It's almost a year since I wrote this blog so I thought it was time to update it having had much more experience of Twitter and considerably increased my following..
I am basically here for the humour. I joined a couple of years ago, followed Stephen Fry as you are supposed to, found it boring, and dropped out. In April 2011, Gabby Logan mentioned Twitter and my interest was piqued again. She advised us to follow Gary Delaney, adding he was hilarious though sometimes risqué. I did so and enjoyed some of his early posts. I particularly enjoyed one about him entering a semaphore marathon but after 18 hours he was flagging badly. I replied to a couple of posts he made but didn't, at the time, realise there was a hierarchy on Twitter to conform to.
Twitter basically falls into four levels or "social classes". There are the D listers where I am firmly rooted along with the majority of people who subscribe. Us D listers know our place. We sometimes tweet above our station and, feel excited when someone from an upper level gives us a compliment or a reply. Some might call it common courtesy but on Twitter, these are rare gifts. Most of the people I correspond with are also D listers, even though a few of them do comedy professionally.
The C listers are a strange breed. On here are unknowns who have become famous and lauded within the Twitter family. They feel they have elevated themselves to a higher status and they are due respect from their inferiors. There is an arrogance in their response to tweets from lower orders. Woe betide anyone who tweets a funnier reply than their post. That is unforgivable.They will not follow you, no matter how entertaining or funny you may be. If you do happen to attract a c lister to your following, don't post a funny reply to their tweets. They hate this and will immediately unfollow. The easiest way to spot a C lister for newbies is to check the retweets. They constantly retweet each others posts telling us how funny they are in case we didn't notice and commanding us to follow them.
They often grandly announce in advance that they are going to treat us to an old tweet of theirs so we can prepare ourselves for the merriment to come and gasp in admiration. I have taken to doing this as a piss take. I have no fear of retribution for saying this as no-one from this level would lower themselves to read an inferiors blog. I have lost quite a few C list followers. I am, of course, broken hearted. I do however still see most of their stuff as I follow one or two others and they constantly retweet them. None of them was much of a loss as there was often a touch of arrogance in their musings. I find far funnier tweeters at D level. To be honest, the people at this level are much better too. One thing you must never do to a C lister is question them or disagree with their pronouncements. That is a recipe for immediate banishment.
B list is the celeb level. On this level it can be quite confusing. There are celebs who wouldn't reply to their own mothers whereas some reply generously to questions or to remarks. A good example is David Baddiel who will comment if he sees something funny he likes or will reply if asked a direct question. I do. of course, take into account the fact that these celebs may be bombarded with tweets and it may be very difficult to answer a large number but, if you can't be arsed replying, don't bother posting. I still follow a couple on this level as I find them amusing or informative. I don't expect them to acknowledge my existance or humour me. C listers want to court the B listers. They suckle up to them and massage egos in the hope of kudos amongst their peers or admiration from their implied inferiors.
The A list is in space. It is reserved for the Lady Gaga's and Justin Biebers of this world. It is a publicity tool and offers little or nothing to the substance of Twitter. I follow no A listers.
I am more than happy to be a D with my contemporaries. I am more than happy to see some of them elevated to 2 or 3 and I will still follow them if they remember who us mere mortals are, when they ascend. I will however, continue to view the majority of C's with suspicion. Pride often comes before a fall. And, just in case I become famous (more likely infamous) I will continue to acknowledge the lower orders with a quip or remark, just so than can remind me of what a twat I have become
Tuesday 12 July 2011
Thursday 7 July 2011
Walk Towards the Light
We went out for a meal last weekend with one of the small number of friends we have that you could call "spiritual". I can think of a much more apt and descriptive word but, as we enjoy their company, I refrain from my usual excesses.
Elaine has a guru. I would say, had a guru, but she disagrees as she still talks to him even though he died some years ago. She met him on a trip to India and he changed her life around. She readily admits to having lived life to the full but is now almost teetotal, a raging veggie and a little bit preachy. When I say a little bit preachy, I mean a lot preachy. I am pleased to say she no longer bothers with me. I am a lost cause not destined to enjoy the fruits of reincarnation due to my lack of faith or understanding. Even worse than not coming back, I may come back a little lower in the food chain. This got me to thinking about reincarnation and, what I would prefer to be reincarnated as.
My first question would be, how long do you have to wait before you come back and, if it's not instantaneous, what do you do whilst your waiting. Take Glen Hoddle. What the hell must he have been in a previous life to have come back as Glen Hoddle? If you come back straight away, it rules out Hitler or Stalin. Marcel Berré (12 November 1882 – 27 October 1957) was a Belgian Olympic fencer who died around the time that Hoddle was born. Hoddle is renown for always sitting on the fence so there is a loose link there. Hoddle is a God botherer and I sometimes wonder if the Almighty (I'll suspend my beliefs for a short while) may get a little irritated with them.
If we assume there is just one God and the world religions choose to call him by a different name, just think of how many people are asking favours from him at any one time. He/she/it must get sick to death of it. I know I would. How often in life are we intrigued by the people that ignore us and take for granted the devout friends? I reckon I must be really high on his list of preferred subjects by now.
I have solved the mystery of people who have near death experiences. They all seem to come up with the same shared experience, describing being drawn to a bright light. Isn't it obvious? At the point of death we all become moths! Those little buggers are always drawn to the light. Moths are frees souls awaiting rebirth. If you see one in your wardrobe, eating your clothes, don't hit it with a newspaper. Talk to it. Let it hear soothing words as it passes from one life to the next. Git rid of the Flit and Vapona. At night, light every lamp you can to draw these wondrous beings towards you and bask in their spiritual glow. Sadly I have just realised that our cat must be responsible for the untimely demise of many a freed soul and, as for the chickens!
Having taken all this into account, I have decided what to aim for. I know what my next reincarnation will be if I get my wish so ladies, after my demise, when you sit on your bicycle or put on that soft creamy bra, think of me. I may be looking at you.
Elaine has a guru. I would say, had a guru, but she disagrees as she still talks to him even though he died some years ago. She met him on a trip to India and he changed her life around. She readily admits to having lived life to the full but is now almost teetotal, a raging veggie and a little bit preachy. When I say a little bit preachy, I mean a lot preachy. I am pleased to say she no longer bothers with me. I am a lost cause not destined to enjoy the fruits of reincarnation due to my lack of faith or understanding. Even worse than not coming back, I may come back a little lower in the food chain. This got me to thinking about reincarnation and, what I would prefer to be reincarnated as.
My first question would be, how long do you have to wait before you come back and, if it's not instantaneous, what do you do whilst your waiting. Take Glen Hoddle. What the hell must he have been in a previous life to have come back as Glen Hoddle? If you come back straight away, it rules out Hitler or Stalin. Marcel Berré (12 November 1882 – 27 October 1957) was a Belgian Olympic fencer who died around the time that Hoddle was born. Hoddle is renown for always sitting on the fence so there is a loose link there. Hoddle is a God botherer and I sometimes wonder if the Almighty (I'll suspend my beliefs for a short while) may get a little irritated with them.
If we assume there is just one God and the world religions choose to call him by a different name, just think of how many people are asking favours from him at any one time. He/she/it must get sick to death of it. I know I would. How often in life are we intrigued by the people that ignore us and take for granted the devout friends? I reckon I must be really high on his list of preferred subjects by now.
I have solved the mystery of people who have near death experiences. They all seem to come up with the same shared experience, describing being drawn to a bright light. Isn't it obvious? At the point of death we all become moths! Those little buggers are always drawn to the light. Moths are frees souls awaiting rebirth. If you see one in your wardrobe, eating your clothes, don't hit it with a newspaper. Talk to it. Let it hear soothing words as it passes from one life to the next. Git rid of the Flit and Vapona. At night, light every lamp you can to draw these wondrous beings towards you and bask in their spiritual glow. Sadly I have just realised that our cat must be responsible for the untimely demise of many a freed soul and, as for the chickens!
Having taken all this into account, I have decided what to aim for. I know what my next reincarnation will be if I get my wish so ladies, after my demise, when you sit on your bicycle or put on that soft creamy bra, think of me. I may be looking at you.
Sunday 3 July 2011
God
I have never been trendy. I will never be trendy. I worry that if being untrendy ever becomes trendy I will disappear up my own backside in the confusion of working out how to solve the dilemma. I don't follow any fashion or music trends. I can't remember the last time I bought my own clothes. Actually, that's a lie. I bought a pair of hipster trousers in July 1969, taking a female work colleague with me for advice. Boy were they trendy. I think I wore them once. I preferred comfort. My label is Mattalan, Asda. and market stalls. God forbid they ever become the places to shop. I suppose I have had three mums. My mum, my first wife and Janet. They kept and keep me from looking like it is still 1969. I'd probably still be wearing my school uniform if I had it and it fit.
Little by little however, over the last ten years or so, I have become slightly trendy by osmosis. There is a culprit for this. He is not the only one but he is a very influential one. Thanks for nothing Stephen Fry.
I was brought up to be a good Catholic boy. I made my first confession and communion, as was the custom. I went sometimes to morning Mass, during the week, having fasted from the night before, as was required by the church. I took egg sarnies with me to have after Mass. Peter Nixon, who was a fat bastard, used to take a block of unmade jelly. I went to mass every Sunday. We usually went to 8.30 Mass meaning we had to be up by 7.30am to be ready on time. Twice I fainted in Church and had to be carried out. I think that being denied a meal until you had been to communion has left the legacy now of my being unable to eat in a morning. I rarely have anything before around 12.30pm to 1.
It was so boring. I once sat through a sermon wondering what the hell the plight of kids in Asia had to do with me. I didn't even know any Asian kids. It was later explained to me that the priest was condemning euthanasia. Perhaps that is where my love of puns and alternative meaning stems from! Adolescence gave me a brief respite, mainly because of the Scratchard girls. They were tall, very leggy and not afraid to show them. In a way it was quite scandalous. Although mini skirts were everywhere now (even my Mum had her skirts above the knee) it was generally accepted that you remained sober in dress at church. I had many a vision in church when the Scratchard sisters arrived.
Then there was Mrs. Brophy. Every parish had a poor family and the Brophys were ours. There were many Brophys and they mostly smelled of pee. I am sure they had a future in manufacturing smelling salts but it was, at times, overpowering. Mrs. Brophy was the star however. I still think she was wearing knickers she had robbed from a ten week old corpse. The smell was appalling. There was a problem however. She always arrived late, and squeezed herself into any available space (church was almost always full in those days). You could feel the tension as the service started and the congregation began praying. They were praying that Mrs. Brophy didn't sit near them. When she arrived, you could see the fidgeting as people closed gaps and crossed themselves hoping to prevent her sitting next to them. Once, and only once did she sit next to me. I would rather bathe in the contents of a lepers colostomy bag than repeat the experience. Have you ever tried to breath from one side of your mouth and blow it out the other for 45 minutes? Don't try it.
The week after I left school, I stopped going to Church. I still believed in God, the indoctrination was too ingrained to just opt out at that stage but it was a way of expressing my new found independence. Ernest Long began my descent into atheism. He was my first father in law. He was a lovely chap if you found socio-paths interesting. I never met him. Not once in 13 years of marriage did we meet or speak. What was my crime? I was of Irish stock. When he found out my name he suspected I was catholic and perhaps, horror of horrors, Irish too. His fears were confirmed when he met my dad one night after our car broke down and both our fathers came to pick up up. My dad spoke about six words to him. My dad was born and brought up in France of Irish parents. Ernest ordered his daughter to drop me that very night. She refused and he asked her to leave. His only daughter. He didn't come to the wedding or contact her again in our time together.
His reasoning was that Irish Catholics were cowards and Nazi sympathisers who supported Germany in the war. My Granddad was buried alive in the WW1 trenches and my Dad and his three brothers and two of his sisters all fought in WW2. It was a rude welcome to the world of prejudice. Ernest was wealthy. He was educated and was a senior executive with British Telecom where many staff still called him sir. He was also an appalling bigot.
I began doubting God then. The more I read, the more I doubted. I became fascinated by the rise of fascism and how millions followed its venomous doctrine without question. I began to argue with friends and family about God. "God gives people a choice" I was continually told. "They had the choice to follow or not" I couldn't see where the choice element came in for the six million Jews or the thirty million Russians. I became an atheist. Life became easier.
Contrary to popular belief, I didn't become a different person. I still cared. I still loved and generally tried to be the good person I was brought up to be. I didn't do it for God though, to buy my my place in heaven. I did it for me and the people I influenced and influenced me. Knowing there is no life after death means I make the most of my time here. Dying will be eternal sleep and, as an insomniac, it has some appeal.
I'll take my chances. if I am wrong, I'll say hello to Adolf and Joseph and we can lament on the irony of my decision. It's not going to happen is it? So, thanks for making me trendy Stephen. Keep quiet about it eh?
Little by little however, over the last ten years or so, I have become slightly trendy by osmosis. There is a culprit for this. He is not the only one but he is a very influential one. Thanks for nothing Stephen Fry.
I was brought up to be a good Catholic boy. I made my first confession and communion, as was the custom. I went sometimes to morning Mass, during the week, having fasted from the night before, as was required by the church. I took egg sarnies with me to have after Mass. Peter Nixon, who was a fat bastard, used to take a block of unmade jelly. I went to mass every Sunday. We usually went to 8.30 Mass meaning we had to be up by 7.30am to be ready on time. Twice I fainted in Church and had to be carried out. I think that being denied a meal until you had been to communion has left the legacy now of my being unable to eat in a morning. I rarely have anything before around 12.30pm to 1.
It was so boring. I once sat through a sermon wondering what the hell the plight of kids in Asia had to do with me. I didn't even know any Asian kids. It was later explained to me that the priest was condemning euthanasia. Perhaps that is where my love of puns and alternative meaning stems from! Adolescence gave me a brief respite, mainly because of the Scratchard girls. They were tall, very leggy and not afraid to show them. In a way it was quite scandalous. Although mini skirts were everywhere now (even my Mum had her skirts above the knee) it was generally accepted that you remained sober in dress at church. I had many a vision in church when the Scratchard sisters arrived.
Then there was Mrs. Brophy. Every parish had a poor family and the Brophys were ours. There were many Brophys and they mostly smelled of pee. I am sure they had a future in manufacturing smelling salts but it was, at times, overpowering. Mrs. Brophy was the star however. I still think she was wearing knickers she had robbed from a ten week old corpse. The smell was appalling. There was a problem however. She always arrived late, and squeezed herself into any available space (church was almost always full in those days). You could feel the tension as the service started and the congregation began praying. They were praying that Mrs. Brophy didn't sit near them. When she arrived, you could see the fidgeting as people closed gaps and crossed themselves hoping to prevent her sitting next to them. Once, and only once did she sit next to me. I would rather bathe in the contents of a lepers colostomy bag than repeat the experience. Have you ever tried to breath from one side of your mouth and blow it out the other for 45 minutes? Don't try it.
The week after I left school, I stopped going to Church. I still believed in God, the indoctrination was too ingrained to just opt out at that stage but it was a way of expressing my new found independence. Ernest Long began my descent into atheism. He was my first father in law. He was a lovely chap if you found socio-paths interesting. I never met him. Not once in 13 years of marriage did we meet or speak. What was my crime? I was of Irish stock. When he found out my name he suspected I was catholic and perhaps, horror of horrors, Irish too. His fears were confirmed when he met my dad one night after our car broke down and both our fathers came to pick up up. My dad spoke about six words to him. My dad was born and brought up in France of Irish parents. Ernest ordered his daughter to drop me that very night. She refused and he asked her to leave. His only daughter. He didn't come to the wedding or contact her again in our time together.
His reasoning was that Irish Catholics were cowards and Nazi sympathisers who supported Germany in the war. My Granddad was buried alive in the WW1 trenches and my Dad and his three brothers and two of his sisters all fought in WW2. It was a rude welcome to the world of prejudice. Ernest was wealthy. He was educated and was a senior executive with British Telecom where many staff still called him sir. He was also an appalling bigot.
I began doubting God then. The more I read, the more I doubted. I became fascinated by the rise of fascism and how millions followed its venomous doctrine without question. I began to argue with friends and family about God. "God gives people a choice" I was continually told. "They had the choice to follow or not" I couldn't see where the choice element came in for the six million Jews or the thirty million Russians. I became an atheist. Life became easier.
Contrary to popular belief, I didn't become a different person. I still cared. I still loved and generally tried to be the good person I was brought up to be. I didn't do it for God though, to buy my my place in heaven. I did it for me and the people I influenced and influenced me. Knowing there is no life after death means I make the most of my time here. Dying will be eternal sleep and, as an insomniac, it has some appeal.
I'll take my chances. if I am wrong, I'll say hello to Adolf and Joseph and we can lament on the irony of my decision. It's not going to happen is it? So, thanks for making me trendy Stephen. Keep quiet about it eh?
Friday 1 July 2011
On reflection.
Of all the myriad of inventions, discovered, manufactured or stumbled over down the centuries, two, for me, stand out. They basically carry out the same function. One shows you how you looked, whilst the other shows you how you look.
Before the invention of the camera, only the wealthy ever had their image recorded. I am discounting the shroud of Turin here. Whether you believe it is genuine (tehe) or another manufactured holy remnant for the tourists and the gullible, it cannot ever be proved to be a good likeness as there is no-one around to corroborate it. If he returns to prove me wrong, I shall wipe the egg off my face (as well as wiping the mess from my soiled underwear too). I never really believe that portrait painters actually captured true likenesses of their clients. It would be bad for repeat business if he, say, painted Wayne Rooney, looking actually like Wayne Rooney. How pissed would Wayne be if he paid a fortune only to be handed a likeness of something looking like the old lady he had shagged the night before?
Cameras have a tendency not to lie. I am not saying they don’t lie as Photoshop has proved that myth to be incorrect time and time again. I look in the mirror and, after the initial shock I think “yeah, not too bad. You look more distinguished it’s true and there are a couple more lines and the hair colour is a shade lighter but overall I haven’t changed that much”. Then I look at a photo from 30, 20 or even 10 years ago and I can no longer lie to myself. Not only is the hair lighter, some swine has buggered off with half of it. True, I had lines back then but they didn’t criss cross each other giving my face the look of an ordnance survey map of Ambleside. I also didn’t have that saggy bit which I now expertly conceal under a neatly trimmed goatee.
I once read of a woman who suffered a trauma to the head and every morning she woke up believing she was 18 and not in her 40’s. Every morning she looked in the mirror and screamed as an imposter stared back at her. Can you imagine the shock of looking in the mirror and expecting to see your younger self but instead seeing your Mum, or Dad, or worse staring back at you?
More scary are the full length mirrors. They are capable of such deceit. Our bedroom full length mirror is flattering. For some reason it stretches the torso and reduces the flab. The mirror in the bathroom doesn’t lie. I hate that mirror, even more so as it is opposite the toilet and, unless I have a good book, I have to stare at myself too many times a day in a position no-one should have to witness.
How many times have you seen someone in the street and said to yourself “God almighty, haven’t they got a mirror in their house”? They have, but they see themselves totally differently to the way the rest of the world sees them. Those tree trunk legs are shapely. The exposed midriff is taught and sexy, not somewhere you could imagine mushrooms growing in the underhang.
The world would be a better place without mirrors and cameras. Keep the kids photos. They are special and a reminder of youth but, once past twenty, forget it. Dump the camera and the mirrors and be happy.
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