On this mild, sunny weekday I was casually browsing around a well known department store on Edinburgh’s Princes Street when I heard the dreaded refrain: ‘And so this is Christmas, and what have you done….’
My heart sank. It was the 3rd of November and the clocks had barely changed back, yet here we were, about to face eight weeks of Tannoyed agony in high streets and shopping malls as the crackly old CDs of Christmas standards droned into the nations consciousness yet again.
John Lennon’s Happy Xmas (War Is Over); Wizzard’s I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day; Slade’s Merry Xmas Everybody; Greg Lake’s I Believe in Father Christmas. Out they trot on an endless, agonising loop – hapless shoppers subjected to the nasal whines of Lennon and chainsaw screech of Noddy Holder wherever they go. And that’s only the classics from the 1970s. After a decent break the 80s decided to take up the seasonal mantle too – so added to the rota we also got Jona Lewie’s Stop The Cavalry and of course Cliff’s dreaded Mistletoe and Wine.
Somewhere along the line, and no doubt after a heated Papal Conclave, Bing Crosby’s White Christmas was allowed to crash the party as well, standing out like a syrupy, orchestrated sore thumb amid the 70s Glam Rock tat. I think this radical move happened about 20 years ago and the status quo of the elite line up has been preserved ever since, rendered even more intractable by Simon Cowell’s corporate stranglehold of the Christmas charts in recent times.
Between them, these seven songs have become a Groundhog Day of seasonal terror, poisoning our televisions, radios, and shopping centres for ever-longer periods as everyone pretends that Christmas starts at the beginning of Autumn. They have become the tiresome guest at the party who stays so long he eventually becomes part of the family. A dubious British tradition that never changes, never evolves, as if Christmas music of any sort, Bing apart, never existed before or beyond the 70s and 80s. Pushing your way harassed and tired through the crowds you can’t even dismiss it as background music as the voices of John, Roy and Noddy inparticular are not phonetically designed for tranquil, airport-style atmospherics. Noddy’s ‘Its CHRISTMASSSSSSSS!’ rips through the skull like the very worst cider-induced hangover and can be seen tormenting many a delicate constitution during the horror of a Christmas Saturday.
Has anyone got any idea how awful all this is for anyone old enough to remember these dubious delights first time around? I can recall enjoying them as a jolly, fast-food fad back in the age of Fashion Hell and three-day weeks pushing on for 40 years ago, but did anybody really think that they were here to stay, that our Christmases would be blighted by their ubiquitous presence for evermore?
I can at least switch channels when the first dreaded strains appear on my radio or television, but I have no control over what I’m subjected to on the high street. So I’m issuing a heartfelt plea to store managers and shopping mall DJs everywhere. Please stop it!!! Please find something else to play!! If you can’t do for the punters do it for yourselves and your own staff, who have to stand their inflicted by this torture hour after hour, day after day! There are centuries worth of seasonal music out there for you to pick and choose from if you just give it a minutes thought. So please, please, please - go and find some of it. Surprise yourselves, surprise us and give us all a break!
Wednesday 3 November 2010
Sunday 24 October 2010
THE SOCIAL NETWORK
In late 2003 Harvard undergraduate and socially awkward outsider Mark Zuckerberg is dumped by his girlfriend, sets up a malicious chain blog to humiliate her and in doing so begins the process of evolving the phenomenon called Facebook.
Although set in the ultra-modern world of cyber systems, this is in fact an old-fashioned tale of business opportunism, class distinction and the avaricious nature of money making. Despite all the computer geekery going on, its significant that much of this film takes place in corporate boardrooms where people in sharp suits help the various warring factions sue each other for billions. It doesn’t matter what generation we’re in – it always ends up with the lawyers in their chic offices.
The other thing rather old fashioned about David Fincher’s splendid film – refreshingly so – is its delight in word play. This whole movie is a series of snappy conversations, sometimes delivered so rapidly you can barely keep up with them. Even the techie bits aren’t dull. Writer Aaron Sorkin’s deftly-written screenplay develops character, plot, context and motivation in a manner so witty, bitchy and erudite its like a modern tribute to All About Eve. You can almost imagine the ghost of Joseph L Mankiewicz nodding his approval at the acidic one-liners and spot-on observations.
Despite the verbosity the film is never static – director David Fincher keeps his players moving; from dorm-room, bar, restaurant, apartment, classroom, office, stairwell and even the Henley Regatta, nobody is ever sitting at a computer screen for too long. It’s all so visual and so fast you barely notice that various people just talk to each other for two hours. I found myself wondering about the last time I had watched a film in a multiplex that didn’t involve shootings explosions or fights. I’m afraid I couldn’t remember.
Such are the pace of things that the film could have gotten very complicated, but Fincher and Sorkin are smart enough to keep characterisation to the fore. One suspects the film’s title is not just about the purpose of Facebook but about the literal social network in the Harvard village itself, with all its social elites and by-invitation-only fratboy clubs that apply a ruthless caste system to the status of all the students. It’s the various degrees of success or failure, ambition or animosity to which these characters relate to this rather more real life and time-honoured social network that ends up defining their subsequent motivations and actions.
Fincher’s real strength here, however, is in defining an era. He seems to be good at this, having made no fewer than two era-defining films in the 90s with Se7en and Fight Club. As it’s released in 2010, The Social Network is not strictly speaking a Noughties movie, but it will probably still go down as the film that best defines that reckless decade when very bright young people stumbled across ways of making ridiculous sums of money without actually producing anything material. It also cleverly contrasts the old and new Harvard (and by extension the old and new America) where established principle, represented by Zuckerberg’s loyal, gullible, college mate and business partner Eduardo Savaren, clash with the hustling new cyber punk entrepreneurs represented by Zuckerberg himself and especially by Napster creator Sean Parker as his more worldly Mephistopheles.
The acting by the young cast is terrific. Zuckerberg, as played by Jesse Eisenberg, comes across as socially inept, jealous, humourless and opportunistic; yet he is somehow still sympathetic – motivated more by a need for acceptance than anything genuinely malicious. It’s Justin Timberlake’s Sean Parker who ultimately comes over as the real villain – a cunning, narcissistic schmoozer who spots a good thing and doesn’t mind who he rolls over to get a piece of it.
Although set in the ultra-modern world of cyber systems, this is in fact an old-fashioned tale of business opportunism, class distinction and the avaricious nature of money making. Despite all the computer geekery going on, its significant that much of this film takes place in corporate boardrooms where people in sharp suits help the various warring factions sue each other for billions. It doesn’t matter what generation we’re in – it always ends up with the lawyers in their chic offices.
The other thing rather old fashioned about David Fincher’s splendid film – refreshingly so – is its delight in word play. This whole movie is a series of snappy conversations, sometimes delivered so rapidly you can barely keep up with them. Even the techie bits aren’t dull. Writer Aaron Sorkin’s deftly-written screenplay develops character, plot, context and motivation in a manner so witty, bitchy and erudite its like a modern tribute to All About Eve. You can almost imagine the ghost of Joseph L Mankiewicz nodding his approval at the acidic one-liners and spot-on observations.
Despite the verbosity the film is never static – director David Fincher keeps his players moving; from dorm-room, bar, restaurant, apartment, classroom, office, stairwell and even the Henley Regatta, nobody is ever sitting at a computer screen for too long. It’s all so visual and so fast you barely notice that various people just talk to each other for two hours. I found myself wondering about the last time I had watched a film in a multiplex that didn’t involve shootings explosions or fights. I’m afraid I couldn’t remember.
Such are the pace of things that the film could have gotten very complicated, but Fincher and Sorkin are smart enough to keep characterisation to the fore. One suspects the film’s title is not just about the purpose of Facebook but about the literal social network in the Harvard village itself, with all its social elites and by-invitation-only fratboy clubs that apply a ruthless caste system to the status of all the students. It’s the various degrees of success or failure, ambition or animosity to which these characters relate to this rather more real life and time-honoured social network that ends up defining their subsequent motivations and actions.
Fincher’s real strength here, however, is in defining an era. He seems to be good at this, having made no fewer than two era-defining films in the 90s with Se7en and Fight Club. As it’s released in 2010, The Social Network is not strictly speaking a Noughties movie, but it will probably still go down as the film that best defines that reckless decade when very bright young people stumbled across ways of making ridiculous sums of money without actually producing anything material. It also cleverly contrasts the old and new Harvard (and by extension the old and new America) where established principle, represented by Zuckerberg’s loyal, gullible, college mate and business partner Eduardo Savaren, clash with the hustling new cyber punk entrepreneurs represented by Zuckerberg himself and especially by Napster creator Sean Parker as his more worldly Mephistopheles.
The acting by the young cast is terrific. Zuckerberg, as played by Jesse Eisenberg, comes across as socially inept, jealous, humourless and opportunistic; yet he is somehow still sympathetic – motivated more by a need for acceptance than anything genuinely malicious. It’s Justin Timberlake’s Sean Parker who ultimately comes over as the real villain – a cunning, narcissistic schmoozer who spots a good thing and doesn’t mind who he rolls over to get a piece of it.
Sunday 10 October 2010
How Dan Brown destroyed the known universe
Well I finally finished The Lost Symbol..... serves me right, its not as if I didn't know what I was letting myself in for. I'm practically speechless at the absolute nothingness of the whole thing. 700 pages of appallingly written smoke and mirrors in which the poor reader gets led along until - to late - he or she realises they are being drawn into a black void up Dan Brown's metaphorical arsehole.
Is this Dan Brown's secret? Has he tapped into the zietgiest of modern culture - a load of flatulent gloss and spin signifying absolutely nothing? Raid some basic texts about the Masons and Washington architecture, throw in a few science papers, surf around for a good dose of fanciful religeous naval-gazing, paste it all together and then make sure it it takes up about 350 pages of your 700 page dirge spouted by your cardboard-cutout characters. Is that all it takes? Hey, I'm in! Downloading Wikipedia even as I speak! Classic thriller on the symbols, metaphors and spiritual connetations of the X-Factor coming up!
In about three days I think I may be able to take my thumb out of my mouth, extracticate myself from the feotal position and form basic vocal intonations again. Is Dan Brown's next novel going to be a desperate race against time while Robert 'the chuckler' Langdon attempts to decipher the ancient symbols that will prove that Dan Brown is the Antichrist? Let us hope and pray.
Is this Dan Brown's secret? Has he tapped into the zietgiest of modern culture - a load of flatulent gloss and spin signifying absolutely nothing? Raid some basic texts about the Masons and Washington architecture, throw in a few science papers, surf around for a good dose of fanciful religeous naval-gazing, paste it all together and then make sure it it takes up about 350 pages of your 700 page dirge spouted by your cardboard-cutout characters. Is that all it takes? Hey, I'm in! Downloading Wikipedia even as I speak! Classic thriller on the symbols, metaphors and spiritual connetations of the X-Factor coming up!
In about three days I think I may be able to take my thumb out of my mouth, extracticate myself from the feotal position and form basic vocal intonations again. Is Dan Brown's next novel going to be a desperate race against time while Robert 'the chuckler' Langdon attempts to decipher the ancient symbols that will prove that Dan Brown is the Antichrist? Let us hope and pray.
Thursday 30 September 2010
The Ed Man Cometh
While we were away on holiday the Labour Party conference took place and the expected annointing of David Milliband as successor to Blair and torch-bearer for New Labour was party-pooped by his younger brother Ed, thanks largely to greater Union-block support. I've got mixed feelings about this. Ideologically I'm on Ed's side. He's hardly left-wing in the traditional sense but he leans that way at a time when I think a small dose of old-fashioned socialism is necessary to balance the ravenous old capitalist beast.
By the same token the Murdoch media machine will see Ed as a bit of a gift and get even more on his back. Shame to say, but in these shallow times when image is everything, his lisp and slightly 'foreign' appearance will be mercilessly played upon by the other side and the usual political wolves, bloggers and professional talking heads. Is he an electoral loser when his more safe-fit brother might not have been? I worry he just might be - the electorate are so gullable and the media so lazy and dumbed-down. I can almost hear Cameron and the Eton brigade sniggering in relief.
By the same token the Murdoch media machine will see Ed as a bit of a gift and get even more on his back. Shame to say, but in these shallow times when image is everything, his lisp and slightly 'foreign' appearance will be mercilessly played upon by the other side and the usual political wolves, bloggers and professional talking heads. Is he an electoral loser when his more safe-fit brother might not have been? I worry he just might be - the electorate are so gullable and the media so lazy and dumbed-down. I can almost hear Cameron and the Eton brigade sniggering in relief.
LAKE GARDA, ITALY 22-29 SEPTEMBER
Picked this one up as a great late-summer discount from Thomson Holidays, staying half-board in a quaint old hotel right on the harbour front in Limone at the top end of Lake Garda. Dramatic, mountainous scenery up there, where the lake narrows and the mountains tower over the lake in a fjord-like manner. Lucky with the weather which can be dodgy this late in the summer. Had only one bad day and otherwise warm and sunny throughout.
Town small and very picturesque, with the usual winding alleys filled with cafes and tratorrias. Ferries bustled in and out all day taking tourists (mostly German) to and from other towns around the lake. Our hotel was one of the oldest buildings in the town and deliberately oldy-worldy, which grew on me after awhile. It was set right on the water and immediately next to the ferry port, which made it noisey during the day though you got used to this very quickly and it was fun to hang out the window and watch the hustle and bustle of it all. Food was pretty average but included drinks served with the meal as part of the price which is unusual and very good value.
We spent most of our days travelling by ferry around the other towns up the north end of the lake - Malcesne, Riva and Torbole. Malcesne is easily the most attractive, its imposing lakeside castle surrounded by a warren of narrow streets selling artwork and ceramics amid the usual tourist nonsense and Italian leather goods that nobody ever seems to buy. We went here twice, the second time on Fi’s birthday for lunch and a few too many drinks. You can walk from Torbole to Riva along the northern shoreline, which gives you a chance to watch all the German windsurfers doing there stuff.
We also did a trip to Milan which started in foul weather. Busy Saturday in the city with demonstrations and a political rally by the dreaded Berlescolli’s. It was also fashion week and innumerable stick-thin models strolled the trendy streets filled by impossibly expensive designer boutiques. Cathedral and Galleria spectacular and worth seeing but not much time to take in anything else. Found an arty, slightly bohemian area beyond the cathedral full of trendy galleries and restaurants that would have been fun to explore. Perhaps some other time.
All in all a great and very good value holiday. Italy never lets you down. Is there a more beautiful country in the world? I doubt it.
Town small and very picturesque, with the usual winding alleys filled with cafes and tratorrias. Ferries bustled in and out all day taking tourists (mostly German) to and from other towns around the lake. Our hotel was one of the oldest buildings in the town and deliberately oldy-worldy, which grew on me after awhile. It was set right on the water and immediately next to the ferry port, which made it noisey during the day though you got used to this very quickly and it was fun to hang out the window and watch the hustle and bustle of it all. Food was pretty average but included drinks served with the meal as part of the price which is unusual and very good value.
We spent most of our days travelling by ferry around the other towns up the north end of the lake - Malcesne, Riva and Torbole. Malcesne is easily the most attractive, its imposing lakeside castle surrounded by a warren of narrow streets selling artwork and ceramics amid the usual tourist nonsense and Italian leather goods that nobody ever seems to buy. We went here twice, the second time on Fi’s birthday for lunch and a few too many drinks. You can walk from Torbole to Riva along the northern shoreline, which gives you a chance to watch all the German windsurfers doing there stuff.
We also did a trip to Milan which started in foul weather. Busy Saturday in the city with demonstrations and a political rally by the dreaded Berlescolli’s. It was also fashion week and innumerable stick-thin models strolled the trendy streets filled by impossibly expensive designer boutiques. Cathedral and Galleria spectacular and worth seeing but not much time to take in anything else. Found an arty, slightly bohemian area beyond the cathedral full of trendy galleries and restaurants that would have been fun to explore. Perhaps some other time.
All in all a great and very good value holiday. Italy never lets you down. Is there a more beautiful country in the world? I doubt it.
Monday 20 September 2010
Flicker, by Theodore Roszak
Loved this book; its one of those big, philosophical, why-are-we-here, state-of-the-planet, apocalypse-in-waiting, Chinese box epics that keeps you intrigued and makes you think all the way through - ultimately growing way beyond its default mystery novel landscape until its pretty close to the borders of science fiction or future-noir.
Its a book that provokes a variety of reactions. Its possible to see the entire exercise as a reactionary right-wing diatribe against half a century of liberalism - something that’s always likely to raise the hackles of an old liberal like me. And yet the author, disillusioned and cynical though he undoubtedly is, makes too many pertinent points about modern society and the direction in which screened entertainment has gone to dismiss its negativity glibly. You can understand why its been reprinted again almost 20 years after it was first published - its paranoid message seems even more pertinent in today’s multi-media, image-obsessed world than the pre-cable and internet world it could only imagine, but still managed to predict, when it was written.
However I can only really recommend it to movie buffs. Its a very long book that takes its own sweet time to unveil its more sinister elements. Most of the first 400 pages are a love affair to the history of the movies, often reading more like a high-end academic text on film theory and the literal mechanics of projection than a page-turning mystery thriller. Unless you have a deep love of cinema - and by that I mean the whole history of cinema rather than a simple liking for movies - this book is likely to leave you frustrated and impatient. Fortunately there’s a strong cross-over between movie geeks and literary geeks, so get ready to enjoy the playfulness with which Roszak constructs his alternative history of old Hollywood (Orson Welles admitting he was barely responsible for Citizen Kane anyone?) The author could have done with paying a bit more attention to his time-frames and cultural references, but this is a minor point.
I don’t re-read many books these days, but this one will certainly get lifted off the shelf again at some point in the future (unless 2014 is true that is!)
Its a book that provokes a variety of reactions. Its possible to see the entire exercise as a reactionary right-wing diatribe against half a century of liberalism - something that’s always likely to raise the hackles of an old liberal like me. And yet the author, disillusioned and cynical though he undoubtedly is, makes too many pertinent points about modern society and the direction in which screened entertainment has gone to dismiss its negativity glibly. You can understand why its been reprinted again almost 20 years after it was first published - its paranoid message seems even more pertinent in today’s multi-media, image-obsessed world than the pre-cable and internet world it could only imagine, but still managed to predict, when it was written.
However I can only really recommend it to movie buffs. Its a very long book that takes its own sweet time to unveil its more sinister elements. Most of the first 400 pages are a love affair to the history of the movies, often reading more like a high-end academic text on film theory and the literal mechanics of projection than a page-turning mystery thriller. Unless you have a deep love of cinema - and by that I mean the whole history of cinema rather than a simple liking for movies - this book is likely to leave you frustrated and impatient. Fortunately there’s a strong cross-over between movie geeks and literary geeks, so get ready to enjoy the playfulness with which Roszak constructs his alternative history of old Hollywood (Orson Welles admitting he was barely responsible for Citizen Kane anyone?) The author could have done with paying a bit more attention to his time-frames and cultural references, but this is a minor point.
I don’t re-read many books these days, but this one will certainly get lifted off the shelf again at some point in the future (unless 2014 is true that is!)
Wednesday 1 September 2010
The new adventures of the Crab Man
Had my first ever operation yesterday, a hernia op at the Victoria Infirmary in Kirkcaldy. Suppose I should count my blessings that I've managed to last this long without going under the knife. Simple enough it appears - they walked me into the theatre, gassed me, I went out like a light and woke up rambling and incoherent an hour or so later (nothing new there then).
One toe-curling moment - on my first post-op trip to the loo I fainted like a big woos. Got up too early and collapsed in a heap. God what an embarrassment. So much for the ironic, detatched cool I was attempting all day.
They released me back into the community in the evening but I'm pretty sore and immobile, limping and hunched over. I can manage a crab-like scuttle that gets me about the house, but I'm unlikely to make it back to work for a week or so. Lets hope the early September weather keeps up and I can sit outside when not writing a load of crap here.
One toe-curling moment - on my first post-op trip to the loo I fainted like a big woos. Got up too early and collapsed in a heap. God what an embarrassment. So much for the ironic, detatched cool I was attempting all day.
They released me back into the community in the evening but I'm pretty sore and immobile, limping and hunched over. I can manage a crab-like scuttle that gets me about the house, but I'm unlikely to make it back to work for a week or so. Lets hope the early September weather keeps up and I can sit outside when not writing a load of crap here.
Monday 30 August 2010
Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks
Epic WW1 saga set largely in the trenches of Northern France, but with a long pre-war prologue and a 1970s conclusion.
It’s a good book, well researched, well characterised and always interesting, but somehow it didn’t quite connect with me emotionally. I wondered why as the author is clearly sympathetic to both his characters and the tragedy of their situation, but then I realised it’s his writing style, which has a certain formality and distance about it that keeps Faulks just a bit removed from things. Interestingly, one of the supporting characters is an amateur psychiatrist, keen on Freud and Jung, who were barely known during WW1, and you can’t help but see Faulks as writing from a similar analytical perspective; observing and understanding, but in a slightly detatched way, never quite getting emotionally involved.
Good though, and recommended to anyone who wants to know about the sheer hell of life in the trenches. WW1 is likely to rise significantly in public conciousness as its centenary approaches.
It’s a good book, well researched, well characterised and always interesting, but somehow it didn’t quite connect with me emotionally. I wondered why as the author is clearly sympathetic to both his characters and the tragedy of their situation, but then I realised it’s his writing style, which has a certain formality and distance about it that keeps Faulks just a bit removed from things. Interestingly, one of the supporting characters is an amateur psychiatrist, keen on Freud and Jung, who were barely known during WW1, and you can’t help but see Faulks as writing from a similar analytical perspective; observing and understanding, but in a slightly detatched way, never quite getting emotionally involved.
Good though, and recommended to anyone who wants to know about the sheer hell of life in the trenches. WW1 is likely to rise significantly in public conciousness as its centenary approaches.
Wednesday 25 August 2010
The reluctant beauty
Tuesday 24 August 2010
What a Waste
WHAT A WASTE
I could be the driver in an articulated lorry
I could be a poet, I wouldn't need to worry
I could be the teacher in a classroom full of scholars
I could be the sergeant in a squadron full of wallahs
What a waste! What a waste!
What a waste! What a waste!
Because I tried to play the fool in a six-piece band
First-night nerves every one-night stand
I should be glad to be so inclined
What a waste! What a waste!
But the world don't mind
I could be a lawyer with stratagems and muses
I could be a doctor with poultices and bruises
I could be a writer with a growing reputation
I could be the ticket-man at Fulham Broadway station
What a waste! What a waste!
What a waste! What a waste!
Because I tried to play the fool in a six-piece band
First-night nerves every one-night stand
I should be glad to be so inclined
What a waste! What a waste!
But the world don't mind
I could be the catalyst that sparks the revolution
I could be an inmate in a long-term institution
I could lead to wide extremes, I could do or die
I could yawn and be withdrawn and watch them gullify
What a waste! What a waste!
What a waste! What a waste!
Because I tried to play the fool in a six-piece band
First-night nerves every one-night stand
I should be glad to be so inclined
What a waste! What a waste!
But the world don't mind
Chose to play the fool in a six-piece band
First-night nerves every one-night stand
I should be glad to be so inclined
What a waste! What a waste!
But the world don't mind
What a waste! What a waste!
But the world don't mind
I could be the driver in an articulated lorry
I could be a poet, I wouldn't need to worry
I could be the teacher in a classroom full of scholars
I could be the sergeant in a squadron full of wallahs
What a waste! What a waste!
What a waste! What a waste!
Because I tried to play the fool in a six-piece band
First-night nerves every one-night stand
I should be glad to be so inclined
What a waste! What a waste!
But the world don't mind
I could be a lawyer with stratagems and muses
I could be a doctor with poultices and bruises
I could be a writer with a growing reputation
I could be the ticket-man at Fulham Broadway station
What a waste! What a waste!
What a waste! What a waste!
Because I tried to play the fool in a six-piece band
First-night nerves every one-night stand
I should be glad to be so inclined
What a waste! What a waste!
But the world don't mind
I could be the catalyst that sparks the revolution
I could be an inmate in a long-term institution
I could lead to wide extremes, I could do or die
I could yawn and be withdrawn and watch them gullify
What a waste! What a waste!
What a waste! What a waste!
Because I tried to play the fool in a six-piece band
First-night nerves every one-night stand
I should be glad to be so inclined
What a waste! What a waste!
But the world don't mind
Chose to play the fool in a six-piece band
First-night nerves every one-night stand
I should be glad to be so inclined
What a waste! What a waste!
But the world don't mind
What a waste! What a waste!
But the world don't mind
Selling out to the 21st Century
24 August 2010
So now I've even started a bloody blog. First of all I open a sad Facebook page and now I open a sad blog. I'm supposed to be one of these guys who's too old to need a cyber-life, who is 'grounded in reality' and doesn't need to create alter-egos and virtual personalities and all the others things people of my age are supposed to feel superior to younger people about.
Yet here I am doing it and I don't even properly know what I'm doing it for or even why I'm doing it. Its just like talking to yourself, but in a trendy, techie kind of way.
So, anyway thats it started and we can only wait and see what, if anything happens to it. Hopefully it will have a haphazard life of its own or it might just die a silent cyber-space death. We await with baited breasts!
So now I've even started a bloody blog. First of all I open a sad Facebook page and now I open a sad blog. I'm supposed to be one of these guys who's too old to need a cyber-life, who is 'grounded in reality' and doesn't need to create alter-egos and virtual personalities and all the others things people of my age are supposed to feel superior to younger people about.
Yet here I am doing it and I don't even properly know what I'm doing it for or even why I'm doing it. Its just like talking to yourself, but in a trendy, techie kind of way.
So, anyway thats it started and we can only wait and see what, if anything happens to it. Hopefully it will have a haphazard life of its own or it might just die a silent cyber-space death. We await with baited breasts!
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