Twitter is the New Paedophiles

Officials have announced that using Twitter is as bad as touching kids.

This may seem a disproportionate statement and I should apologise if anyone reading was inappropriately handled as a minor but, as a nation, we seem intent on having some kind of epidemic in our lives and Twitter is the new threat to humanity. In the late 90s we were all living next to a paedo. That curtain twitch wasn’t a caring neighbour ensuring that any local ne’er do wells aren’t robbing you blind, crapping on your lawn and spraying “Chaz 4 eva” across your driveway. No. They wanted to do your children. 

Obey!

The clamour faded as we realised that they probably didn’t want to touch anyone, they wanted to kill everyone! Yes 90 year olds Mr and Mrs Jones with their seventeen cats and rusting Fiesta were actually terrorists, intent on destroying you, your household, the whole street and everything you stand for or had ever considered standing for had it not looked like a bit too much effort. 

Now the maniacs Saddam, Osama and Mad Dog are all underground, Bush is ousted and there’s only Blair to be tracked and trialled, we need a new threat. Ever hungry to fill our insatiable need for villainy the press are more than happy to provide one. Only this time in the form of social media. Yes, the Premier League footballer, your local MP, the fit one from that forgettable girl band, some bloke at the hockey club and even the scruffy student next to you are all at it. Chances are the person sat opposite you now, seemingly just sending a carefree text to their mum are secretly doing it now! They are Tweeting! Terrifyingly, you might not like what they say. In fact, astonishingly in this day and age, you may even disagree with it! This must be stopped.


In the space of just 140 characters it would appear that anyone has the power to incite hatred, fear, disgust, disdain or a world-wide “trend”. Something akin to flares in the 60s, or the habit of singers scratching and screeching out lyrics of songs at the moment in order to infer passion and emotion in place of ability and musical talent. It matters not how obviously insane or irritatingly stupid you are. In fact the more so the better by all accounts! God forbid Joey Barton or Jordan, sorry, Katie Price hash tag some sort of revolutionary utterance or else we may be waking up to an entirely different world tomorrow!


My hockey club, my workplace, there is no escaping the fact that somewhere people are tweeting idiotic things they haven’t the mental capacity to think through and somewhere else a mass of people with not a lot else on are not only reading it but are literally incensed that they dare think such a thing let alone tell their tragic line of followers about it.

What happened to the common sense in the world? What happened to the naturally in-built filter that stopped us listening (equally dangerously one could argue) to the tried and tested academics, community leaders and national figureheads? Stephen Hawking? Nelson Mandella? Johnny Ball and Fred Dibnah!  How were we suddenly tuned in to the “thoughts” of some tart that screwed some guy on the last reality tv spin off? Most importantly of all – why do we care?

I am all for a free media for the one main reason that I can choose what I take in, what I ignore and most of all, the credence I award it. I will admit to you now that I do, on occasion, read The Sun. I say read. It has pretty pictures and it amuses me. I for not one second care about any of the contents; it has never stirred me to write a strongly worded letter of complaint, moved me to tears or for that matter initiated the batting of a single eyelid. It’s toss. Glossy, imaginative at best, toss. I find it embarrassing that as a nation, a race even, we can’t just take what Twitter is on face value.

Twitter is a way to while away precious seconds at work, to vent grievances, to report your daily life to the electronic vacuum in the vain attempt to believe that someone actually cares. The fact that people do should reflect more on their own empty lives than the Tweeter themselves shouldn’t it?

Big Announcement Time!

Dear Blog readers I have some big news. I’m not one for large Twitter announcements about my latest retirement from the England squad (I’ll play when asked Fabio), newest movie role (still available Mr Jackson) or window breaking episode (tut tut Matt Prior). But I have decided that this may be the best forum to announce this news. Ladies. Gentlemen. I’m in love!

I haven’t managed to tell the object of my affection this directly but, as any male reader will know, it’s blooming difficult! You don’t want to sound too needy, desperate, and we’ve only been together a couple of months. But the fact is when it is right it’s right and despite being totally different to “my type” I do get the buzz every time we’re together. The tingles of expectation, surge of confidence, the feeling of one-ness and unity that makes the whole world disappear each moment I hold her. It’s something I’ve not felt for a couple of years and I’d almost forgotten the elation. Just thinking about things now brings a broad smile to my face and wistful remembrance of the last time we spent time together.

It’s almost tragic to admit I know it won’t last. I mean I hope it will but the problem is I’ve learned several times in the past that these things just don’t. One, maybe two years at best before things seem cracked and no matter how much you tape over them, you know the cracks are there and things are just never the same. Sure, there are moments, but they become few and far between and the rest of the time you know that the connections aren’t as sweet. Then, one day, you just bite the bullet and there’s a replacement just around the corner.

Sorry for the melodrama - for now I’m enjoying the good times as I know it’s a rarity to be cherished, adored and savoured whilst I can, spending as much time together as possible. I don’t even care if Bill says you have no middle! I’m sure everyone else thinks theirs is equally as special but they just won’t have what I know we have, my beautiful CA Plus 5000 cricket bat.

Bread and Blogging

I realise that I have neglected writing for a while and I have decided to kick myself in to gear. I have been writing but I admit it’s mostly been cricket match reports and that, for the majority, carries almost no interest at all I know!

One of the other writing projects that I undertook was to submit something for a “zine”. In fact this is a foodie zine Cakes and Canapes compiled by my good friend Miriam Nice who was a large part of the inspiration for this blog initially. Her blog inspired publication features articles and illustrations centred around a particular food stuff each issue and I am proud to say I managed to have a short, cautionary (fictional) tale included in the 1^st edition. Please do have a look at www.cakesandcanapes.co.uk to find out more. There’s a Facebook group, you can follow Mim on twitter, purchase the zine and she has a blog that I follow which is an entertaining cocktail of life and food combined.

I will be writing soon to update anyone who cares to have a read on: Boys Week (holiday), The Diet (low/no carbs…ouch), Temping (yes I have work for now), sporting conduct (cricket season is in full swing) and the rest that life has to offer in the meantime! For now I hope that you enjoy my submission for C&C.

Bread - A Cautionary Tale

The other day my mate told me that the best thing to do, with regard to my ensuing wifely predicament, would be to use my loaf. Annoyed, I swung my lunch box at him, catching him flush across the forehead. He angrily enquired “What’d you do that for?” to which sadly, I didn’t really have an answer that would most likely have made him happy.  Nope, no retrospectively suitable remarks what would’ve satiated his growing ire not to mention lump swelling on his aforementioned bonce.

As he lent forward, hands thrust throatwards with all the intention in the world to throttle the last breath from my very own soul transporter, it dawned on me that, now, his erstwhile words of wisdom made a crystal clear sense in my mind. Quick as a flash I opened my box and offered him a sandwich with a quippy remark of “you told me to use my loaf”. I paused, expecting the worst if I’m honest with you. Imagine my relief when he reached forwards and examined my crusty sacrifice. He was becalmed enough, whilst demolishing my egg and cress, to reduce his threat level to a mild distain and whilst he munched away, murmurs of satisfaction oozing between bites, my mind wandered to the international peace keeping power of the sandwich. Well, to put it more precisely, a loaf of bread.

We’re a simple race with simple needs. Given each worsening famine or fledgling war is proceeded by a sack loads of flour or loaf after crusty loaf of being dished out from the back of a flatbed to the suffering, embittered and impoverished it would appear to be a multinational success story. Bread. The simplest of things. The noblest of things. Saviour of the hungry and bringer of calm and reassurance. It turns out my disfigured companion had had the most valid of points and his initial, irreverent recommendation was not without its merits.

In fact it turns out that whilst a useful, if accidentally insightful point, it wasn’t a theory that could be applied to every conceivable situation. Specifically mine. When I approached my good lady wife, tea in one hand and glistening butter covered thick white sliced toasted glory in the other, suggesting that we could talk out our recent difference of opinion and rebuild a loving relationship with the most basic of food stuffs as the cornerstone foundation, she, so it happened, disagreed. Apparently bread, no matter the quality or covering whether it be Golden Churn or love itself, will not rebuild all bridges. Especially those burned by being found in the marital bed chamber with one’s very own secretary. I also found out that hot butter and scolding tea make evil bed fellows when combined in what can only politely be described as a vicious assault! 

I do salute you, bread, for all the good in the world that you may well do. Poverty and warzones may, for want of a better phrase, your bread and butter. However I regret to announce that it would appear not even bread can repair the damage caused by crumpet.