Sunday, 17 August 2008
Although it was set up as a student social network site, since September 11, 2006, anyone aged 13 or older may join facebook. The site has more than 58 million active users worldwide, with membership expected to surpass 60 million users by the end of 2008. But there is dark and sinister side to the nations new favourite pastime which I feel it is my duty to highlight. And before you try the “but everyone else is doing it excuse” just remember There are 1,321,851,888 people living in China and communism still sux.
1. The world realises you are out of your tree
People that indulge in the silly practice of sobriety often mistakenly believe that drunken rambling is an ineffective use of time, effort, brain matter and good whiskey, this is in fact false. I would like to suggest that the art of the drunken rant is as old as ale itself and should be celebrated. What else would we do when drunk apart from talk bollocks. The problem with facebook is that instead of blocking out the shit I spewed over my numerous bottles of happy hour wine and happily forgetting the whole embarrassing affair my so-called friends share these things on facebook. Does it make my life better the fact that the world knows I was so engrossed is an argument about who is better between Superman and Super Ted that I fell off my chair? No it doesn’t! But if you wondered I concluded that Superman is far superior because Super Ted isn’t real…
2. You can’t hide your drunkenness
I know I look like a gurning pug dog after six pints, but at the time so does everyone else so I’m not too concerned. The problem is when the sorry state of me is captured on camera and plastered on Facebook. Is it really necessary? Drinking and driving is banned why can’t drinking and photographing be also outlawed?
3. The World knows when your love life goes down the pan
You have just been dumped; you’ve eaten anything in the house that contains sugar, re-watched dirty dancing and cried, and listened to Sinead O’Connor. To make matter worse you are now planning to go out to place where you could probably catch clap off the carpet with the sole intention of pulling just to boost your fragile ego. Just when you think you couldn’t possibly feel any worse you realise your single status has been shared with all of your ‘friends’. Plus the night out you planed also ends up on Facebook so your ex can smugly sit back and view the photos of you desperately slobbering over some Billy no mates who has a face like a mouldy potato.
4. You can’t hide from freaks
Facebook seems to have more freaks than the 192 bus to Stockport. I don’t care if you “like my picture” or think I “look cool”. I do not want to meet you, exchange bodily fluids with you or marry you for money in exchange for a visa. If you still think you may like to meet me I suggest you look at the drunken photos I was tagged in, if you’re still interested I think you need medication.
5.You waste your life away
I once spent four hours playing Scrabulous, although that probably speaks more about me being an anally retentive geek than the evils of facebook.
Saturday, 16 August 2008
It is not difficult to scratch below the sun tanned surface and see the cracks beginning to show. Private beeches charging up to £20 a day to park your derrière on sand are filled with balding men approaching middle age, whose stomachs are bursting with years of decadent three course dining, accompanied by long legged girls who look a good deal younger and sound as though their entire education consisted of beauty at the local college. Whether this is a long term meeting of soul mates or the girls came as a bonus for frequent users I am unsure.
Silver haired ladies who are still striving for a golden tan long past their sell by date line the public beaches. Placing an accurate age on this particular group is almost impossible, sun damage has reduced the texture of their skin to a bulk buy box of rubber bands. What is so wrong with being pale and interesting? It is as if there was a town rule passed some time ago which stated no one is allowed to be white. You can be caramel, bright orange, the colour or tomato soup or raw meat, but never any colour that can be seen in nature without some serious genetically modified intervention.
Small white square elastoplasts kept appearing like a twisted dot to dot puzzle across the backs, arms and faces of glamorous thirty something’s. Despite my French being mainly limited to ordering alcohol, getting rid of French men and explaining medical emergencies thanks to my colourful snow boarding history I managed to piece together the puzzle by over hearing beachside conversations. The word malignant manages to cross languages, it would seem the recurring theme was mole removal due to skin cancer, but despite the obvious dangers to health, like junkies craving one more hit, these willing victims still lined up ready for their next fix of ultra violet, risking their youthful looks, elasticity of skin and even their lives. This was the first time I considered tanning to be a kind of addiction. Burroughs recollection of addiction...
“I had not taken a bath in a year nor changed my clothes or removed them except to stick a needle every hour in the fibrous grey wooden flesh of heroin addiction. I did absolutely nothing”
When tanning becomes a necessity and daily occurrence, it can no longer be a leisure activity, or possibly I am just ever so slightly bitter and enviously that my leisure activities constitute someone else’s daily life.
During the day, the focus is on the fine white sands and the azure blue of the warm
I’m lying on the beach in my Primark bikini and “Vintage” Oxfam glasses and I am suddenly faced with blind panic as hope to God I never become that self obsessed. I must shame facedly admit that I have gone to absurd lengths for my own personal amusement which include dislocating my neck snow boarding, applying to be the director general of the BBC, on the basis that I was hung over, the Hollyoakes Omnibus was proving to be just as monotonous as the first time round and I was a fan of East Enders and Neighbours. I also wanted to earn £105,000 per annum so I could increase my shoe collection. Although all this pales in to insignificance compared to the pinnacle of my self indulgence which required me to have my broken arm re-plastered as I got it soaking wet playing with myself in the bath. I also enjoy therapy and first dates as I can devote my time and energy to talking about myself, but I would like to believe my verbal diarrhoea is deemed to be more entertaining.