In the autumn of 1989 my life had gone off the rails after I had been forced to leave a dormitory. I moved back to my parents’ home to gather some courage before trying out another dormitory. I promised myself to lead an insignificant life. Even a complete failure like me must be capable of achieving that.
There wasn’t much to laugh for me in those days, except for a few episodes of Chief Inspector Jacques Clouseau aired on German television. My parents lived near the German border so it was possible to watch German television.
Clouseau was completely inept, but he always managed to solve the mystery. Guided by a few hunches and some vague clues that only made sense in his mind, he ignored the most obvious explanation of the facts, and discovered the truth by accident.
The German dubbing made him appear even more clumsy. How could a bumbling clown like Clouseau be correct while the competent fail? The answer is that Jacques Clouseau is a fictional character in a story. The plot was always that Clouseau is right in the end. The world we live in could be fiction too. And so I could be right.