I read 100 of the Worst Ideas in History in 2020, during the strange half-dreamlike months of the first COVID lockdown. I was in Barrackpore, living in my mother’s old house—its long corridor stretching like a timeline of childhood echoes, and the windows sealed against a world falling apart outside.
Every day felt the same and yet deeply unfamiliar, and into that suspended monotony arrived this absurd, sharply humorous book. It became, unexpectedly, one of the brightest companions of that heavy time.
The copy had been ordered online during one of those brief “delivery allowed” windows. I remember sanitizing the package like it carried plutonium, leaving it under the staircase for two days, then finally tearing it open with the eagerness of a man starved both for new stories and new laughter. My cousin Ankita, who lived two doors down, visited often in those days—from a distance of six feet—to exchange books like contraband. She spotted the cover and said, “You desperately need this.” She was right.
Reading this book in lockdown made the experience far richer than it might have been in ordinary times. When the world is spiralling into a real-time disaster, reading about historically terrible decisions—some hilarious, some tragic, some so stupid they felt liberating—becomes a unique kind of therapy. Suddenly, global incompetence felt like a tradition rather than an anomaly.
Smith and Kasum’s tone is breezy, conversational, and mischievous, as if the authors are two slightly drunk friends telling you humanity’s most embarrassing stories. But beneath the humour lies a surprisingly thoughtful thread: humans have always erred spectacularly, and yet we keep moving, rebuilding, reinventing.
I read the book mostly on the veranda during those long, golden afternoons when the neighbourhood was silent except for birds and distant ambulance sirens. There was something almost cinematic about the contrast: the weight of the pandemic outside, and this book in my hands listing idiotic inventions, disastrous military strategies, failed experiments, and catastrophically misguided political decisions.
One story that made me laugh out loud—enough for Ankita to peek over the wall and ask if I’d lost it—was about the 19th-century “medical” belief that electric belts could cure everything from arthritis to heartbreak.
Another was the infamous attempt at using cats as parachuting bomb delivery systems. The absurdity of it all felt like oxygen.
But not every “idea” was funny. Some were chilling—especially decisions that led to mass suffering, economic ruin, or cultural erasure. Reading them at a time when the world itself felt fragile gave these chapters added gravity.
There was one moment I vividly remember: a story about a poorly designed dam whose failure destroyed an entire town. The authors narrated it with their trademark humour, but an undercurrent of tragedy ran below. As I read it, rain began hitting the tin shade of the veranda—one of those sudden pre-monsoon bursts that made the whole house tremble. For a moment, my laughter faded, and I thought about fragility, human arrogance, and how disasters—comic or tragic—are often only a few misjudgements away.
Ankita and I discussed many entries over tea (our cups placed on opposite ends of the garden bench). She said, “Humans will never run out of dumb ideas.” I replied, “Or out of books mocking them.” That became a little joke between us: whenever news from outside grew grim, one of us would say, “Add that to the next edition.”
What made the book memorable wasn’t just its content, but the timing. In a period when time itself had become shapeless, this book imposed a structure: short chapters, digestible pieces, each ending in a laugh or a thoughtful sigh. It pulled me out of the fear-haze and reminded me that the world had endured stupidity, chaos, and disasters long before 2020.
When I finished the last page, Howrah was just beginning to step into a guarded version of normalcy. Lockdown was loosening, birdsong was giving way to traffic again, and I felt strangely grateful. The book had helped me survive those impossible months—not through escapism, but through perspective. It taught me that error is part of the human engine, and that history is stitched together equally by brilliance and foolishness.
To this day, 100 of the Worst Ideas in History remains tied to sunlit verandas, masked book-swapping, and the quiet courage of surviving uncertainty with humor intact.