Sarchasm

I thought I would share something on this blog today that for a long time I have kept very separate from my primary existence, but it strikes me as odd that I do this – I tell the friends I make in Second Life all about my real life plans, hopes, dreams, loves and failures.

So, real life – meet my second one.

There is a blog project, called the3six6, which is 365 days as told from the perspectives of 365 people. It’s a great idea – our lives might all be quite similar on the surface but the intricacies of our days and indeed experiences are beautifully and wildly different.

But there’s an awful lot of people who don’t just have one day to talk about. And for them, thanks to the brilliant Trace Osterham, a Second Life friend of mine who Abbi and I hung out with for a day when we were in New York, there is twothreesixfive. And today, it was my turn.

I wrote about how I felt about the nature of the friendships I have forged within Second Life, and how they have positively impacted my first life. Second Life is a valuable commodity to me and the hundreds, maybe thousands of other people who are lucky enough to have such a diverse, creative job. But it’s more than that. It’s a rich fabric of experience and I am a better person for it.

I got told off today for my language. Apparently, it’s bad.

OK, so yes, I do swear a lot. I’m not about to stop. I regularly call my best friends cunts. I say fuck this, I tell people they’re a cock. I only really censor myself when I’m working and that’s only because, well, it’s expected and I can respect that.

But, here’s my issue. I am told off for calling someone a cunt. It’s not in a malicious way, and in any event, even if it were they would have done something to deserve my ire.

What really annoys me though, is that the vast majority of people who criticise swearing wouldn’t even think twice about saying things that, when you consider them in detail, could be equally (if not more) offensive. I mean, people who would jump on you for calling someone “a fucking cunt” but wouldn’t think twice about saying “I’ll kill you”. Think about it. You’re saying it’s wrong to allude to sex and female genitalia, two things that are wonderful and amazing, but it’s more than fine to say that you want to murder someone?

A lot of what is deemed acceptable to say and what isn’t deemed acceptable seems to stem more from what we are told we should believe is wrong rather than what is actually logically wrong. Threaten physical violence – yes, absolutely fine! Talk about a penis… oooh, can’t do that I’m afraid.

I’m not in any way saying that we should all start to go around telling everyone to fuck themselves, oh no. But please, stop telling me off for doing it.

When people write on the internet, I sometimes doubt that they realise the power of their words. Cardiff councillor John Dixon was recently pulled up for posting a tweet on his Twitter page: “I didn’t know the Scientologists had a church on Tottenham Court Road. Just hurried past in case the stupid rubs off.”

Personally, I think that’s hilarious, but that’s because I agree with it. Scientologists did not and made a complaint, ensuring Mr Dixon was referred to an ethics committee. I started to wonder whether people in the public eye are aware of how much they reveal online (I’m not talking dodgy photos, I’m afraid) and, more importantly, what is considered appropriate for them. Should there be different rules for them and for us?

Writing online as a nobody has its benefits but, as someone who writes on a blog, it is difficult to know how much of yourself to give away. Once you get your words down, they are out there, available for judgement and comment. This can be a scary prospect, especially as a commenter’s anonymity makes for good protection. Message boards are an excellent indicator of how feedback can get out of hand. I was tempted, recently, to sign up to a teachers’ discussion forum until I noticed threads where grown adults (teachers, I should remind you, as well) were hurling insults at each other for petty grievances, ganging up against others and shouting down anything they didn’t agree with. Did I mention they were teachers? Actually, now I think about it, that might explain a lot.

However, writing a blog can be a useful process. It can act a means of practising and honing your skills as well as providing a way to express ideas. It can also become a source of income or a rallying point for important issues.

For others, it is the only way to cope with a situation. An amazing case in point is http://tarquinchronicles.wordpress.com/. If you haven’t already heard about Justine Barrett, I suggest you look her up. Her blog is about Tarquin, a tumour doctors recently discovered in her brain and how she is dealing with the diagnosis and forthcoming operations. If you take the time to read it, her writing is full of honesty, small tragedies and dark humour. A great example of the latter is Justine having to explain to a nurse that the nurse’s gesticulations towards an eye chart will not help her locate it, as she is now blind in her right eye.

Reading blogs like this make me realise how lucky we are to have such a tool in order to cope with the various shit life throws at us instead of simply keeping it all inside and “getting on with it”, a process few find productive in the end. Justine Barrett’s blog has provided her with many positive reactions and support; it provides the reader with a bit of inspiration in maintaining resolve and humour in the face of horrendous situations.

Nevertheless, I cannot help but think that there are different rules for those that already exist in the public eye. Today, for example, was one of those days when I had to ask, “What were you thinking?” Andrew Cohen, who appears as a contributing essayist on CBS News, wrote a column, published online last week, in which he thanks and extols the virtues of the love of his life, who was sadly getting married that day to someone else. In it, he praises how she put up with him and made him a better person. It can be found here: http://www.politicsdaily.com/2010/07/24/on-her-wedding-day-saying-the-things-left-unsaid/. Now, on paper, that sounds like a sweet thing, but this was dedicated to her. On her wedding day. It has to be questioned just how appropriate this is, especially if it is presented as a gift. As Cohen said: “The present I humbly send her today is this column; this public note, this irrevocable display of affection and support and gratitude; this worldly absolution from any guilt or sadness she felt between the time she said no to me and the time she said yes to him.”

Another contributor took umbrage with this and Lizzie Skurnick posted a reply to his column: http://www.politicsdaily.com/2010/07/26/how-not-to-congratulate-your-ex-on-her-wedding-day/. In it, she points out that only congratulating your ex on how she did things that made you better as opposed to, say, mentioning some details about her, gave the impression that Cohen’s open letter was somewhat self-serving. She mentioned many other problems with his column, but I shall let you read that for yourself.

It poses a tricky question – how personal should you get? If people write blogs or columns to get things off their chests, this is a healthy thing to do. It can be entertaining and helpful, as well as perhaps reaching out and touching the lives of readers. The Chronicles of Tarquin is obviously a great example of this.

Andrew Cohen’s column is the perfect example of what should not be done. For one, it’s a column, not a blog post. This usually means national or even mild awareness of who you are, so you threaten exposing yourself, removing even more of what little privacy you still have. In this day and age of media intrusion, it seems odd for a public figure to willingly hand another piece of himself to the world. However, expressing thoughts and feelings is not a taboo. Columnists rail against their hates and proclaim their passions, daily, online and in print. That’s their job.

Unfortunately, I take the view that a person with a very public profile spilling out feelings of unrequited love is stepping a little over the line, especially when it’s essentially the online equivalent of running into a church and saying, “I object!” That is too much information to come from a public figure, even when he may have meant well. “Meaning well” is not protection from the power of your words. I’m sure Kanye meant well when he stuck up for Beyonce, but I bet he did not envisage having to grovel for forgiveness on the Jay Leno show whilst Leno asked Kanye what his late mother would think of such behaviour.

I also wonder how the love of his life would feel reading it. Would she take comfort in Cohen listing how she improved his life, or would she take offence that he was a) congratulating her on being a woman who does not focus on her career and b) granting her permission to be happy?

We can gain so much from being ourselves online. In it, we can find a freedom that can spill over into our real lives. We can discuss problems and find solace; we can share and communicate faster and better than ever before.

However, I’m still not certain if people in the public eye can afford to take such a risk when it comes to what they can divulge. If a celebrity is battling with a problem or trying to raise awareness, his or her revealing their true feelings on a blog or column can be a very positive thing. Those in the public eye have many things to consider, however. Though I agree with Mr Dixon’s sentiments about Scientology, what if he had been talking about Christianity, Judaism or Islam? It would have been a matter of resignation. It seems naïve of Mr Dixon to forget that, as a public figure, people are waiting for you to slip up and make a scandal out of it.

Most importantly, however, if a public figure is online to tell an old love and the world that she should feel free to move on with her life and thanks for everything, perhaps a toaster would be a better choice of present than a column on a heavily viewed newspaper site.

(Originally this was going to be a long discussion on the nature of Feminism in this day and age. However, in examining it, I have sort of stumbled onto a slightly more personal truth. Excuse this – I’ll be back to ranting in my next posts.)

Anyway. Have you ever come to the realisation that you are not quite the person you believed yourself to be? I don’t mean in a Scooby Doo-rubber-mask-reveal-the-villain way. Those sorts of events do not happen in real life, though it would be cool if it turned out that my local shopkeeper was masquerading as an evil gargoyle bent on sabotaging plans for a new supermarket. However, “Curse you pesky kids!” is something she would more likely shout at the ASBO wannabes who sling back White Lightning outside her store.

My point is that, recently, I have become unsettled. A news story of late has caused me to question something I thought fundamentally true about myself: that I believe I should look how I choose to look, that I choose to be who I wish to be.

Do not get me wrong. This is not about women overall, though I initially thought it was. I did not suddenly wake up and start chaining women to kitchen sinks or insisting they wear ankle-length skirts (I live in Essex – the latter would be a futile exercise in Chelmsford on a Saturday night, anyway). What it is about, however, is just how unaware I was of how my low self-esteem affected my life.

The first thing that triggered this train of thought was the discussion of the burkha ban in France (this has now passed into law). The response was mixed over here. Some took it as an affront to individual rights. Some welcomed it as a sign that women would no longer be subjugated in Islam. Some saw it as racist.

I am in two minds about this ban. Does it give women the chance to be free of this garment, or is the French government being patronising in assuming that all women who wear the burkha do so because they are forced to and not because they choose to? It poses the question of whether the French government is being any better in telling these women what they cannot wear as opposed to what they should.

In any case, this was side-stepped by saying it was a “security issue” rather than about the liberation of women. A comedian I adore seemed to agree. There was an interesting tweet by Jeremy Hardy who said that the whole “doing it for women’s rights” argument was bullshit because if we truly wanted to live in a society without stupid restrictions on women, we would ban hair removal cream, high heels and uncomfortable, dental floss underwear.

Now, as we live in a society where a recent poll of teenage girls indicted that some wanted to grow up to be WAGs, this may seem perfectly reasonable. However, I felt the need to object. I do not wear heels everyday or have stupid underwear, I said. I am a practical person. I felt resentful that men believed women were incapable of saying, “fuck off, those shoes are ridiculous!”, as if we truly were slaves to fashion.

Unfortunately, I found, to my utter dismay, that I was capable of totally disproving my own point. And, rather annoyingly, a pair of shoes was the cause.

I recently went shopping for a wedding and found a dress I liked. I was told I needed heels to go with them. I asked why and the person (female) with me said that the outfit wouldn’t look right if I just wore flats, that I wouldn’t look right. I insisted that I was more comfortable in flats. I like flat shoes. I think they look just as good but, most importantly, do not give me blisters or sprained toes (that did happen once – I had to take two days off work because I couldn’t walk). This was met with eye-rolling and I eventually buckled.

I am not saying the person was wrong in their opinion. In fact, I seek out her advice regularly for help with clothes. That dress with heels probably looks better, aesthetically. The problem is that I really did not want to wear them but I gave in. In that moment, I threw out everything I had insisted before, that all women are quite capable, if they choose, of saying “no, thank you” to the painful and idiotic things we are told are necessary.

Maybe many women are and do, but it turns out I am not. If I had any real backbone as a confident woman, I would have said, “You know what? I think some DMs will look amazing with this dress!” What’s happening instead is that I will wear a pair of shoes that will rub and annoy me for ten hours. I will go through Compeed plasters faster than Kay Burley will tear through someone’s vulnerable mind.

I spent some time wondering what brought about this decision. I do not often like to contemplate why I do things as it usually ends badly, a path that leads to the consumption of whiskey and the singing of Coldplay songs on Singstar until 2 am. However, after a few days, I have come to the realisation that I am still a feminist in my beliefs. I believe that women have rights that society often ignores, that we need to fight to ensure an equality we mistakenly think exists. The problem is not that I lack belief in women – it is that I lack belief in myself.

You see, I recently looked at my wardrobe and about 80% of the things I bought are in there because other people told me they looked good, not because I necessarily liked them. My home is decorated in colours other people told me would look great and the small touches I have added are so very small indeed.

My boyfriend insists I am beautiful and strong and I wonder who the hell he is talking about because, the more I started to think about it, the more I realised that any choice of new haircut, any choice of clothing, any choice of home or work or life: they had all been based upon someone else’s advice. I had never done anything without checking for someone else’s approval.

Getting a second opinion is fine – we all do it. Sometimes we need another perspective to make our own a little clearer. However, it turns out that this is not what I do. I take someone else’s opinions and use them instead of trusting in my own.

This is not an easy problem to fix. After spending ten of my educational years being told that no one likes who I really am, I was lucky enough to meet people who did. By then, unfortunately, the damage was done. I still do not voice my real opinions or thoughts, instead taking the diplomatic (or manipulative?) route when dealing with anyone who is not in my group of friends. In fact, this blog is one of the few places where my real thoughts get spoken aloud.

So, how do you fix such an issue when you realise it exists? Well, I have made a choice, one I have pondered for a few days. From now on, I will only seek opinions on extremely risky decisions (things that could lead to bankruptcy, for example, if I do not get some sound advice). I will stick to my guns and wear flats when I should wear heels, dye my hair black even if it “doesn’t look right” with my clothes, tell my manager and colleagues my real opinions without waiting to see what they think in order to go along with it. I’m not going to start ignoring basic social politeness rules, but I’m going to stop letting them run my life. It is about time I started making up my own mind, don’t you think?

Actually, don’t answer that.

I feel a bit weird having the most recent post here still being me ranting on endlessly about depression, so let’s move it down a bit and replace it with a photo I took at Westonbirt a few weeks ago.

It makes me think of hiding places, the little pockets inside of us where we store the bubbles of memory and emotion that really matter. Sometimes they’re good things and sometimes they’re not, but they all go somewhere.

Can you ever really find a new hiding place when an old one gets found? I’m not so sure. But sometimes just hiding things isn’t enough. Sometimes you just want it to fuck off.

This makes no sense to anyone but me.

When Abbi and I first discussed buying a web domain and writing regularly in a blog, I already knew that I would find it to be a helpful exploration of an issue that has been ongoing in my life to date.

There are many blogs about depression, many websites about mental illness, many people who are sad. I’m not going to try to educate anyone – I know as much as google and a few years of low level psychology class will tell me – but I would really like to write about my own depression, in the hope that one day I can look back on it and understand it, and myself, a little better.

The term “depression” is one I have always been wary of using. Before I had a doctor-provided diagnosis, or even acknowledged that my feelings may seriously warrant one, I have been annoyed by people who sigh and say “Ugh, I feel so depressed”. Some of them may have been genuinely depressed, I’m sure, but it seems to have entered colloquial vocabulary as a synonym for frustration, or sadness. Depression is not sadness.

It’s different for everyone, I’m sure. But this is me, and my experience of it. For me, it was like breathing thicker air than everyone else. Every breath laboured, every single moment of every single day overshadowed by this crushing feeling in my chest. Depression is not sadness, it’s helplessness, hopelessness. It’s feeling that nothing is worth doing because everything is empty, pointless. It isn’t laying in bed because you’re lazy, it’s laying in bed because the thought of getting up and existing in a world so clearly not intended for you to exist in, leaves you feeling so raw and vulnerable that you can’t bear to do it.

Depression is not being alone. It’s being surrounded by people and still wanting to cry without knowing why. It’s avoiding phonecalls and texts from people who genuinely care about why you’ve disappeared, and ignoring them for so long that they stop coming, and it’s feeling relieved that you don’t have to avoid them anymore. It’s not seeing anyone or anything of meaning or note for weeks on end because it’s agony to be social, when the first thing anyone ever asks is “How are you?” and you’re too emotionally exhausted to lie but the answer is too horrible to face.

There are a lot of people who feel as though treating depression with medication is the easy answer. As someone who made four doctors appointments that I didn’t attend, and two that I did attend but chickened out at the last minute and made up another problem when they asked me what was wrong, let me assure you that there is absolutely nothing easy about walking into a room, sitting down with a medical professional and saying, “I need help. I think I have depression”.

It’s the subtext in that, that makes it so difficult. It’s the things you don’t say, by saying that. “I’ve tried to have a life, I can’t, it’s too hard”. “I failed at being happy”. “There is something so desperately wrong with me that I think about killing myself for most of every day”. That is not a good conversation to have. It’s not an easy conversation to start. No one who takes an anti-depressant, does so because they think it will fix their problem.

But when your problem is that you can’t deal with life, you need something to make dealing with it possible, and that’s what these pills do. Almost all of them have side effects. These are not easy options. When you start to feel better, that’s when you can start looking at the things that have been making you feel this way. I’m sure that bit will be even harder still.

I’m starting to feel a little bit better, but I’m not there yet. As much as I may have really good ideas about the things that have turned me into this shell of a person, I’m still not ready to really think about them in any depth. Some things I can’t even say properly because I can’t force myself to use the words, so I think I’m still a way off.

This blog may or may not help me. It might just chronicle yet another failure of mine to deal with my myriad of issues. I hope not though. But one thing is as clear as ever, as clear as it has always been – I’ve never been alone while I’ve been trying to get better. Thank you guys for being my friends. I’m not sure that it was always worth it for you, but know that you were always appreciated.

After reading Ian’s recent post about Foursquare, I was forced to confront some troubling realisations that I’ve been having lately. No one likes realisations – they’re Inspiration’s inbred cousin, sat in the corner of the room as people try to ignore them and enjoy Eastenders instead.

Anway, a few years ago, I was sat down in an afternoon class, being taught how to be a teacher, whilst I stabbed pens into my hand to remain awake after an excessively carbohydrate-laden lunch. It was a very good class, I might add, and it was my own fault for feeling sleepy: I had eaten more chips that afternoon than can safely be imagined without feeling a little bit ill.

Anyway, I remember perking up when the teacher started talking about digital immigrants and digital natives. This is the idea that new technology is something adults struggle to learn and use whilst, to students, it is simply innate: they grow up with it and so do not see it as new or scary.

Someone asked how old digital immigrants were.  ”Over 25″ was the answer. I was as pleased as punch at that, being the lithe and svelte 23/24 year old that I was at the time (I was never lithe or svetle; I have never been even mildly fluid). My pride at being a digital native was well-founded after it was  later  discovered during class discussion that I was the only person who knew what a blog was short for, or even what it was, or had one.

Up to a few days ago, I was under the impression that I still was a digital native. However, it appears I have evolved into something else.

Let me set out my credentials. I text,  Facebook, Twitter and use nouns as verbs  like crazy. I have my mobile phone set to receive updates so every now and again I can read what my friends are up to. I surf the internet from my phone, scrolling through links to Twitpics or news stories, hash-tagging ironically as I go #obviously. I have four different email addresses and use one purely as a spam shield (i.e. if I think typing in my email address to a website competition will result in spam for penis enlargement ads – which websites, you ask? – I use that one). I listen to music digitally and only use CDs as a last resort. I am up to date on trending memes and know what DRATW is all about and also know that, by this time next week, no one will have a fucking clue what DRATW is. I read webcomics instead of newspaper ones and, for comments on the gaming industry and game reviews, I sit back and enjoy some bitching from the legendary online reviewer, Yahtzee. I very rarely watch television – I access iPlayers and On Demand internet sites through my PS3 instead.

In summary, I am your average, plugged in, technology-aware young adult. These things are an everyday part of life.

Oddly, I used to be a technophobe. For example,  Sat Navs were and are still beyond me. This is how my last excursion with a Sat Nav went: Do I come off at this exit, or that one? Where’s the car gone? WHERE’S THE FUCKING CAR GONE?! Hang on, why is it recalculating?! No, I don’t want to go to Basildon High Street – I’m meant to be at Basildon Hospital! Right, I’m turning you off and on again, you fucker. Pin code, ok…no, oh no no no, don’t lock me out, you, you…BASTARD!

Hardly unusual to see people threatening to throw Sat Navs out of their car on the A12, I hear you say. That is very true and, apart from the map machines of Satan, I’ve adapted well to most of the technological features of daily life. However, I’m beginning to get a bit…overwhelmed – unable to cope, in fact. For one, my phone is a constant link to the world and this bombardment of information can be a bit too absorbing. Whereas before, I could leave a message and expect someone to get back to me after work, I’m now wondering why they haven’t responded to my emails, Facebook pokes, tweets or two page texts. Because, ultimately, I really need to know right this very minute if this particular red dress would suit me (I’ll send an attachment later).

I started to notice a problem when I would check my phone every half hour for my Twitter and Facebook page, or just to idly browse for news and emails. Perhaps that’s just the nature of having nothing else to do, or the nature of my brain not being bothered to actually engage with the world around it.

Then the other day I left my mobile phone at home and the internet fluctuated on and off at work. I cannot begin to tell you the crushing anxiety I felt. Who might have called me? Am I missing an important text? What news am I missing out on? How will I find the resources I need without the web? Oh God, what if my manager’s sent me an important email?

I’d just like to pause here a moment to point out some things: my manager works in an office across the very narrow corridor from my office. It’s maybe 25 steps, maximum. Hardly an epic journey to make in order to ease my concern; we are not talking Lord of the Rings, here.

Secondly, I managed to get the resources for my class sorted without having to print things from the internet. Did they work, you ask? I wish I could take a photo of their bewildered and despairing faces for you, I really do. Let’s just say that my shouting, “She’s got a stomach tumour!” at the TV during the “What happens next? You decide!” BT advert was not the worst thing I’ve done this week.

Lastly, no one had texted me when I finally got home to my phone. The only messages on there were Twitter updates. Oh, and Orange had texted me to ask if I wanted a credit card because God knows increased credit card debt is the key to our financial recovery.

I think there’s a difference between being a digital native and being an information addict. I believe I have become the latter. I’m certainly not a tech geek, that’s for sure. I just spent 45 minutes trying to work out how to put an image on my comments and was met by a barrage of computer code so complicated it nearly blinded me. I have still not managed to load an image, only giving up when I started to weep softly.

What really concerns me is how little I think about the information I absorb, these days, or how I cope without it. Maybe it’s the fact I now skim and scan much more than I used to in order to cram in as much information as possible. The easy access to these fact snippets encourages a person to dip in and out of important issues without really contemplating what’s just been found out. Analysis is, to a great extent, thrown out of the window and is instead replaced with knee-jerk reactions. If anyone wants a good example of not thinking things through properly, look at the Raoul Moat fan group on Facebook. I doubt very much that the creator of the group really took the time to examine the possible reactions or consequences, or how it would affect the families of the injured police officer and the murdered boyfriend. Then again, she may just be a very stupid person.

In any case, there is no substitute for this addiction to “must know NOW”- there is no methadrone equivalent for instant access information. The only solution is to gradually wean myself off it, like I did with cigarettes. Apart from the occasional slip, I’ve done quite well against cigarettes; everyone knows cigarettes smoked at parties don’t count, anyway.

So, I have decided to make a stand. I will turn off my Twitter and Facebook updates. I will start leaving my phone at home unless I really, really need it. I will stop wanting a shiny iPad just because it’s shiny. I will try to absorb information in a more meaningful and evenly spaced out way. Starting from next week.

Probably. Maybe. Well, maybe just one more article from BBC News…

First there was Compuserve and Altvasita – sites for neatly categorising the Web’s early emerging content; then came the dominant force of Google. Some time later, “Web 2.0″ arrived – facilitating interactive information sharing, interoperability, user-centered design, and collaboration on the World Wide Web. In essence Web 2.0 constitutes anything from Blogger.com, to Flickr and its definition also extends to the more recent advent of social networking in the form of services like Facebook, Twitter and Bebo.

It is this form of Web collaboration that has taken the world by storm in recent years. Putting sharp perspective on just how much things have grown, the Metro newspaper reported yesterday that Facebook is subscribed to by nearly half of the UK population. The interest is forever high and forever growing. Users share millions of pieces of personal information in the form of text, video and audio, and whilst the visibility of user information that flows through Facebook’s pages can be restricted through a variety of (complicated) privacy settings that even the likes of Bill Gates would struggle to comprehend, users of the site are increasingly opting instead to open the doors on their personal lives; sometimes knowingly, but more often than not without in fact realising they’re doing so.

More recently, a new contender has stepped into the social networking ring: Foursquare.com. Foursquare is a “geo-location” service. It aims to connect users through geographical data; this not only includes physical global positioning, but information users provide on anything they find at any given location, be that a restaurant review or details of what dodgy alley ways to avoid after dark. The result is obviously a rich tapestry of information which subscribed members can make certain use of. You want to know where Uncle Jonny is today? Simple, jump onto Foursquare and there he is, sitting outside Hyde Park Corner tube station. Daddy’s late home from work and you want to know why? Log on to Foursquare to spot him at his secretary’s house again. The power of this application is undoubtedly phenomenal. Being able to track and be trackable wherever you are in the world has its obvious advantages and with the site recently hitting the milestone of 2 million members, it’s quite clear that people are more than willing to divulge their whereabouts to the world wide web. But at what cost?

The Guardian newspaper today took us on a stalker’s journey (http://www.guardian.co.uk/technology/2010/jul/23/foursquare). Using Foursquare, one of their reporters was able to quickly track and meet with a lady by the name of Louise within a matter of minutes. The ease at which the information was acquired and then made use of is quite an eye opener and a big warning to those of us keen enough to share with the world our wearabouts to maybe take a second thought or three before doing so.

I’d like to ask the question though – is all this personal information over-share really so bad?

I remember reading a year or so ago, that the days of privacy are dead and, if we want to get by in this world, then we must embrace the openness. I was reading an article at the time which voiced the concerns of residents of a local community on what they deemed as the unfair and over the top use of video surveillance technology. They were fed up, they said, with being watched.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Atlantic, I read, people are installing cameras in their home for the sheer fun of it. The “enjoyment” of being watched is something more or less pioneered by the likes of programs like Big Brother and it is a reality that people are fond of the idea. Some people have gone so far as to claim that within fifty years we will all be enjoying the delights of being constantly filmed at home.

Sound crazy? Well we’re not that far from it already, when you think about it. How many of us get a kick out of telling the world what we had for breakfast this morning? Answer: a lot of us. So imagine the world watching what we have for breakfast instead. It’s really not that inconceivable, is it?

But back to my question: is all of this openness and invasion of privacy so bad? I think the answer to this is it is of course both good and bad. Good in the sense that we have a more open, transparent existence, bad in the sense that you may well be three clicks away from finding out I’m at the local sex shop. The pros and cons are clear.

But it is also inevitable. As people continue to jump on board with things like Twitter, things like Facebook, things like Foursquare, they go one of two ways: they either love it and stick around, or hate it, leave but never completely forget. The idea is planted and the appeal of the thing is eventually replaced by necessity. “You don’t have a Facebook? Are you mad, how can you possibly keep up to date with people!” It has become the norm to have these tools at our disposal and to fully embrace them without fear of ridicule.

Something like Foursquare pushes this to a new level. At first the idea seems ridiculous, overly invasive with no concern for privacy. Exactly right. But on the other hand, forget all that, embrace it and pretty soon you won’t be able to live without its benefits. And you think you won’t? Just give it a year or two.

Very soon, for the first time in… well, in ages, I will be living on my own.  I don’t think I’ve ever actually lived alone so it will be a bit of an odd experience.

At the moment, my brother, Ben, lives with me.  But, he’s gone and bought a house so will be buggering off soon.  He’s really pushing the boat out; he’s moving about 2 minutes walk away from me!

I’ll miss him once he’s gone, but at the same time I’m kind of looking forward to it.  Ben is very good at looking after me – I often say I have no common sense, and that’s because he has all of my share.  He tells me when I’m being a twat.  He does my dresses up for me when I can’t quite reach the zip.  He’s a million times better at cooking than I am.  He remembers things like putting the rubbish out and buying milk.  He gives me a hug when I really, really need one.  He acts as my short term memory.  In short, he’s awesome.

When he’s gone, I’m going to have to do all of these things myself.  Some of them are doable.  Like remembering the milk.  However, some of them, like dress zips – not so much.  It’s kind of hard to hug yourself as well, I find.

The extra room I’ll have will be odd as well.  I mean, I live in a three bed house, ffs.  I’ll have three bedrooms to fill with my junk!  I have plans to make one of them a dressing room, and I’ll sit in there all dressed up, pretending I’m 3 again and playing with my mum’s make up.

*The title will make sense in a bit. Honest. And I’ll try to write less next time.

I tend not to write too many personal things about myself for many reasons. For one, I have a terribly boring life. No one wants to know how much I enjoyed my Shredded Wheat this morning (I did, as it happens) or what time I went to bed (at boring o clock). Secondly, I am easily drawn towards self-despair like a moth to a bloody big bonfire, and any introspection is surely the path that leads me there.

However, I do enjoy ideas, events and general happenings and this is why I love the news. It provides endless amounts of comment, often idiotic, but it is always something which can be looked at with horror and genuine joy. It prepares you for every eventuality of life without having to, you know, experience that shit for yourself.

So, very few things surprise me, not even the price of petrol going up, Terry Gilliam making disappointing films or watching Nick Clegg, resigned to his fate, sucking once again on Tory cock as he retracts his actual opinions and possibly his balls. However, I occasionally do ask myself wtf (cos I’m all down with the kids, yeah, but not in a Vatican way) when something backfires so amazingly due to someone else’s lack of foresight.

The “someone” in this case is Buckingham Palace, who tried to extricate themselves from a publicity disaster and who have, somewhat inevitably, caused a massive media feeding frenzy in doing so.

It all starts with Nick Griffin, which is in itself a terrifying thought. It’s hard to know what to make of Nick Griffin. Someone suggested “a condom for a horny, genital wart-ridden, elephant”, but I couldn’t possibly comment.

For those of you who enjoy a life without constant interruption from Facebook, Twitter and rolling 24 hour news, Nick Griffin was supposed to go to tea with the Queen. All MEPs were invited and so, therefore, was he. However, approximately three hours ago, Buckingham Palace issued a statement saying they were withdrawing the invite as Griffin had “overtly used his personal invitation for party political purpose through the media”. One incident the palace has cited is Nick Griffin’s interview this morning on GMTV where he talked about cosying up to the Queen over sandwiches and maybe a bit of small talk. Perhaps their eye/s would meet over some cream scones, their hands brushing as they both reached for a tiny cucumber sandwich: Nick’s patriotic lips would quiver with excitement… Frankly, there’s a whole mine of disturbing slash fiction for that scenario. Enjoy that thought. You’re welcome.

The other incident was a message board thread where Griffin asked for suggestions about what to ask the Queen. Of all the things you could ask the Queen, I think “Where are the loos, love?” would probably be the most inappropriate, short of enquiring about Prince Philip’s immigration status.

Anyway, so far, so Griffin. The man hardly shies away from the limelight. Thus, I was not shocked to watch him mugging for the cameras an hour after he had heard about the dis-invitation. It was quite a spectacle. Firstly, he was done up like a Christmas turkey – I swear, he was wearing a formal suit and a cravat (told you it would make sense). Some news reporters generously suggested Griffin had only just heard about the news and that’s why he hadn’t changed. I’m less generous and seriously? A cravat?

Secondly, Griffin happily posed for pics, holding up his invite for all to see, grinning like a moron. He absolutely loved it. I have never watched a pig roll merrily in shit, but this is the closest human equivalent I have seen so far and a cravat? Really? With one of those stupid pin things in it?

I guess my point is that refusing people like Nick Griffin entry into the establishment only helps him hammer the nails into his feet and hands. Before: Nick Griffin “accepted” by the establishment. After: Nick Griffin, martyr, turned away by the old boy system again, denying millions of BNP voters (one million at best, I think) their right to vicariously eat fondant fancies with dignity!

Honestly, what was Buckingham Palace thinking? This is a man who had a guy dressed as St George in his election manifesto press conference, awkwardly balancing a fake sword and helmet as Griffin rolled out the “we only hate immigrants who don’t know their place” spiel. He even walked around with a PRETEND soldier during the election to boost his credibility as a patriot. How on earth did they ever think that banning Griffin would generate less publicity?

So, ironically, Buckingham Palace has just inadvertently allowed Griffin to overtly use their personal dis-invitation for party political purpose through the media. I suspect the irony may be missed by Griffin himself, but keep watching as the self-proclaimed everyman does his best to lap up every drop of media attention. This has the potential to last a whole couple of hours, at least. In this age of shot-straight-into-your-eyeballs information, it will feel like a lifetime.