The Diceman Would Be Proud…

A NUMBER of years ago (far to many to admit!) I read a book by Luke Rhinehart called “The Diceman” which is probably best described as a darkly comic and violent piece of fiction that charts the progression of a psychiatrist who decides to abdicate from any moral or ethical responsibility by using a set of dice to make every key decision in his life. Decisions that range from the mundane (which food to eat for lunch) to the sublime (have an affair or not?) to the downright outrageous (murder someone or not?).

Well – at least I hope it’s fiction.

Anyway it’s a great read when you are a teenager and resonates with the need to just throw caution to the wind every now and then and engage in a little anarchy. Still, the central theme of leaving all decisions up to the throw of dice always fascinated me. I’ve certainly based some decisions myself on similar principles, but never – not in a million years – would I use this approach to make any serious or life altering decisions. And indeed I hadn’t thought of this book for at least two decades. Until a few days ago.

Until I met a taxi driver from Iraq who got me thinking about the randomness of things all over again…

Picture the scene. It’s the end of a night of beer and bollox (tall stories!) and I’m wandering around the streets looking for a taxi ride home. I get lucky, avoid the queue and manage to nab a car as it rounds a corner. Once inside I settle down the for usual conversation and the usual topics… but it just didn’t work out that way. Not this time.

I end up meeting a man who has spent the last seven years in Ireland. He came here with his family from Iraq. He bitched and moaned like a professional all the way home. The weather was shit. Where we ever going to see any summer weather? The deregulation of the taxi industry was a pain in the ass. How was he supposed to make a living? The customers were sometimes so drunk they puked all over his cab. Why can’t people act more responsibly?

It progressed in the usual fashion until I just couldn’t take it any more and managed to get a space in between the whining. “If you hate it here so much, why the hell did you pick Ireland as a place to settle outside Iraq?” I asked.

He looked at me like I’d asked him a question – the answer to which was so obvious that I must be a simpleton -  and proceeded to say “It was the next one in the list”.

“What list?” I asked him.

“The Alphabetic list of course. Iran, Iraq, Ireland”.

I think my jaw was still on the ground when I exited the taxi about 10 minutes later. When I wasn’t sucking air and looking like a goldfish I was laughing. Hard. The driver returned to moaning and bitching about this and that, and all I could do was laugh at the insanity of it. I’m sure Iraq was no picnic for him and his family, and I’m sure anywhere else was probably better… but to make that type of decision based on a simple alphabetic list is just so… refreshing I guess. Insane, but still refreshing. And that’s what put me in mind of the Diceman agin.

Welcome to Ireland my new Iraqi friend. You’re suckin’ diesel now boy!