Writing my first column forced me to be somewhat sceptical of myself. I didnÔÇÖt quite have that clich├®d identity crisis where I faced myself in the mirror and whispered dramatically ÔÇÿwho ARE you?ÔÇÖ ÔÇô mainly because I live in the grottiest house known to student-kind with a mirror covered in dust and other miscellaneous particles. However, it did trigger a ÔÇÿmean-girls-cafeteriaÔÇÖ style film in my head where I assessed my own social standing. The thing is, IÔÇÖm not cool enough to give you a low-down on celebrity filled club launches I went to last week. Like many people, I went to a very average house party one night and then ÔÇÿStandardÔÇÖ SodaÔÇÖ on another (the poor girls Glam ÔÇô with a dance floor sticky enough to rival the most expensive fly-trap). Knocking a scared fresher-type over, whilst dancing enthusiastically to ÔÇÿGet LuckyÔÇÖ (think of a bat on acid crossed with an elephant trying to do ballet) was as ÔÇÿcrazyÔÇÖ as it got. I didnÔÇÖt ÔÇÿget luckyÔÇÖ in the traditional student sense either; I ended the night accidently covering myself in ketchup in Family Fish Bar and looking like I had a lot more fun than I actually did. At the same time, IÔÇÖm not the ÔÇÿyoung-Susan Boyle lookalikeÔÇÖ who is going to write about drowning in a combination of ice-cream and my own fat every night, warbling ÔÇÿALL BAHH MAHHSELFÔÇÖ at the top of my lungs, chins shaking with rage at men, the world and myself.
So to summarise: in this boring version of Mean Girls in my boring head, IÔÇÖd be eating my (usually boring) lunch on the ÔÇÿaveragely normalÔÇÖ table ÔÇô if not on my own. Do I have the kind of life people want to hear about?
I did what any self-respecting lunch-loner would do and turned to Facebook for inspiration: to find something/someone more interesting than myself to write about. I donÔÇÖt know what inspiring wisdom I was expecting to discover on my news feed but I was, to put it bluntly, greeted by a pile of shit. This beautiful photograph was proudly displayed to the world with the caption ÔÇÿfirst potty pooÔÇÖ. I scoured for the part of the caption that stated this child (the spawn of an old school friend) had just recited Shakespeare sonnets, or hummed Mozart sat on that piece of plastic – as opposed to doing something that my dog probably could. There was nothing. Underneath this exquisite specimen was someone elseÔÇÖs enthralling status: ÔÇÿfinished all my coursework three weeks before the deadline. Feeling accomplished.ÔÇÖ
It was at this moment it struck me: Facebook is now less of a ÔÇÿsocial utility that connects people with friendsÔÇÖ ÔÇô but a place for individuals to ÔÇÿconnectÔÇÖ mundane fragments of their own lives into an unedited public journal. Facebookers that indulge in this tedious life broadcast make me long to hunt them down and clobber their hands with their own laptop ÔÇô and maybe one day I might, tracking them down via their 20 daily check-ins.
Facebook is also now a vehicle for people to put in (disconnected) reality the person they want to be. Between the lines of a Facebook status ÔÇÿlast night was amazingÔÇÖ, is an insecure attention seeker subtly trying to tell the world, ÔÇÿIÔÇÖm so cool and popular, yo.ÔÇÖ There are no ÔÇÿunpopular tablesÔÇÖ on Facebook`; you can pretty much choose the person you want to be portrayed as. Even under the surface of the baby poo picture is a new mother clamouring, ÔÇÿmy child is better than yours; my child is going to go on and win the x-factor before yours can even write its nameÔÇÖ. Twitter is worse. Research has even shown that only about 75% of tweets are actually read. WeÔÇÖre all shouting frantically about our own mundane lives ÔÇô but everyone else is also shouting too loudly for them to hear anyone else anyway.
Using social media as an ego booster is one thing ÔÇô but it still doesnÔÇÖt fully explain the notion of oversharing. Maybe itÔÇÖs the afterbirth of the masses of D-list celebrities crowding our screens and conversations: a culture has been created where everyone wants to be famous. Some of the most popular TV shows around at the moment are based on people who producers imply are just like us. Role-models have become Spencer Matthews from Made in Chelsea and TOWIEÔÇÖs Amy Childs: the former famous for ÔÇÿliving it hard in EssexÔÇÖ and the latter famous for ÔÇÿliving it up in Chelsea.ÔÇÖ ÔÇÿBeing famousÔÇÖ, weÔÇÖre led to think, has never been so easy.
Maybe weÔÇÖre clutching on the straws of our instagrammed milkshakes, hoping that one day the picture of our rainbow cupcakes will get enough likes to turn us into a Great British Baker, or that the hilarity of our latest drunken tweets will have TOWIE bosses clamouring to make a show on us?
Everyone on these programmes shares everything. The most popular TV programs are often the ones where people get just that bit more personal: from ÔÇÿvajazzlesÔÇÖ (TOWIE) to an ÔÇÿI wanna be a star to prove dem haters wrong, manÔÇÖ story (The X Factor).
The extent that people are willing to share their personal lives is staggering. Prime examples are Embarrassing Bodies and The Sex Clinic: if youÔÇÖve never been unfortunate enough to watch them, then think of the filthiest and most explicit kind of pornography ÔÇô but in reverse. Surely when a guy has to get out his ÔÇÿwarty willyÔÇÖ for an approximate 2.37 minutes in the limelight his problems extend to ÔÇÿup thereÔÇÖ as well as ÔÇÿdown there?ÔÇÖ Or maybe fame has just become too much of a prize to miss out on, warts and all? (excuse the pun).
The thing is, when youÔÇÖre famous people do start to care about your life. This week for example sees Steve JobsÔÇÖ ex-girlfriend releasing a tell-all book that is expected to earn her thousands. It covers various details of their time together, from Jobs believing he was a World War 2 pilot in a past life, to the time they had tantric sex in a shed.
Even the lowest of the z-list celebrities have fans considering them as mini-Gods of whom everything they say is crammed with profound meaning.
Last week Jodie Marsh (the woman once famous for having boobs, now famous for looking a bit like Hulk Hogan in his heyday┬á ÔÇôwhilst still having said boobs) tweeted a picture of the snail she found outside her front door. The amount of favourites and retweets suggested people genuinely found Muscly MarshÔÇÖs slimey surprise interesting. I donÔÇÖt know, perhaps it made a refreshing difference from other slimey visitors loitering outside her house that she might have tweeted about in the past (this was the woman who took part in a reality TV program to find a husband, after all).
So back to the initial issue of this column: I probably should start over sharing ÔÇô if this is what everyone seems to want at the moment. Unfortunately I donÔÇÖt know a great deal about tantric sex (maybe IÔÇÖll go and read the confessional book by next week). In the meantime though, I have had a lot of snails turn up at my front door recently. So hopefully that will get me by for the time being.
Charlotte Wace/Wace Ventura/Wace of Spades/our new columnist.
Twitter: Char_Wace
Add Comment