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The realisation that I am about to lose my blue tick on Twitter has had a sobering effect. I was gifted this little piece of prestige not in recognition of my own genius but simply because I write for a major news organisation. The one purpose was to guarantee to others that I was me and not some cheap impersonator.
Alas, Shrimsley-impersonators are not a growth industry, which must be some kind of comment on my brand recognition. I never see them in south-west London, posing as me to score a free sourdough at Gail’s, though I was once mistaken for Jon Sopel by a Labour MP who grabbed my collar in fury at some report I hadn’t done on the BBC. I was mildly amused by this, though my supposed doppelgänger — taller, slimmer and considerably better-known — had less reason to be flattered. Now, deprived of my blue tick, Sopel will be able to impersonate me on Twitter at will.
Anyway, Elon Musk in his desperate efforts to find ways to charge for Twitter, has decreed that verifying myself as me will now cost £8 a month. My point here is not to lament my theoretical loss of status. Clearly, if I care at all, my concern has a cash value lower than £8.
What does interest me is the premise that I need to pay to verify myself as me. I have, after all, enjoyed 58 years of free verification as myself. I do occasionally pay to prove I am me, via passport or driving licence fees, but this is mainly for other benefits they confer, not out of fear that someone else will get our holiday or pay my congestion charge if I don’t.
So the idea of paying to be me rankles. Were I still 25, I might consider it money well spent but it seems harsh to make me cough up now when my best years are behind me. (A side issue is that it is far from clear that the processes of paying for verification are rigorous enough to prevent impersonation, so this is in effect, a chump change shakedown for genuine public figures who need to protect their brand.)
But making people pay to prove they are themselves could open up huge untapped revenue streams when stretched across populations. Most of us are freeloading access to our identity. Few organisations offer even the option to try ourselves for a 30-day free trial period.
I did have an incident with a dormant bank account but even they returned access to my money without charging me to prove my identity. They could definitely have fleeced me for a monthly verification fee under threat of offering my money to someone prepared to pay to be me.
And what happens to the unverified if this idea catches on? Will we still be us or would we be doomed to a half-life existence, wandering from website to website in search of validation. What if someone gets to be me first and I have to spend the rest of my days as Matt Hancock?
Then again, if I have to pay to be someone, would I choose to be me? I mean, I’ve no cause for complaint, but if I’m paying for my identity, shouldn’t I consider an upgrade? For £8, I could be Gwyneth Paltrow rolling in millions, while launching several exciting health and wellness brands in my renamed Doop store. My product guys are particularly excited by the scrambled love eggs and “This smells like my armpits” candle.
I’m also thinking of applying a blue tick scheme to the spawn, to be paid either in a monthly stipend or in kind with household chores. Following the Musk model, I’ll be charging them to verify themselves for services they don’t really want; conversations about their coursework, offers of career advice or inquiries about what time they’ll be back tonight.
As to the woman claiming to be my wife, she will need paid-for verification to secure access to the television remote, although, on reflection, two can play at this game and I’m not sure I’d emerge as a net beneficiary.
I’ll be back when I have a formal business plan. In the meantime, remember, being you is a privilege, not a right.
Follow Robert on Twitter @robertshrimsley and email him at robert.shrimsley@ft.com
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