We then filled the trolley with as many forks as we could, believing this would get us through the next fortnight or so.

After trundling through the checkouts, we loaded our bounty into the car and headed home.  It was only after we unpacked that we discovered the ‘Klockren’.  Neither of us had gone to IKEA looking for a Klockren but, somehow, we had emerged with one in our possession.  Which means that the empty trolley we had assumed was abandoned was, instead, nursing someone’s Klockren.  In turn, the aspirant owner of the Klockren had stepped away from their trolley for a moment only to return to find it missing.  We were now trolley-nappers.

The only thing worse that stealing a Klockren that doesn’t belong to you, is trying to figure out what the Klockren does.  We were stumped.  It was a silver contraption with metal leaves that folded over each other.  Was it a peeler?  An exotic European ashtray?  We couldn’t tell.  After several days of trying to solve the riddle that was the Klockren, Katrina pulled the metal stems to reveal some kind of steamer.  Which, if I’m being honest, made me think that we’d done someone a favour by taking their trolley.

A few weeks later, I’m none the wiser as to how we took someone’s trolley and deprived them of their Klockren.  Yesterday I opened a drawer and found it had no plates in it, following which I raised both my fists in the air and cried ‘Godmiddag!’  And on the subject of forks, I’ve reached something of a fork in the road and am seriously considering making a permanent shift to ‘woons’.  How did all this happen?  I don’t know.  Because like so many things that come from IKEA, try as I might, I just can’t put it together.