Ten Things I Hate About Twitter
(And why I'll probably stay anyway)
Anyone who spends as much time as I do on Twitter - which is probably limited to three tech bros in a Silicon Valley bunker and all the writers with self published novels to promote - knows it’s not perfect. It’s not a warm, welcoming coffee house of intellectual thought and debate, nor is it a jolly pub full of beloved regulars like Norm in Cheers. It’s not even a good place to share holiday photos.
There was never a golden age of Twitter, either. It started off with celebrities tweeting, ‘hello, is anyone there, what do I press, ha ha’, and evolved into a cesspit of sexist, racist abuse, with a side order of terrible Dad-joke memes.
You need a ruthless finger on the block button and a fulfilling relationship with ‘mute conversation’
Or at least that’s what everyone says. “This hell-site”, is how keen Tweeters regularly describe Twitter, as though they’re doing online penal servitude and have no choice. Others say “I’m only here for breaking news,” or “it’s a good way to connect with potential clients,” as if they’ve been caught looking at porn during break and need an excuse for their behaviour.
Twitter is not for some, its true. To enjoy it, you need a ruthless finger on the block button and a fulfilling relationship with ‘mute conversation’. If you feel you must engage in debate to convince people who think Trump is a libtard pussy that they’re wrong, you will never be happy. If your purpose is to root out evil and return Twitter to the bucolic village-pump status of your imagination, you’ll be playing whack-a-mole forever, except the moles will rise up and start hitting you back harder.
In my experience, the only way to cope with Twitter is to treat it as an extended student union bar full of weird little tribes. You’ve got the rugby lads who drink each others’ piss, the angry Goths huddled in a corner with snakebite talking about mental health, the hearty student reps jollying everyone along for the ping pong tournament, the creepy middle aged tutor who thinks the freshers all fancy him so will welcome him joining their quiet conversation about polycystic ovaries, someone with a megaphone handing out leaflets about global atrocities, the writers’ group earnestly sharing their latest work, the Queer-identifying huddle planning their march up the high street and the nerds who think they can network their way into a job, even though everyone’s drunk and they just want to talk about the best band you ever saw and why peanut butter tastes weird nowadays.
It allows me to mute Stephen “oh lawks, oh glory be!” Fry
In between, somewhere, are the normal people, having a laugh, taking the piss, talking about politics without punching each other, enjoying making new friends. These people have fairly strict boundaries about who they engage with.
I love Twitter. I have made good friends over the past 12 years on “this hell-site”, and great tweets have often made me laugh as much as any human interaction. It amuses me several times a day, it irritates me, it makes me think differently, it lets me talk to people I like who should also be working, and it allows me to mute Stephen “oh lawks, oh glory be!” Fry without him ever noticing.
Now, however, evil Mr Potter has bought out Bedford Falls, and is monetising every last library book and missing cat poster. Judging by the chaos of recent weeks - Musk casually debating new policies with horror author Stephen King, sacking half the staff then reinstating them, offering verified blue ticks, but not for you, you’re extra-verified, no wait, that won’t work, banning parodies to launch his brave new world of free speech, adding an option to ‘link to your crypto-wallet’ to create an NFT avatar… this is one confused Economics nerd who’s just drunk five pints of Baileys and is about to be tied to a flagpole by the rugby lads with his trousers round his ankles.
The New Twitter is not sustainable, because it cuts out the entire point of Twitter, which is to be interesting, while welcoming back some of the most boring, unpleasant, ignorant people on the planet. I don’t want to go to Mastodon and start curating a whole bunch of followers to talk to again. I like it where I am, even if Potter is building shonky overpriced new housing around my ivy-clad cottage. I hope Musk will prove to be the Liz Truss of social media, and that someone sane will come along and restore everything to its rightful hell-scape. In the meantime, however, here’s ten ways I really would like to see Twitter improved. Is anyone there, ha ha. How does this thing work?
Too much bad news
“Oh no. Someone 6000 miles away found rat hair in his burger.” Photo by Jorge Gardner on Unsplash Algorithms don’t like good news, because it’s boring. Like excitable tabloid editors, they push dramatic content, and while ‘little boy rescues kitten’ is nice, it’s not going to get as many clicks as ‘oh my God, we are doomed, have you SEEN this news that proves it?’ But relentless bad news gets you down. I could do with seeing less of it, whether it’s global warming, Trump, Tories, cost of living, unhappy people, dead people, sad dogs… if Musk really wants to be useful, he could just add a “YES, WE KNOW” button.
Overexcited writers
“I only wrote a paragraph and I’ve got a seven figure deal!” Photo by Andreea Teban on Unsplash I appreciate this is niche, because my timeline is 90% writers and publishers (I read a lot. And I’m a writer).
But honestly, when you’re trying to get your own book written and most of the tweets scrolling past are “LOVE the flowers from my publisher, thank you so much Emily, the BEST agent in all the world!” and Emily replies “Best writer!!! Pleasure to rep your bestseller! See you at the Hay Festival!” or whatever, it’s kind of annoying. Because I’m jealous, and I really should mute The Bookseller.
Sharing things you hate
“That’s all I have to say on the matter, Sheila.” Photo by Colin Lloyd on Unsplash “Look what Trump has said, OMG!” “This incredibly right wing nobody from Buttfuck, Carolina says he thinks kindergarten kids should carry guns! WTAF???”
“Wow, Look at this sexist arsehole who had 3 followers and a flag avatar and now has an entire band of grunting incels cheering him on because I’ve retweeted my outrage!” There is no need to do this. Hateful people are all over the place. We don’t need to amplify their weedy, bitter little voices further.
Extreme mental health content.
“I may be sad but at least I’m sexy.” Photo by Dmitry Schemelev on Unsplash Of COURSE we should discuss mental health. Twitter is a fantastic platform for reaching out, getting help and support, asking for advice… but when an entire account is simply new variations on “I’m so depressed, here’s a bitter meme about why nobody understands depression, people are awful, I’m so depressed,” or when “My Anxiety” is the lead character in a person’s ongoing narrative - it’s time to get help that isn’t available in 240 characters.
Unwanted advice
“My dear, have you heard of Mastodon?” I know I’ve done this, and I’m embarrassed to admit it. You see a conversation that looks interesting, or pertains vaguely to you, it feels like you’re part of it, and in you go - “But why try that at all, why not just go straight to the boss and ask for a pay rise?” you demand, of this random stranger who has been having work problems for three years and is having a sensitive chat filled with nuance and back story. “Just eat less and exercise more,” you shout to a person you don’t know who’s been having weight struggles for decades. Don’t.
Being demanding
“Recipe?” Photo by Charles Büchler on Unsplash This is my least favourite genre of Twitter. You tweet something you think might be nice or helpful, and some man (because it’s always, always a man) barks, “Source??” or “Recipe??” underneath. Not, “This looks interesting, is there a recipe you could link to, please?” Just a military command. “Snap to it, you ‘orrible little oik! Recipe!”
No. You may not have my source. You may not have my recipe. Someone commented on the vegetarian dish I posted this week, “Seitan. Convert me.” You know what, I’m not a Jehovah’s witness. So, no.
Impenetrable work threads
“Hang on, I’m just tweeting that you said Good Evening.” Photo by Evangeline Shaw on Unsplash When someone is at a conference and tweeting for their colleagues. “1/132. Menschbro; ‘Tech evolution is vital for bitcoin success in the QPt4 sector, look within the simulated NFT field for studies that indicate increasing crypto dominance...2/132”
If I’d wanted this in my life, I’d have gone to MIT and remained a virgin.
DM sliding
Not that kind. I’m too old and married and thankfully, it has never happened to me and please God, never will. I object, however, to people I don’t know (cough men cough) taking a debate offline and into the private parlour. “I just wanted to add that you’re definitely wrong, here’s a link to a 700 page PDF to prove it, please let me know immediately when you’ve read it.” No. Get out of my house.
Violent outrage
“I cannot believe I said that.” Photo by Christopher Ott on Unsplash Obviously, I’ve done it myself. When you read a tweet that’s so obnoxious you can’t believe it was ever posted, that the person didn’t just write it and immediately think “Christ, turns out I’m evil and I need help.” Rather than let it go by, it feels essential to gather the forces of light and all the eager Hobbits of Twitter to march on this terrible scourge. But does it hep? No. Does it make everyone really angry while the evil person cheerfully has their lunch and washes the blood off their mom’s station wagon? Probably.
“Eh?”
“Eh? My hearing aid’s playing up, love.” Photo by Ivan Lapyrin on Unsplash I have tweeted something you don’t immediately understand during your half-arsed scroll, so rather than investigate the context, you simply peck out “eh?” like an angry Northern Grandad, making it somehow my responsibility to educate you on freezing bananas, or the clever paradigm I’ve just outlined comparing Elon Musk to a complex surgical process, or the songs of the Great War. It’s not my job. Educate yourself, as they love to say on Twitter. And rightly so.
LOCHED UP: My Life In Rural Scotland
What we did on our holiday
We’ve just got back from a week’s holiday in a slightly different part of Scotland, near Pitlochry. No ‘abroad’ for us, as Andy begins to wither in sunlight the further South we go, and besides, not many airlines offer speedy passage for two insane spaniels.
We have to take them because there’s nobody in their right mind who’s willing to look after them except my kind and dog-friendly son, but he doesn’t have a car so he’d be stranded 15 miles from the shops. Also, if I’m honest, I’d miss them. What’s a three-hour car journey without Larkin howling in the back, or a long, rainy walk without someone finding a bog and plunging merrily into it then galloping over the pale green sofas in the rented cottage?
The cottage was great, pleasantly decorated in the style of all holiday cottages since 1982, with floral-clothed bedside tables and vague coastal watercolours. And it’s not a holiday unless you’ve sprayed yourself with freezing water from turning the shower knob the wrong way, or spent twenty minutes looking for a grater. (It was flat and under the pans.)
The only problem was, it was billed as a ‘dog friendly’ cottage, by which they meant ‘do you have a sweet little old lady chihuahua who likes nothing better than curling neatly on a cushion and doing her rare business tidily under a blackcurrant bush?’ They do not mean ‘do you have two spaniels who greet the day like Axl Rose coming on stage at the Hollywood bowl?”
They also didn’t mention the free-range ducks, a great fluster of Muscovies who wandered about on the doorstep and through the garden like Jemima Puddleduck on market day, with their fluffy ducklings staggering after them.
Or, in dog terms, ‘everything they have been purebred for centuries to clamp their jaws on, and retrieve.’ A sensation of warm feathers in the mouth is the greatest feeling of ‘home’ to a spaniel. So why our adorable cottage was allegedly dog friendly, unless the owners had genuinely had enough of their ducks and wanted a swift end for them, we did not know.
Every day, we’d clip their leads on before travelling the two yards to the front door, and they would strain and whimper, the thought bubbles over their heads reading “BUT DUCKS!” as they went. Ellroy took to gazing wistfully from the cottage window like a Victorian orphan pressing his nose to the panes of a festive sweetshop, while Larkin ran up and down, very clearly thinking ‘ducks, ducks, ducks’ as he plunged muddily over the cushions and stood on the kitchen table with excitement.
(Please keep your dogs off the furniture” read a polite notice, but as their whole life is an ongoing game of “the floor is lava,” good luck with that.)
There were also vocal cockerels in the nearby barn, which meant both dogs were awake and vibrating with poultry-related excitement at first light every day.
Which again, would have been OK if they hadn’t been sleeping in our room because any strange place, however cosy, is the Overlook Hotel in The Shining as far as they’re concerned, and they must be claustrophobically near us to feel safe and not howl with existential panic all night.
It all went well, until day three when Ellroy slipped out of the car before the lead had been clipped on. We’d just been on a charity shop trawl of Pitlochry, which meant I had a stack of 18 books and a fluffy coat in my arms, and Andy was wrangling Larkin who is like the skittish steer the cowboy spends the entire film trying to tame.
One moment, Ellroy was peacefully on the seat, the next he was doing a victory sprint through the owners’ grounds with a mouth full of duckling.
Not realising what had happened, I let myself in, put the kettle on, and wondered vaguely why I could hear Andy roaring with panic as he belted after him.
When they both returned, the duckling had vanished. “Is it dead?” I asked, imagining the court case, the public shaming in the village streets, the price of a new duck.
“I don’t know,” he said, brokenly, feathers in his hair. “I did my best, but…” He sank into a chair, and we looked at Ellroy, who was staring out of the window again, searching urgently for his missing duck.
The following morning, the owner’s wife wandered over for a chat. “Oh yes, the ducks,” she said. “They get chased all the time, I expect we’ve lost one or two over the years, ha ha!’
“Ha ha,” we said, cheerily. “Well, we’ll try and make sure that doesn’t happen!”
We did try, obviously, We just didn’t succeed very well.
RECIPE OF THE WEEK: The fastest pizza in the West of Scotland
Serves 1
This is the fastest recipe I’ve ever suggested. I made it the other day when I came in very late from yoga (yes, I know, don’t even start). We had hardly any nice food in, but we did have some Mozzarella and a pack of passata, and I always have plain flour, in case I’m seized with the urge to bake. It takes 20 minutes, max, for a really decent pizza. It may not taste exactly like a wood-fired Tuscan offering, but trust me, when you’re starving, it will definitely do.
Ingredients
pizza base
150g sieved plain flour
1/4 tsp salt
1 tbsp olive oil
about 70ml cold water
topping
1/2 ball of Mozzarella, sliced or grated
100ml passata
1 tsp olive oil
1/2 clove garlic, finiely chopped
a few basil leaves, chopped
salt and pepper
Mushrooms, jalapenos, tuna, vegetables – whatever you like
Method
1 Put the flour and salt into a large bowl, and stir in the oil. Add the water a little at a time, stirring hard until it comes together. (If it’s too wet, add a bit more flour – it should feel firm but squashable.)
2 Roll out to about 1/2 cm thick (or less if you like a very thin pizza.) Try and keep it round enough to fit in your frying pan.
3 Heat your nonstick frying pan (or use a tiny bit of oil if it’s not non-stick) on high, then add your pizza base. Cook till it’s crisp - about 2-3 mins- on each side. Set aside.
4 Heat your oven to 200°C (200°C Fan) and put a baking tray in to heat. Add 1 tbsp olive oil to the pan, set over a low heat, and add the garlic. Cook for 1-2 mins till it softens. Add the passata, and cook for 5 minutes. Add salt and pepper, and stir in the basil. (if it’s too sharp, add 1/4 tsp of sugar.)
5 Take out the hot baking tray, place the pizza base on it, and then add the tomato sauce, the cheese and the toppings. Put it back in the oven for 5-7 minutes or until the cheese is golden and the toppings are cooked.
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I feel reassured. Perhaps all social media is going to be a hell pit anyway. I'm sticking with Twitter for now too.
Sorry, I suggested Mastodon before I read your post. (I still think the elephant would benefit from your input though)