I’ve recently finished reading Grace Dent’s ‘How To Leave Twitter’; I found it ironic how a book with that title could make me want to never leave twitter, ever. I honestly didn’t expect to become emotionally invested in it, but I did. Without wishing to sound like some gushing, insipid fangirl, it detailed absolutely everything I love about social networking and satirised everything I hate and I’m already inflicting it upon everyone I care about, regardless of whether they’re on twitter or not. Here’s why…

Twitter’s capacity to unite people cannot be overstated; Twitter has connected me with some of the loveliest people I know. I’ve encountered some amazing characters. I’ve been educated on the inner thoughts of a pigeon, discovered random sign humour from around the country and conversed with minor celebrities. I’ve read  the full details of the Queen’s fondness for gin (although one suspects that may be a spoof account). There are some weirdos out there, I  know that, but at the end of the day, who wouldn’t want to read menial ‘gossip’ from backstage at The Voice? A bore, that’s who.

Twitter helped the Fenton video go viral. Twitter found and publicised the personal blog of the guy who turned up in the Thames during the boat race earlier this year. Twitter identified criminals during the London Riots. Twitter helped me figure out what to get my best friend for his birthday. Twitter helps spread the word when people are truly in need – people who need money for expensive medical treatments, for example – and gives others a quick and easy way to help them out. Twitter reunites lost relatives. It’s not merely 3000 posts per second detailing people’s lunches.

Having said all that, there are times when Twitter makes me want to destroy me blackberry, iPod and MacBook, hide under my duvet and stay there indefinitely. The B*lieber trends. The D*rectioner trends. Constantly in my face. I don’t mind it in principle, it’s quite nice that a large demographic such as females aged roughly 11-16 have something such as a young pop star/boy band to unite them and create friendships, however tenuous, but why do I have to read about it every single day of my life!? (And I did enjoy that fact that Dent managed to write an entire book on twitter and not mention B*eber or O*e D*rection once). I genuinely laughed out loud on one particular occasion many months ago when a number of sensible adults, clearly tiring of the incessant tweeny-pop trends, banded together to get ‘George Formby’ trending. It worked, and I wish it could happen again. I may suggest ‘Chesney Hawkes’ for next time.

At the end of the day, it’s just really enjoyable. I love taking every thought that enters my head and throwing it out into cyberspace for anyone to read. It’s cathartic, alright? For that reason, I will tweet incessantly until I die.

I love Adam Buxton. Therefore, I love the thinkbox advert. There is, in my opinion, nothing to dislike about it. A bunny. A cute song. A happy ending. Yay. It’s also very sweet how we all loved it and it gave Black Squadron – an elite listening force at the command of Mr Adam Buxton and Mr Joe Cornish – something new to coo over. It was while viewing this wonder of an ad that I realised how much television advertising annoys me on the comparatively rare occasions when the limitations of Sky+ force me to endure it. Perhaps my bitterness can be attributed to an unfortunate experience as a young child, when I failed to get past the first round of auditions for an ad for Kellog’s Cornflakes (which I refused to eat until I was 12). OR it could be the simple fact that marketing professionals grossly underestimate the general British public. It matters not. The point is, I feel it’s harming me intellectually.

For example, the KFC Krushems ‘Movie Trailer’ ad genuinely makes me want to cry:

“She’s got the perfect man, and the perfect job.”

Shut right up immediately please. Not only does this anger me because it’s condescending beyond all measure, it also brilliantly manages to encompass absolutely everything that is wrong with the film industry. Imagine the thought process behind the ad pitch that lead to that sentence being uttered on telly: what do women like? Women like chick flicks featuring strong, professional women who are eventually overcome by their more noble desire to marry an unnaturally handsome man after a dramatic courtship. In chick flicks, women like men and shoes. Let’s put this in an ad and they’ll go crazy for the milkshakes. No. I’m sorry. Just no.

However, in terms of offence caused to me, the KFC Krushems ads have got nothing on Haribo and Oreo. I’m not the most child-friendly person in life in general, and seeing them in television advertising – as cute as the particular kids are in the ads I’m complaining about – being so incredibly patronising and just plain irritating really reaffirms my beliefs. I was previously under the impression that parenting involved the parent teaching the child table manners, i.e. how to eat. Advertising has shown me the error of my ways on multiple occasions. When adults aren’t being questioned on their Haribo habits by petulant brats, they’re being taught how to eat biscuits by conceited show-offs. If the television I view these ads on were my property and not my mother’s, I would attack it with scissors every time I am confronted with them.

Thanks to BUPA, I will never listen to Marina and the Diamonds’ ‘I Am Not A Robot’ again. If I ever need to transport my ukulele via train, match.com may have earned me some unwanted sideways glances. And don’t get me started on the psychotic, fake Duran Duran fan roommate chap. However, television advertising eventually gave us Peter Serafinowicz’s Butterfield Direct and Mactini spoofs, for which we can be forever grateful, so maybe I should let the minor annoyances go.

Basically, I need to watch less television. And maybe get a hobby.

A hair appointment. An hour spend being groomed, preened and pampered. An opportunity to reinvent oneself and try out a completely new image. Is there anything more artificial, socially awkward, uncomfortable and undesirable in the developed world? I’ll start at the beginning. At what point in life since leaving early infancy does one ever allow another human – not only another human, but usually a stranger – to first wash one’s hair and then take a pair of scissors to it. Why do I seem to be only one who finds granting that level of access TO MY HEAD WHICH I HAVE TO WALK AROUND WITH IN MY DAILY LIFE to someone I’m barely acquainted with completely and utterly, skin-crawlingly repulsive!? It. Is. Weird. 

I am now going to make the first embarrassing confession of this post (yes, there will be more). When I was young’un, nine or possibly ten, I was treated to a haircut at Toni & Guy. In the limited wisdom of my youth, I felt this was it. I had made it. I was cool. I could barely contain my excitement as I approached the hip, groovy salon, the fountain of sleek stylishness as I perceived it at the time. Now, there is a much-afeared and dreaded four-letter word in the Hair & Beauty industry, and that word is ‘nits’. You can guess the rest, and the consequences of this experience will continue to haunt me for many years to come. Even now, the hour I am in The Chair during my annual haircut is spent in a constant state of anxiety as to what they will find on my head. Fortunately this incident has never been repeated, but I continue to live in fear.

My mate Luke is very, very good at haircuts. He seems to get them as often as they recommend and is very particular about what he wants done (and, incidentally, is blessed with the kind of incredible hair they use to advertise hip new clothing brands to trendy young people). I may ask the aforementioned friend for formal coaching on the whole hairdresser interaction subject. I will pay him in grilled cheese sandwiches. Someone, please enlighten me: what are you supposed to say to the complete stranger to whom you’ve already surrendered total control of your barnet? I find the awkward silences may soon be enough to put me off haircuts altogether, leading me to give up getting them and go around looking like a sort of mad tramp lady with many, many cats.

Around a year ago I had my haircut cut and coloured. There is nothing inherently special about this. That is, until I reached the final stage of the hair styling process: the Second Mirror Behind The Head To Facilitate The Scrutiny Of The Back stage of the process. I have realised in retrospect that there are of course options for dealing with this reasonably painful and slightly pointless endeavour on the part of the hair stylist. There’s the ‘Yes-Thanks-That-Will-Do’ approach – I’ve taken the liberty of writing you a little script for this one. Here it goes: “Hmm. Yeah. That’s great. Thanks.” Or if you prefer, there’s always the ‘Oh-Em-Gee-Thank-You-So-So-So-Much-It’s-The-Best-Thing-EVER-I-Love-It-Thank-You’ strategy, where you basically say that over and over until they eventually put the mirror down and take your money. Now, on this particular cut-and-colour occasion, I was reminded of Michael McIntyre’s observations regarding this stage of the haircut process. I then began to laugh, which unnerved my hairdresser no end. When questioned, my precise words were:

“It’s fine… I really like it… it’s just… Michael McIntyre… and the back-of-head mirror… and… no? Ok.”

I don’t think I’ll be going back there any time soon, let’s just leave it at that.

In the news today, Michael Gove is suggesting replacing GCSEs with O-Levels, as was the previous education system in this country. Now, I have 11 GCSEs, but I never did any O-Levels. Therefore, I’m in no position to comment on which is easier. However, when I logged in to twitter this morning and saw ‘GCSEs’ trending, I was inundated with tweets celebrating the abolition of GCSEs as if the Education Secretary had consulted with the think tanks and reached the conclusion that the most effective remedy for youth unemployment will be to give up on the notion of qualifications for young people, reallocate the budget for secondary education to be spent on energy drinks and angry birds merchandise, and maybe introduce Family Guy Diplomas for the truly enterprising minority. This made me think we may need harder exams. Obviously young people will still be required to go to school. If that actually needs to be explicitly stated the minute any talk of an education reform is leaked to Daily Mail then we really do have a problem on our hands.

There are also many young people out there who seem rather more switched-on than those I’ve just described, who seem genuinely concerned about the future of education. Having just finished my A-Levels – which have allegedly been getting easier for years – I can fully understand how demoralising it must be to work really hard for your grades, only to be told the exams are too easy. Speaking as someone who spent 2 years being told I’d fail, I can attest that it won’t help. DID ANYONE THINK ABOUT THAT? First, the yoof of today are a disgrace and it’s not like the good old days blah blah blah, then they’re being told they’re overachieving and their academic lives need to be harder. Ingenious. And they’re saying the proposed system would lead to a two-tier education system – but doesn’t the Foundation/Higher system effectively mean that anyway? I think they should put me in charge or education, I think I’d be brilliant at it. As soon as I got over my phobia of children, which I can’t see happening any time soon. Ok, forget it, let’s just abolish the entire education system and give up on the country completely.

Basically, I think I need to calm down. It doesn’t affect me anyway.

“Are you musical at all?”

“Er, yeah, I am. I play the ukulele.”

“The ukywhat?”

“Ukulele. Like a little guitar with 4 strings.”

“Oh right, the George Formby thing, ha ha. When I’m cleaning windows!”

Yes, Formby. Yes, windows. Yes, I know. I know.

I play a baby pink Mahalo U30 called Hayley, and my gentleman partner has a baby blue one called Luke (as in Luke the Uke). Hayley the Ukulele is covered in stickers, including little silver stars and an adorable pig, and has a Pandora ribbon tied around her headstock. I play Kraftwerk and Lady GaGa songs on her, and I happen to think I’m pretty cool for it. Yet there seems to be a prevailing stereotype that I’m learning to play the uke sitting in a field wearing a dress I knitted myself out of recycled newspapers. I don’t. I practise in my bedroom wearing jeans and a hoodie, like a normal person. It is not a toy and I am not a hippy, ok?

To put it simply, I think the ideas people have are unfair. Just look at Zooey Deschanel. Is there a more breathtakingly cool woman in the world? She’s a uker too (and made a very sweet appeal on the uke’s behalf back in 2005: http://www.contactmusic.com/news-article/deschanels-emotional-ukelele-plea). I’m beginning to think she may be the future of the uke subculture, and perhaps we should all be following her bright, shiny, quirky lead. But I’m struggling to pull off the demure dresses and kooky nail art, to be honest.

Although, you could argue that in a way, we’re already following her lead. In my personal experience, most ukers are the nicest, most chilled people you will meet, especially among musicians. It may still be a novelty to the general public, but it makes people smile. I’m not really complaining about some of the stereotypes attached to the jumping flea; in fact, I’m quite smug about them.

I will continue to uke with pride.

There are many young people out there who have genuine problems, for whom I can have every sympathy. They’ve had tough lives with very little real, valid help from the system and they’re struggling. These are most definitely, categorically NOT the ones who drive my blood pressure up, not at all. I’m also truly not trying to trivialise really serious and life-changing issues such as teenage depression. However, those ‘emo’ kids who don’t fall into this category and who think they’re suffering because they live in a developed country with slightly too much reality TV and too many high street fashion outlets for their taste, the ones who think going around in skinny jeans, sporting a face that’s over 50% jet black eyeliner and hating more or less everyone means they’re ‘troubled’ – they need an urgent prescription of perspective, and should be removed from the social networking sites on which they inflict it all upon us less melodramatic folk. Here is an example of the kind of flimsy, gratuitous dirge to which I refer:

I’m sitting in the wheelie bin of despair

And the world is unfair, uuuughnrhgnrhn, it’s unfair

I hate the world and my farcical face

So I’m hiding behind black velour and lace

It’s not even the rampant self loathing that bothers me so much, it’s the endless rants about the supreme injustice of the world that I cannot be doing with. I hate to rain on the self-pity parade, but I doubt a load of skinny, anguished youths in oversized hoodies posting screamo death-metal lyrics on tumblr along with pictures of suicidal kittens is going to free Tibet. Sorry. When checking up on facebook, an emotionally draining endeavour in itself, I’m often reminded of the comedic brilliance of Noel Fielding in series 4 of ‘The IT Crowd’, when he unveils his ‘From Goth 2 Boss’ programme in court: “where are you going? Is it to the top? If not, why not? Go to the bloody top!” (And yes, I know emos and goths are distinct, unrelated subcultures; I’m not looking to receive any tedious hatemail on that particular aspect of trivial teen social decorum).

Now, I quite like Mayday Parade, and I don’t mind a bit of My Chemical Romance (or Mike and the Romans, as my father thought they were called). And I’d be more than willing to hang out with these kids if they weren’t so anti-me. The consensus seems to be that my fake tan and my Ted Baker handbag prevent me from understanding their pain. Yeah, of course they do. Also, I’m not claiming to be an expert here, and I accept that it could be that I’ve grossly misunderstood something along the line, in which case, I’ll retract everything I’ve just said and apologise profusely. However, it seems to me that it’s just another teen fad I’ll never get. Fine by me.

*this was posted on a previous blog of mine which I no longer use  but still exists (lifeandothermayhem.blogspot.com), and has been moved to this site for safekeeping*

(…and not the boring, FTPT, coalition kind. But not too far off, actually!)

*this was posted on a previous blog of mine which I no longer use  but still exists (lifeandothermayhem.blogspot.com), and has been moved to this site for safekeeping. It’s since been tweaked very slightly but is more or less the same*