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Archive for the ‘Twitter’ Category

My Facebook Fatigue idea was such a massive success, I’ve decided to branch out a bit.

But let me first tell you about the Online Untouchables. The poor souls who would love to form meaningful relationships in this connected world. But they keep getting the knockback from spam filters because they have peculiar names.

One of these people told me about his plight. “Bill” (not his real name, his real name is KXVXAG V1agra Gomez) said: “Facebook and Twitter are not for the likes of us. I pop in a friend request and am shunned. Then I try to follow somebody on Twitter and I get blocked. I just don’t know what to do.”

He put me in touch with “Fran” (her real name is Sxxxygrrl125, named after her grandmother). She was equally nonplussed by her manifold rejections.

“You know,” said Fran, “when I’m out in town, I’m never short of male attention. For some reason, my weird skin complaint which means I can’t wear many clothes without coming out in hives doesn’t put them off.

“But when I go online, and try to find genuine friends who’ll be happy to discuss my collection of horny Viking helmets and my inability to regulate my body temperature which makes me hot all the time, I get nowhere. And believe me, some of the comments I do receive are very rude and hurtful.”

There’s a gap in the market here and I’m going to fill it. I’m setting up imnotspam.com, a social networking site for people with peculiar names. In a way, it’s a public service. In another, it’s a method to make a lot of money.

I’ve publicised it on Twitter and I’ve already got 986 followers.

This will definitely work.

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Regular readers of my Twitter, of whom there are very nearly one hundred, i.e. 99, will already have seen the above picture, which I posted yesterday. But my confusion continues to grow. I hope that by articulating my confusion I will be able to put the matter to rest and can resume thinking about gnats, ginger beer and unlikely soup.

I’ll state it, in bald terms, and then let’s see where we go. It’s a temping agency which has been forced to close its doors because of a staff shortage.
I’ll write that again: a temping agency which has been forced to close its doors because of a staff shortage.

No, it’s still not working. Maybe if I show the picture again?

No, it’s no better. A company whose very purpose is to find people to fill temporary vacancies is forced to close because it has a temporary vacancy. Can you imagine the sense of failure there when this cropped up? A dirty great cloud of ennui. It’d be like the whole of the remaining staff were forced to wear parkas in the warm weather, but parkas made of gloom.
“Seriously, Brian,” one of them would no doubt ask, “What are we here for? Really, what are we here for? We’re like firefighters standing outside the fire station as it burns to the ground. Smug bastard fetishists unsatisfied in Piers Morgan’s house. Chavs, Brian, chavs, with the price of a sausage roll in their pocket, starving to death in the middle of Greggs. We are, in short, utter failures.”
“We are, to be fair,” Brian the manager would say. “Ah, well, I’d better go and print off a sign to stick on the door. I shall use Comic Sans to underline our hopelessness.”
I’m still confused. In a way I’m just as much a failure as them, but in all the other ways I’m not.

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Twitter’s funny, isn’t it? Lots of people saying things. You can follow me, if you like (twitter.com/grahambandage).

I follow a number of celebrities and people whose work I admire and, in some cases, love to the point of tears. But I don’t expect them to follow me.

And why should I? They have many thousands of followers. If I were to show up on their radar I would recommend that they have their radar checked out for excessive sensitivity by a qualified engineer. They literally don’t have the time to consider the likes of me, to decide, “You know what? This chap Bandage is smashing, and I’m going to follow him in a reciprocal arrangement.”

Or so I thought.

There’s a little button to the right of your screen. I’ve marked it “I Know Where You Live.” Every so often, I have a little look at my profile on StatCounter to see how many thousands of people have had a look at this blog*. And one day last week I saw it. Somebody, I’m not saying who, but it’s somebody I admire and had recently started to follow on Twitter, had read my blog.

“Ooh,” I thought, “Mr X [that’s not his real name] has read my blog.” And for a moment I was quietly pleased. “Now,” I thought, “The big time is beckoning. It’s diamond-studded iPhones and swimming pools in the shape of this blog all the way for me from here on in.”

And then I had a look at the people he follows on Twitter. And I’m not one of them.

This man, this Mr X [that’s not his real name], has done the necessary research and found me wanting. If only I hadn’t had access to such a wealth of information, I would be living in blissful ignorance. It’s all my own fault.

In a way, it’s the worst review I’ve ever had, apart from when the recipient of my youthful longings told a go-between, “I’d rather f**k a penguin.”

*Don't worry, I don't really know where you live. Also, I only know who this person is because he has his own domain. That's the size of big-shottedness which this man possesses.

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