The kind of person forward-thinking enough to buy a book telling them how to organise their life successfully will probably already be doing a pretty good job. This is the reason why mother owns all the self-help books whose titles I use for my columns. Every turn of the page is for her another affirmation; “But I already rise at five thirty to greet the dawn”; “Well, I’ve never eaten anything other than brown rice and kelp”; “I think you’ll find psychiatry counts as sending you to an after school activity.” The trouble with all of these books is that they presume a shared vision of the ideal human; their apex of perfection is someone repeating their mantra as they scrub down with grit and run through the fens. A person who tends bonsai trees, collects inspirational fridge magnets and tells you they cherish you. But the people I admire the most all have train wrecks of lives – boozed, sluttified, dizzy existences where their greatest work was incidental to their larger business of royally fucking up.

Relationships are an excellent example of when I know it makes sense to follow the plodding wisdom of Stephen Covey, author of The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, but I’d rather think WWETD (what would Elizabeth Taylor do?). So Covey’s advice in a vicious argument would be “Seek First to Understand, Then to be Understood” (Habit 5). Liz Taylor’s approach would be less about empathy and more about calmly raising a bottle of gin above her head, pitching it to smash millimetres from her lover’s skull, before walking out of the room, diamonds tinkling, purring “fix me a drink, darling.” Why get married once to someone you might have a reasonable shot with, when you can spend the better part of three decades toying with the affections of Oscar winners, senators and, latterly, a construction worker. Your husband dies? Elizabeth says don’t waste time mourning, put on a low cut frock and marry his best friend. Don’t choose Prince Charming, you end up like Grace Kelly. Instead, marry every time there’s a pause in conversation and you’ll live to be a hundred years old, a distinguished prune dripping with rubies, telling jokes that make your grandkids faint.

I feel much the same about the world of work. What’s the point of signing up to pen pushing for the Man, or trying to (He won’t return my calls) when you could be a professional drop out. One of my friends has won a place to study at Berkeley in California next academic year. Has her story inspired me to graduate learning, to follow my dreams, to marry someone for a green card? Well, no, I’m just going to sleep on her floor for nine months, occasionally going out in my PJs to forage for drugs and Twinkies, which I understand to be the American College Experience. Then I’ll travel to New York on a Greyhound Bus, blasting Simon & Garfunkel out of my headphones, to find work as a performance artist. I’ll fashion a hut from marshmallows and hypodermic needles and move it into the Metropolitan Museum, titling it My Nest and wait for the plaudits to roll in. Once I’ve made my mark on the Manhattan art scene I’ll move back to London, staying in a commune to write my memoirs. I’ll publish to great acclaim and live out the rest of my ethanol-y days in a stately home, swimming in the fountain and campaigning to bring back the fax machine. Why be ‘Effective’ when you can live the dream.