Social Networking Gone Wrong

When the comedian Russell Brand was married to the pop singer Katy Perry, he took a morning photograph of her that showed her all bleary-eyed, tousle-haired and cosmetic free, and then he posted it on Twitter for all the world to see. It was not a flattering picture. I dare say Brand found it hilarious at that moment but he quickly thought again and took it down. But it was too late. By then the world had got hold of it and Brand had shown us all that Miss Perry looked pretty ordinary without the slap and that he was a first-class pillock. He shouldn't have done it. He betrayed his wife's trust. It's all too easy with instant networking to do the wrong thing, to make a fool of yourself, to trample over your own and other people's privacy.

Like lots of people I have friends on Facebook who aren't really friends. They are people I might have known for a long time that I don't see much of these days, people who I might stand and have a quick chat with if I meet them at the supermarket but not really people I yearn to socialise with. These are people whose numbers are not in my phone. And now I know too much about them.

Take the woman whose husband has left her - she goes on Facebook on a Saturday night, probably with a bottle of wine in her, and she has a ill-written, misspelt rant about him. She is addressing him directly and what she is saying is not for the eyes of  her Facebook friends. They might judge, they might decide that perhaps her ex was well out of it. They might cringe. And afterwards they'd feel soiled that they read this, this thing they never should have read. The next morning the rant was gone but it was too late.

Then today I saw a photograph on Facebook of a woman asleep. Her partner had published it without her knowledge. It was not a flattering picture. It was cruel of her partner to have posted it and I told him so. Soon afterwards I got a private message from him. It was rather cheeky. I used the private messaging to tell him exactly what I thought of his actions then logged out and went to call on a real friend, a friend who wouldn't have a clue what social networking is even though she's only 78 years old. I told myself if my Facebook 'friend' responded to my message in a rude or uncaring manner that I would banish him. I was looking forward to banishing him. When I got back I took a look and he appeared to be repentant. The photograph of his partner had been removed. But it was too late.

He didn't get banished today. But he will.

Sunday Drivers

Seems like every Sunday that I drive out to Tannaghmore some idiot cuts me up on the Ballee roundabout. Today was no exception. Today it was a Smart Car. All I know about Smart Cars, apart from them being the wankiest car in the world, is that they were heavily mentioned in Dan Brown's Da Vinci Code, to the extent that I am certain Smart Cars bloody sponsored that dire book which, I am ashamed to admit, I have read and that the local Cartridge World has one that is always bloody cutting people up as well. And yes I know bloody local Cartridge World is somebody I know and bump into at weddings and leaving dos but Smart Cars are WANKY and that their drivers keep cutting us normal people up and, hey, learn how to drive why don't you?

Anyways today Wank Car cuts me up and I'm not in a good mood and I yell, "Don't be a cunt all your life!" and again as I overtook him, "WANKER!" through open windows although I don't think he heard me because Lohengrin was playing rather loudly but I couldn't avoid noticing that he had a sign on his back window saying JESUS something and he was smug and po-faced with glasses and I couldn't help thinking if he was such an awesome Christian that he was driving a Smart Car and advertising JESUS that a bit of road manners was in order.

But anyhow Janis Joplin came on and I thought to myself that at the present moment I do enjoy a bit of Road Rage because I was going to Tannaghmore and when I got there I had to put on my mild and gentle hat. Not that it did me much good.

Paranoia

I am consumed with anxiety. And I cannot say why. The reason is that it is not just friends who read this blog. I fear there are enemies who look at it too. That being so I cannot tell my friends what worries me for fear my enemies make capital from it.

Paranoid? Moi? Oui.

So if you read my blog and you do not care for Nellybert shall I offer you my New Year Wishes?

Go and fuck yourself. Because you're a pseudo-christian, jealous bastard.

Friends - ignore this rant. It is specifically directed at a lurker.

Hey You (Sonshine) Get Out Of My Face!

After the bike shopping on Saturday morning Bert and I took a dander up the street. Could we get moving through that town? For we were everywhere impeded and besieged by mobs of green-shirted God-botherers from a local cult church. They were on every street but the bulk of them were congregated around a group of musicians and singers at the bandstand, roaring, singing, lepping up and down like buck eedjits and grinning like loons. I think beaming and grinning must be compulsory in their church. Or maybe they were just really happy because they had found the Lord and he was not a stuffy old Lord like the Presbyterians and the Methodists and the other churches have. Their Lord must be a zany, fun-loving, tone-deaf Lord for, to be honest, the band was pure shite and no amount of maniacal pogo-ing Christians will make me believe otherwise. I was surly when I refused their literature. Bert didn’t see the point of that for, as he pointed out, if you’re clutching one of their handouts they’ll not try to give you another.

I’m considering putting a complaint in to the Council about the hideous din of it. It certainly did not make me want to hang around town and spend money. And I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who felt alienated by the spectacle. Of course there were people who seemed to think it was all very jolly but if we must have Christians monopolizing the bandstand every Saturday morning I’d prefer the dour gang preaching hellfire and damnation. And I’d definitely rather receive tracts from downcast, humble souls who, even if they might think I’m a sinner bound for hell, at least will have the decency not to gloat!

Choices

The following is based on a true event. One of the most difficult things about having Pearlie living with us is the struggle to hold on to a sense of myself as a fairly decent human being. There is no feelgood factor.

A few weeks ago I went on a shopping expedition to get Pearlie some decent clothes. Pearlie has never had the remotest interest in clothes and, as long as I’ve known her, has garbed herself in layers of hideous greying underwear, jumpers, cardigans, vile skirts, men’s socks, battered footwear and the lot topped of with a horror movie of a headscarf and a home-made and much patched apron. She had the look of a poverty-stricken Eastern European peasant from the nineteen-forties only with added nylon and polyester.

But now it’s up to me launder this gruesome stuff so I’ve been sneakily throwing out the worst of it and replacing it with decent clothes from Marks & Spencers and the Edinburgh Woollen Mill. There will be no more baggy, outsized interlock cotton vests with fraying hems in this house.

Sure ye could put a stitch in them.

Excuse me Pearlie. A stitch? I do have a life. (Or at least I used to)

Her hideous long-legged cotton knickers bought from the packman are slowly being replaced by similarly granny ones from M&S only the Marksy ones are light and thermal and almost pleasing to the eye.

Where’s all my other knickers? Did Margaret take them home to patch?

In the bin long, long ago.

I spent over three hours picking out a skirt, a cardigan and underwear for Pearlie. Had I been shopping for myself I’d have completed in half the time. But I know how hard she is to please. Skirts must be lined, they must not be too long or too tight. Knitwear must not be bulky but it must not be too light. The sleeves must be roomy, likewise the neck. Colours must not be too bright. I played safe and got dark green. I’ve seen her wear dark green a lot. The underwear was thermal, soft and it fitted her. Exhausted I made my way home.

I didn’t show her the new duds at first. I knew she’d be bound to hate something and I even had a notion of packing them in her case so that the first time she saw them would be when the care assistants at the respite home hung them up in her wardrobe. But next day she was in a good mood and I felt I could handle the criticism so I showed her what I’d got. And amazing joy – she liked everything! I was delighted.

But that was Sunday. On Thursday Favourite Niece came out to pack her suitcase. That evening I didn’t get home until nearly eight and I was feeling pretty tired. I was surprised to see that Favourite Niece’s car was still in the yard. Moments later FN bounced out of Pearlie’s room went straight up to me and said, “That skirt’s no good. It’s falling off her. Can you get it changed? And she doesn’t like those knickers. Says she’ll be far too cold in them.”

Did I stay cool? Not exactly. I swore a bit ( a lot) then I did get cool. Well maybe more cold than cool. You know that cold anger thing where you might like to kill somebody? That was me.

Since then I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I’ve been thinking about choices and how it is supposed to be important to give old people as much autonomy as possible. And I was also thinking about how great it would be if middle-aged people got to exercise some choices too like whether we wanted to launder patched rags or not. Or maybe we could choose whether or not we welcomed an aged dictator and a haphazard team of carers into our lovely home.

So anyway after thinking long and hard I have decided that these are the really important choices to offer my aged dictator.

• Milk or Tea.
• Pink hot water bottle or blue hot water bottle.
• Shape up or Ship Out.
• My Way or the Highway.

That Was The Wettest August In Over Fifty Years

What are Weather Men and Women for? I realised this evening that I despise them all. Obviously it all started with the loathsome Michael Fish. That hairstyle, the vile moustache, those horrible ties - what wasn't to dislike? I hate their uncalled for bounciness and I resent them having opinions about weather. It is just weather for fuck's sake! It happens. We would like to have some idea what to expect but - Weather Person - your opinions and your sympathy are entirely unwelcome. Fuck off!

What Will I Do Now?

Bloody flipping blasted Hell!

Scrabulous has gone away from Facebook again!

It's the only decent app. on there!

It's the only reason I ever go on Facebook...

And I started my last game with Mr Bolan on a bingo!

Damn and fuck and blast!!!

What will I do now? I suppose I could weed the vegetable garden or go for a really long walk or clear out the attic. I'd rather play Scrabulous.