Barely a day seems to go by these days without two people loosely related to today's celebrity culture having a right old pop at each other via the medium of the Twitter.
Back in the good old days - pre-2006 to be precise - if two people had issues with each other they would meet in a predetermined location, strip to the waist and fight to the death. Now though, it's the done thing to pick on each other online, while your myriad sycophantic followers gorge on the festival of misspellings and name-calling. We've had Kelly Osbourne's ex taking the piss out of her while she was at Wino's funeral, Rory McIlroy and a golf correspondent trading e-blows, and Sir Alan apparently having a go at just about anyone who dares to disagree with him.
Don't get me wrong, if someone brings your integrity or sexual orientation into question over that Internet, you've every right to tell them to bog off, but is this really what the creator of Twitter had in mind when he set it up? I can imagine the planning meeting:
"I've got a right idea"
"Go on"
"What?"
"Tell us about your idea"
"Oh yeah. How about a place to write a short message about what you're up to, or your opinion of the latest celebrity death, and people can subscribe to it to get real-time updates to their mobile phone when they should be working?"
"Sounds wank"
"Yeah, well I'm doing it anyway. How else will we know what Amanda Holden thinks of the Libyan crisis?"
It seems to be another one of those Internet fads which starts under a blaze of glory, with Stephen Fry endorsing it, then it all gets a bit boring, as someone uses it to catch their spouse shagging around, or a company finds out their prospective employer likes ear sex and Nazis. After a year or so, it becomes embedded in the day-to-day rituals of people who say 'aks' instead of 'ask' and people over the age of 30 are condemned for likening it to Ceefax.
At the end of the day, people are always going to disagree. Some of the greatest inventions known to man came from two people with opposing views striving to prove the other wrong (probably). Quite why we're supposed to give a shit about it though is anyone's guess, but then if you're ill enough to want to follow Fearne Cotton's online existence, you haven't really got any cause for complaint if you ask me. And I know you will.
Friday 29 July 2011
Monday 25 July 2011
She probably should have said "Yes"
It's genuinely sad to see Amy Winehouse die at the age of 27. She was an undoubted talent, but as is to often the case in this country, her off-mic antics dominated the tabloid press and changed the nation's opinions of her. In the last last couple of months of her life she was filmed performing whilst clearly under the influence of Christ-knows-what, and it was a right old shambles. Yet nobody said anything or stepped in or offered to help her. Me included - this ain't no high horse, brother.
Step forward to now and she's been found dead in an unexplained manner. The press have gone mad with suggestions, ranging from drugs all the way to alcohol as to what killed her, and the mourning has begun. What gets my goat though is the number of people who've come out now saying it's a disgrace that she was allowed to perform when she was clearly incapable of doing so, and that someone close to her should have been looking after her and advising her better. Mica Paris went on record saying as much, being such a well-known champion of Wino's health before he untimely demise. Er, Mica, what was stopping you going public and saying that before she carked it? You could've quite easily piped up yonks ago, but it's obviously much easier to have a go at folk after the event. Such finger-pointing is helping no one, not least her family who are now picking up the pieces.
A slightly more chilling aside has been the frequent mentioning of The 27 Club. Apparently a few high-profile rock types (Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, Dustin Gee) have met their maker at the ripe old age of 27, which somehow has become a badge of honour of the 'live fast, die young' mantra which some people seem seduced by. If I'd died at 27 I'd be livid, not least because I would have missed at least 4 series of New Tricks. And the 2010 World Cup. Every cloud, I suppose.
At the end of the day, we have to remember a person has died here, regardless of the circumstances. It's all too easy to get bogged down in the infamous life she led, that epic dickhead of a husband and ultimately the wasting of a supreme singing talent. Sadly though, as long as the press have a holes in their arses, the likes of Winehouse will be used to sell papers when they're living, and a hell of a lot more when they stop. And if that's not enough to close a newspaper down, I don't know what it.
What's that? Phone hacking? Sorry, I've no idea what you're talking about...
Step forward to now and she's been found dead in an unexplained manner. The press have gone mad with suggestions, ranging from drugs all the way to alcohol as to what killed her, and the mourning has begun. What gets my goat though is the number of people who've come out now saying it's a disgrace that she was allowed to perform when she was clearly incapable of doing so, and that someone close to her should have been looking after her and advising her better. Mica Paris went on record saying as much, being such a well-known champion of Wino's health before he untimely demise. Er, Mica, what was stopping you going public and saying that before she carked it? You could've quite easily piped up yonks ago, but it's obviously much easier to have a go at folk after the event. Such finger-pointing is helping no one, not least her family who are now picking up the pieces.
A slightly more chilling aside has been the frequent mentioning of The 27 Club. Apparently a few high-profile rock types (Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, Dustin Gee) have met their maker at the ripe old age of 27, which somehow has become a badge of honour of the 'live fast, die young' mantra which some people seem seduced by. If I'd died at 27 I'd be livid, not least because I would have missed at least 4 series of New Tricks. And the 2010 World Cup. Every cloud, I suppose.
At the end of the day, we have to remember a person has died here, regardless of the circumstances. It's all too easy to get bogged down in the infamous life she led, that epic dickhead of a husband and ultimately the wasting of a supreme singing talent. Sadly though, as long as the press have a holes in their arses, the likes of Winehouse will be used to sell papers when they're living, and a hell of a lot more when they stop. And if that's not enough to close a newspaper down, I don't know what it.
What's that? Phone hacking? Sorry, I've no idea what you're talking about...
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