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Saturday, 14 May 2011

Tweeting Hell

Twitter is a fucking weird space, don’t you think?

When I joined it a few months ago I was so excited, I was thinking, sweet, in a couple of days, after a few witticisms I’m gonna be buddies with Stephen Fry. He’s gonna take me to Norwich City home games, and I can sit there like a chick in a nest, hungrily gulping down all the literary maggots he regurgitates for me. It’s gonna be incredible.

Then I get on there. And I realise that it’s a lot like life. It’s just me floating around cyber-space, with no connection to anyone else. I don’t know, I just thought that it would be like plugging into the matrix – there I would be connected to all these people, part of a huge family. I thought it would be like a huge pack of bonobos, everyone constantly sniffing each others arses, following, fucking, tweeting. In a way, of course, you are all connected. You are free to message whoever you want on there, they just won’t fucking answer, or even acknowledge that you sent it.

You tweet a message. “I just picked my nose”. Then you look at your followers, surely they are going to be flocking to that. That is obviously someone I want to know. Nothing. Still zero. Weird, I think, I’ll go and make a cup of tea. Come back still nothing. How long does this shit take?

Then I notice that there are things trending. Gary Moore has just died, he’s in there. So I tweet “1952-2011 Gary Moore. 2011-eternity Gary No Moore”. That is gold. Nothing, although I do pick up my first follower. Then I realise every cunt out there is trying this trick. There’s one hundred coming in every second – no-one gets a fucking chance to read yours, because one hundred other twats have just gone over the top. Then someone like Will Ferrell comes on in, slaps out his hairy balls and writes “With Gary less was always Moore” and its instantly a top tweet, held at the top of the page for eternity. That’s where I wanna be, I think, at the same time as fantasising about him rubbing his tiny cock whilst acknowledging that my gag was funnier.

How do I reach these guys? If I can get some responses from famous people my follower tally will go through the roof and that famous director will listen to me! I can’t tweet him when I’ve only got four followers!

So you spend hours trying to think of something funny to say to someone famous, only to have it ritually ignored. This to me is far worse than a terse ‘fuck off’ response. If I was famous I would have my ten favourite insults on a template that I would copy and paste to unfunny pricks like me that tweet in.

Only, when it comes to the rich and famous you don’t have hours. You have to be quick. They tweet something and suddenly here are a million fart suckers out there, hovering like flies around shit, brains a grinding, working out the funniest thing in the quickest possible time. This graph demonstrates the problem caused by time in responding to celebrities.


You check out the profile of your favourite vitriolic comedian stroke journalist – he’s just said something about spiders, he’s just seen a big spider in his flat – I know he’s quick so I can’t delay or he’ll think I’m a cunt. So I send “scatter dead flies over your floor and he won’t bother you for at least a week”. He is going to piss himself at that. Dead flies over the floor, imagine me trying to catch them all, ho ho, and then offer them, like some insectivorous Mayan sacrifice, he he! I know, that gag’s going to make it onto the next episode of my TV show. Thanks Garth, tell you what, I’ll message you on here so everyone can see how funny you are, then I’ll private message you to invite you to write my high brow newspaper column for me. Only he didn’t, because he’d just had a message from his good buddy TV presenter man, who said something really shit like “I knew a spider, once”. Not only can you not get through to the celebs they gloatily tweet each other’s foibles, tantalising you with the intimacy of their inner network.

It’s how the peasants must’ve felt in the dark ages, hanging around outside the castle, desperately waiting for a morsel to be thrown over the battlements. Only these are no concrete walls, they are invisible, we know what they are eating for breakfast, because they just fucking told us. Just like they tell us every other little thing they do. Now they’re going for a poo. I tweet something funny about this, but instantly worry that it is not up to the standard expected of this great man. I quickly get up from my seat, embarrassed and confused. I run into the kitchen, mumbling to myself, chastising myself for my over-confidence.I get back to my seat ten seconds later, shaking and sweating. I look in my mentioned folder. Empty.

But now I’m in too deep, I need a hit of twitter smack. Somebody love me, somebody famous acknowledge my incredible humour and interestingness! I forget about the film director, fuck ‘im, the lofty prick, I’m setting my sights lower. I try the reasonably well known comedian, he’s on there a lot. Nothing. This will not do. I try the ex-soap actor, a man so ugly you have to lift up his hair to make sure his legs aren’t in there, and am consequently ignored by a man almost universally reviled and considered a bell-end. Maybe they can sniff the desperation. That wasn’t the tweet of a confident man with nothing to lose, that was the tweet of a man one step away from moving in next door to an extra from The Bill. I’ve hit rock bottom.

This is tough love personified. Except there is no love here. There’s no emotion whatsoever. Just total indifference, like a man looking up to the sky on a beautiful morning, watching a kite, and ignoring the hundreds of shooting stars invisibly passing by.

Know thy place, cunt.

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