A Tweet Analysis for the Middle Aged

I have recently started having to properly filter my exposure to negative influences in my life.

Now before you start quoting Katie Holmes and Nicole Kidman at me, I’ve not fallen in with Scientologists or anything. I’m talking electronically. I have this perverse thing I like to do, which is indulge in the twitter feeds of people who annoy the heck out of me. It’s like having a friend who is just so infuriating. Usually these are vintage friends, or came with a package (best friend of your best friend) so they continue to be in your life even though ideally they would be in a different country. I find these friends can do no right. Text messages are written in a way that pisses me off, voice grates, wine choices at dinner parties are just off, their comments always feel like insults, their attitude always wrong. In short, I just don’t know why we are friends. But that irritation is often a nice constant, a continuum, something that remains in a chaotic world.

And in Twitter land, there are people who similarly annoy. Some I don’t follow, I secretly stalk to see what vile things they say. But some celebs I follow just so their nonsense can brighten my day. Goldie Hawn this week has launched a new twit survey into her latest self help clap trap bollocks, asking Twitter- “what is the different between happiness and joy?”.

My response is as follows:



Any questions? Now go make First Wives Club 2. Or something like that, Goldie.

Honestly, the Internet is wonderful for so many things. Yesterday I went to see Prometheus, and wanted to know who the guy was who played Holloway. Imdb told me in 2 seconds. After that I needed distraction because the film was such tedious rubbish that I felt like the screen was mocking me by slowly making every scene more hammy and preposterous than the last. When it resembled Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, it hit its lowest point.

And it’s a bad sign when I don’t enjoy a Neighbours connection. Indeed, unprecedented. Alan Dale made The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, and the aforementioned Indiana Jones film for me. But I still don’t get why Guy Pearce played the old
Dude. No clue.

So yeah, for every benefit there is a low point. For every imdb gem, we have Richard Madeley and his endless retweeting. For all the humour of Bette Midler, we have Cher using text speak. For every Nigella photo of her tea, we have Perez Hilton photographing himself looking more and more like Ron Perlman. Twitter, you are can of worms. The ability to connect is all well and good when it suits the person concerned to be in charge of their thoughts. Some people should just shut the heck up.

And I do fear for the young. One young guy is effectively whoring himself, as any red blooded, good looking young kid in his early 20’s would. But to detail every blow in 149 characters. Including the drugs you take, the sex you have, photos of those involved, near naked photos of yourself? Talk is cheap, Twitter is publishing.

They say Youth is wasted on the young, but there are elements to modern life I’m glad my younger self never encountered. This online phenomena being one. Followers aren’t friends, but are discussed like commodities or validation. The need to appear interesting isn’t just a pub story on Saturday night now, but needs to be detailed in contemporaneous witticisms to be analysed in the pub. It’s all too much. And the worst thing? I’ve consigned to the memory vault some things, some horrible mistakes or daft misadventures, never to be discussed. I’m afraid that these things tweeted may never go away. So the silly 20-somethings who vapidly boast their frivolities away today, forget they have a lot of tomorrows to come.

The aftermath of all this may be long, painful, and rumble on.
In other news, I made a malteasers cake today.

I tweeted about it. That’s about as sexy as my tweets get. Yet another benefit of age, the most exciting parts of your weekend involve no sex, drugs or rock and roll. But do involve ovaltine.
– Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

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