The Twitter Account on Pooh Corner
19 September 2011
Yesterday I got a thing on my Twitter account that sent spuriously shit, virus-laden DMs to all my followers. I changed my password, and immediately another wave of fuckbucketing pish poured forth under my name, with my big-nosed and moody b&w photograph attached. I changed my password again and then deactivated the account. I have no idea if this worked, but hopefully there will be no more bug-infused drivel spewed into the ether on my behalf. The other reason for deactivating the account was that it meant that people would stop sending my DMs either a) telling me nicely that they think I have a problem or b) telling me I'm a fucking idiot.
The downside of this is that I'm not currently on Twitter.
The upside of this is that I'm not currently on Twitter.
I don't belong on Twitter. I belong in the 1950's, living in a small cottage in the Highlands, writing books on a typewriter, and travelling to London once a year on a train to meet my editor.
I get Twitter stress. Is that a thing? Do other people get Twitter stress? There's no point on being on Twitter if no one's going to follow you or communicate with you, but I don't like it when people follow me and never get too excited when they communicate. When people communicate one feels that one must communicate back. Suddenly you're having conversations with strangers that are open to anyone else on planet earth to read. You don't want to have mundane I'm having pizza for dinner then I'm going to take a shit type conversations - at least, I don't - so you feel the need for everything you write to be funny/erudite/insightful/philosophically magnificent. And of course, it isn't. Generally it's just humdrum, intellectually questionable pish. I get stressed.
And followers? Jesus had followers. (In fact, he still does.) I don't want followers. I don't want to be followed. Admittedly, readers would be nice. Occasionally if a reader wanted to write a letter to tell me they liked a book, or to take issue with something, that would be all right. (For example, I have a postcard that the late Russell Hunter sent after he'd read and enjoyed The Long Midnight of Barney Thomson, which is lovely. Wouldn't have been the same if he'd DMd me on Twitter.)
But followers? The very idea of followers panders to the modern day notion of the celebration of the individual. The needs of society don't come first any more, the needs of the individual come first. And it's reasonable within this notion that individuals should have followers. You don't have to be a leader or a prophet or even have anything remotely interesting to say for yourself for people to follow you. We're all equal, we're all entitled to followers, which is exactly why society is drowning beneath the humungous weight of mediocrity, and why civilisation will collapse and we'll all die in a blaze of pedestrian, puss-filled, internet-driven vomit.
Sadly, I'll probably end up back on Twitter, in the great rush for modern acceptance. Needs must when the Devil vomits in your kettle, as the great Blackadder said. This morning, however, I'm enjoying being forceably detached.