One of my least favourite people in the world is a woman you’ve almost certainly never heard of called Carole Spiers, stress consultant, misery leech, media whore, ghoul. My problem with her is partly irrational because – of course – I don’t know her apart from her public pronouncements and slightly disturbing manner, as defined by the equation:
(Patricia Hewitt x Margaret Thatcher) + Edwina Currie = Carole Spiers
Here she is, pushing some piece of crap that is supposed to measure stress levels.
But partly my distaste for her is rational because she is to me the public face of the burgeoning stress management industry. An industry that is largely reliant on giving people the idea that they suffer from the very thing it purports to cure.
In her latest attempts to link stress to just about everything, Carole Spiers has decided it’s a good idea to pick over the already well-gnawed bones of Michael Jackson. You can read what she thinks about it here.
If you can’t be bothered, it’s a vacuous load of regurgitated drivel about his dissatisfaction with himself and his situation, terminating in this envelope-pushing paragraph of sentimental, misdirected, self-serving spew.
‘Perhaps the biggest irony was that the death of Michael Jackson, King of Pop, and object of admiration for many generations, could be seen as that of a disaffected employee, wanting to score points off a hostile management by slipping away and relishing the freedom of that enchanted world on the other side of the factory-gate.’