Review: ParanoiaNow that the national archives have helpfully exposed Harold Wilson as a paranoiac of the first order (Russians spying on him, portentuous omens around Downing Street and so on), it's become obvious that mental instability is no barrier to a successful career.
All over the country, the drug-addled breathe a sigh of relief. Cheap and plentiful recreational drugs have made psychosis a common social hazard, equivalent to the possibility of being sick when drunk.
Everyone has their story: one friend of mine used to have incredibly boring hallucinations of sofas and assorted soft furnishings after taking Ecstasy, another became obsessed with the meaning of time after smoking dope continuously for a couple of years, another claims that he managed to "sort himself out" by taking acid and sitting in his room, alone, for five hours.
The kind of rampant paranoia that drugs can produce is no fun at all, but in its milder forms, paranoia is the perfect urban outlook. With heightened peripheral vision and pepper spray in hand, the paranoiac is an expert at city living. And paranoia can be a beautiful thing: all this CCTV and a glossy ID card, just so MI5 can trace your every move. What is the government: some kind of obsessive ex-boyfriend?
Paranoia: Neither am I paranoid, nor are they out to get me. I am living a quiet life, and have lost my passport, so am temporarily without identity, like Sandra Bullock in that film. 5 out of 10.