Perspective | The Strange Thrill of Collecting What Doesn’t Matter

By: | May 17, 2026

Roger Crombie is a United Kingdom-based columnist for Risk & Insurance®. He can be reached at [email protected].

Awhile back, Risk & Insurance® published 90 entries in the roster I’m compiling of made-up insurance companies, trade associations, insurance and investigation agencies, brokers and adjusters that appear in movies.

The inventory has since doubled. I recently added fictitious companies appearing in TV shows, 60 so far, but my work there has only just begun.

An opinion columnist’s lot is harder than you might think.

Once you hear that a TV series has an insurance element, for example, you must watch dozens of hour-long TV episodes featuring dreary sub-Sherlock Holmes investigators, hoping a fake company name turns up.

Or worse. An online article said a movie called “Midnight Tease 2” had an insurance angle. It did: an insurance investigator becomes a stripper for some reason. The film centers on women with improbably large bosoms, who are without coverage, insurance or otherwise (or fake company names).

You have to pay close attention in case another company is called in, or the risk is reinsured, or something … which never happens.

Well, it did once, in “The Curse of the Jade Scorpion,” the 2001 Woody Allen movie. Under hypnosis, Allen’s character refers to his employer as North Coast Casualty & Fidelity. On a radio broadcast and at the end of the movie on the office door, it’s called North Coast Fidelity & Casualty.

Two fake companies, one of them a fake fake.

In the real world, an actual insurance company adopted one of the names for its computer modeling, so the list is not a total waste of time. Still, you’re probably wondering why anyone would pursue so pointless an exercise.

I’ll tell you.

It’s not about the names of the companies; it’s about collecting them. I’ve always collected things. LPs, cassettes, books, CDs, DVDs; I’ve had ’em by the thousand, cared for them, and sometimes catalogued and obsessed about them. When it wears off, or the tech is overtaken, I give them away for someone else to fuss over or fill land with.

Harmless? Mostly. But there is a dark side. Before the internet made finding them easy, I had 1,500 books by an author who wrote fewer than 100. “I’d like to read all his stuff” eventually became ultra-completism, the quest to collect a copy of every printing of every edition of everything by or about him in every language published. I went to a convention in the man’s honor, thinking I’d be feted as the greatest collector ever.

I placed about fifth. The winner had 3,000 items, and this was 25 years ago. When the author we all admired and his wife became enfeebled, one of us put together the ultimate collection: the couple themselves, ‘helping’ them by refusing access to other collectors.

It was the damnedest thing, like living in a Stephen King novel. Print-on-demand made a complete collection impossible and the author died. I donated my hard-won treasures to his hometown library.

Your reward for reading this far is the concentrated wisdom squeezed from a lifetime of collecting: The best thing to collect, really the only thing to collect, is $50 bills. &

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