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TILL now I thought ‘psychopath’ was just a generalised term, roughly translating to ‘nutjob’.

Not so! Also known as antisocial personality disorder, psychopathy is a category in the weighty Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) – a manual that’s informed doctors and psychiatrists since 1952.

In Jon Ronson’s ripping new read, The Psychopath Test, the journo uses Hare’s Psychopathy Checklist to personally diagnose a number of suspected psychopaths, from a dictator (no great stretch) to an executive responsible for laying off thousands of workers. It’s surprising, experts in the book note, how many psychopaths you’ll find at the head of companies, running the stockmarket or in the entertainment business.

Of course, there’s a tendency for the layman to gaily over-diagnose in this day and age: so-and-so’s got ADHD, blah blah’s probably mildly autistic (no other explanation for it), you-know-who’s a narcissist… suddenly everyone’s either a pop psychologist or a psychopath. But damn it, this one’s fun. Turns out I know three!

TAKE THE TEST

Upon perusing this checklist you’ll probably think, what tosh! Anyone would avoid admitting to those characteristics. But the psychopath sees things like cunning, glib charm and impulsivity as positive traits (necessary traits for CEOs and Wall Street traders), and so will load up points while brimming with pride, under the godlike delusion that he or she will get one over the profiler anyway, probably by slicing off their nipples.

I think that’s how it works.

If you want to test someone else without them knowing, you can casually base questions around each point on the checklist, as though in conversation. (1.) “If someone was ineffectually trying to get their point across, would you do it for them? Wait, I haven’t finished… Ow!”

Or you can test yourself, via these scenarios a psych student put together.

I self-scored 9, but having riffled through the DSM when I was taking A-level psychology, I know psychopathy’s not my particular problem. Not top of the list, anyway.

Incidentally, a score above 28 in Texas – should you already be in trouble – incurs the death penalty.

Keeper? Would be a bit hard to assess someone in my head with any more than five categories to work through, so twenty’s a bit much. I suspect I’ll have forgotten all about this idea by tomorrow.

PS: Here’s some email spam that went around a while back.

A woman, while at the funeral of her own mother, met a guy whom she did not know. She thought this guy was amazing. She believed him to be her dream guy so much that she fell in love with him right there, but never asked for his number and could not find him. A few days later she killed her sister..

Question: What was her motive for killing her sister?

Answer: She was hoping the guy would appear at the funeral again. If you answered this correctly, you think like a psychopath. This was a test by a famous American psychologist used to determine if one has the same mentality as a killer.  Many arrested serial killers took part in the test and answered the question correctly. 

AH, the existential pain of the youngest child. Always outsmarted, outpunched and outrun, and always roundly thrashed at Trivial Pursuit.

The youngest child can go one of two ways: into musical theatre, where their ‘lookatmelookatme’ tap routines will be indulged, or into their bedroom, to sulk.

Well, all those hours in the bedroom choreographing routines to Annie and Starlight Express have finally paid off, as when it comes to Wii Just Dance, it seems, I’ve got the moves.

It was only a matter of time before my brother and I were pitted against each other by his children, and the quite frenzied anticipation and screaming in the room (not me) as we line up to take on ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go Go’ proves this is a showdown everyone has been waiting for a long, long time.

Keeper? I WON. HA HA HAAAAAAA HA HA HAAAAAAA HAHA etc.

I’VE quit my job in order to hoon around the country and write about things, which is a nice idea in theory, isn’t it?

I’m panicking a bit about how I’ll actually get things done instead of just lounging around in front of Foxtel, occasionally adjourning to the fridge, or off to bed, for a quick tension-reliever.

For some pointers I pay Tom Hodgkinson a visit at his shop in West London. Tom started out working at The Guardian fresh from university, but left (inspired by US zines like Dishwasher and Temp Slave) to launch his own magazine The Idler, which has now progressed to issue 44, reconfigured as a fabric-bound hardback book, typeset the old-fashioned way.

His advice to freelancers, as passed down to me over a pot of tea, surrounded by crumbling books and cakes, is to sit in the bath a lot and lie in whenever possible, to help brilliant ideas come to germination.

Sounds flakey until you consider this chap’s authored a bunch of successful books devoted to making the most out of life, published the aforementioned magazine for 15 years, imported absinthe, opened this café and shop – a drop-in centre for wandering poets – and founded the Idler Academy, of which he is headmaster.

Situated at the shop, the Academy offers lectures in Virgil, mending, still life, drama, wine tasting, Latin (Tom’s young son reels off some grammatical exercises to demonstrate), poetry and more. Lecturers include Louis Theroux and The KLF’s Bill Drummond, the latter of whom teaches woodwork, for god’s sake. (“He’s got a Presbyterian work ethic,” explains Tom.)

Next on Tom’s agenda – or maybe not, since he’s just dreamed it up this minute over fruitcake – is outreach work. His heart bleeds for middle management types who could do with some office visits and gentle guidance from The Idler team.

“Why is it always white, middle-class people wanting to go out on outreach work when they need help themselves?” he ponders, idly.

Keeper? These tips will keep me warm even when my electricity provider will not.

I DIDN’T realise how much I stereotype people till I moved to Australia. Not being able to place someone’s class or region by their accent, and add that ingredient to the great pudding of presumption, throws me.

From an early age in England I could distinguish between lower middle, middle middle and upper middle (and whether you were putting it on), which home county you were from, what your dad did for a living and how you held your fork, just from your voice.

Over here I can sometimes tell if you’re from Adelaide and that’s it.

‘Welcome’ by Lynette Wallworth is a video installation at Melbourne’s Immigration Museum, depicting life-size groups of people of varying nationalities and walks of life (including Oxfam workers and Pies supporters), alternately looking welcoming and threatening.

Without an audience I find myself laughing and grinning like a loon at all the clips of people cracking up and embracing. I’m not taking the hostile ones personally, so I’m not that bothered (although it is disturbing when the women scoop up their children and glare at you), but it’s interesting seeing a gang of Asian teenagers, say, go from ne’er-do-wells to goofy geeks in my perception in a matter of seconds.

Keeper? Yes. I’m going to smile warmly at everyone tomorrow and see if they smile back. They better, or they’ll see what a face-like-a-smacked-arse looks like.

I DON’T like to be a party pooper, but nothing irritates me more than mass laughter. It’s not my fault – I’ve been raised to view the general public as a proletarian mob with a lowbrow sense of humour.

It makes comedy nights a problem – flinching every two seconds and looking around crossly – but if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, as they say.

I go along to Music, Mirth & Mayhem, part of the Melbourne International Comedy Festival, with my similarly stoic friend Clare, on a mission of guffawing loudly throughout.

To my surprise, once I’ve forced a few laughs to Dave Hughes (I nearly lose my stroke when he wanders into road tolls territory), it becomes easier and easier. For much of it I’m standing next to Chrissie, the gutsy, titian-haired publicist. She gasps, cackles and nudges me, loving it. Clare even raises a wry chuckle.

I watch a sourpuss a few rows ahead get her knickers in a twist by the people talking at the bar. That could be me! But it’s not. Yes, this is much better than burning with some imagined insult or falling into brooding silence as I calculate how many drinks I can have before I will have to ask myself to leave. You masses, you’re onto something.

Keeper? Sure. Will attempt a good sing-along soon.