Last week, Facebook made its biannual homepage change. The problem is, nothing commands the wrath of the mob like a biannual Facebook homepage change. People get proper vexed about it; oh Lordy, my news feed's all over the shop, says one girl from a high school in Massachusetts, why don't you just leave it as it is? Facebook's now a gay bell-end, says a boy from a high school in Minnesota, only faggots use this shit now. I'm going back to MySpace, threatens a goth.
Desperate times call for desperate measures and in a democratic demonstration of the rage, the mob resort to bringing out the big guns and do the only thing they can do in such a situation – they set up a Facebook group, because they solve everything. There's one particular hate group which shouts SWITCH BACK TO THE OLD FACEBOOK, all in capitals, mind, just in case we couldn't hear. (I don't want to be a cunt about this, but there's internet etiquette to be adhered to. To write in capitals suggests you got beef, and unless you wanna ease up on the decibels, I intend to tenderize your beef.)
They're so furious about something essentially quite trivial. The numbers for the afore-mentioned group total just over 1.3 million members. Compare that to Crackbook's own Global Disaster Relief page which has got a piddly fifteen or something. It cracks me up how disproportionate their rage is.
Does it really matter that your inbox is in your outbox or whether or not you can like someone's like of your like? Of course, it doesn't. But that's Anger for you. It's completely irrational. If you're minorly a bit miffed by something, you can usually keep a lid on it and try and resolve the situation with like, mediation and discussion, but Anger's a different beast.
You know sometimes when you get angry and you're all pissed off, palsied with rage, crippled by apoplexy and you'll bitch like a bitch to anyone who's not listening. You know you look like a prick, but Anger, it's kinda addictive, no? Like mephedrone.
Anger gives you licence to say and do things you otherwise wouldn't have the balls to say or do. You only get angry when you're wrong, but Anger makes you feel like you're ten foot tall and made of gold, so you don't care that you're chatting wolf. You indulge that Anger, you wallow in its warm, sanguinary arms. And it's lovely and safe there.
Sometimes, when I'm feeling a little too content and the pacemaker is a little bit too stable, I'll do something to get the ticker ticking a bit rapid. One of my favourite ways to do this is by reading the tabloids. The red tops are a readymade rag of red in my Guardian-reading face. I challenge you to make it ten pages in to the Mail before you read about how an illegal asylum scrounger is living at 10 Downing Street, rent free while Gordon Brown is giving them therapeutic foot massages daily.
The News of the World is no better. It's ridicularse to one minute read about Sarah's Law on one page, hearing Littlejohn or whoever rant on about how we gotta vigilante the fuck out of paedophiles, then on the next page have an upskirt pap shot of Hermione's minge on her way to Hogwarts.
I know I should ignore it, but this lot set the agenda for so much of the country. The power they wield is so much that The Sun has famously never lost an election (they've already pledged allegiance to David Cameron, and with recent news of Gordon's bullying, it looks like a Tory formality).
Sometimes, this country feels like being in a shit nightclub, and the newspapers are like DJs playing shit music and I'm stood there thinking, Great Scot, this is gash isn't it? and I look around for corroboration and everywhere I look, I see millions upon hundreds of drongos popping out of their polyester miniskirts and gymbos bulging out of their Superdry shirts going nuts for some of the most heinous crimes to ever to hit a cochlea. They're the pipers, playing shit tunes of really flawed logic and everyone's lapping it up.
Check this, front page of the Sun the other day has a picture of Cheryl Cole, scantily-clad with the headline, Ashley, how could you? I'm an Arsenal fan, so I've hated Ashley Cole for bare time anyway so I sit lazily at the sea shores of schadenfreude watching his very public fall from grace, which has been nothing but a joy to watch after declaring that he felt betrayed by his boyhood club over the fact that he was 'only' offered a five grand pay rise.
Poor bugger. I pay £30 a season to represent the latest XL Boys shirt (Thierry Henry used to wear his tight on his body and if it's good enough for him...) down the park with the lads for a kickabout and he's quibbling over five bags of sand. I swear down, I'll box that child.
The point, I enjoy seeing Ashley get castigated by the biggest opinion-providers in the country. And it's true, he shouldn't have cheated on his missus. Question. What's so flawed about the logic of the red tops this time? Answer. In featuring Cheryl in her knickerbockers, they hold her up to be a paragon of pengness.
And she's aight, no doubt but when they pair that pic with their headline, they imply that because she's so peng, she shouldn't expect to be cheated on. In essence, Cheryl's pengness makes her exempt from infidelity? This then begs the question, would it have been alright for Ashley to cheat on Cheryl if she was butters?
Do ugly girls have to just put up with getting cheated on sans contrition? (Actually, one look at The Jeremy Kyle Show in the mornings will probably confirm that. You don't half see some snaggletooths on that show.) With that sort of flawed logic, you could say that the people that survived the Holocaust were hench and brave. Does that then imply that those who didn't survive the Holocaust were pussyoles?
A massive blog post to illustrate the most minor of points, but this whole thing leaves a lot of questions unanswered. I thought Ashley was gay, so what are we gonna sing at the Emirates when Chelsea come to play now?