As most of you know, I was blessed (or some might say, cursed) with a very sharp tongue which was seemingly tailor made to wound.
Not a very pleasant skill I know, but if it’s any consolation, as fellow vociferous looney tunes will know, we easily beat ourselves up as much, if not more, than we do our unfortunate adversaries.
But maybe, just maybe, we shouldn’t be beating people up in the first place. Even if they do deserve it.
Until lately, I’ve never been much of a Tweeter. I’m anonymous on there too so can’t connect with real life friends, the people I really want to follow don’t say much of anything (probably because they have a life), so a lot of the time I find it quite boring.
Who cares if Jonathan Ross just had a bit of toast and marmalade for breakfast?
Not I, and I’ll read any old shit to pass time, so it bemuses me why normal busy people spend hour after hour on there.
Then one day all became clear when an annoying celebrity I ripped into acknowledged me.
I was strangely pleased and flattered, which is odd given that I can’t stand the man. Then the penny dropped. In a world where you, everything you say or do tends to go unacknowledged and unappreciated (especially when you have mental health issues and/or lack in confidence), Twitter is the one place where you can make the famous/arrogant/entitled hear you whether they like it or not.
So, whilst I don’t do it all the time, every now and then, when someone pisses me off, something is unfair/unjust, someone is being a dick, I go on there and have my say. For the most part, I do it with humour and a level of affection, but of late, my tweets have been more angry and accusary.
Appropriate and justified you might say, when it comes to someone like Oscar Pistorius literally getting away with moider, Shrien Dewani attempting to follow suite, Donald Trump riding roughshod over anyone and everyone, and the heinous Katie Hopkins being, well, herself. But one day, I got all het up about a baking competition because some old dear took someone else’s ice cream out of the freezer, let it melt and didn’t say sorry! What the absolute fuck is that all about?
Then, when it came to what happened on ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ last week, I started to turn, well, a bit trolly. I know, I know, it sound so frigging stoopid, but this female dancer on it really gets my goat.
Let me also just say that joking apart, I am NOT a keyboard warrior. Anyone that knows me would say that I would happily say what I write about anyone to their face. And the police would probably be called. But I digress….
So this dancer, Aliona won the competition three years ago, mainly down the the fact that she was paired up with someone young, hot and a professional performer. That’s not to say they didn’t deserve the crown, but all of the professional dancers are amazing so she lucked out getting Harry that year.
The following year she got paired up with an adorable old TV presenter, Johnny Ball, someone of whom I loved to watch when I was little. Aliona was visibly unimpressed but hey, you win some, you lose some, right? However by the next show she was absent with an ‘injury’, leaving another dancer to tread the light fantastic with the old boy, who, no doubt hobbled by the disruption, performed poorly and was voted out first week.
Then in 2013 the BBC, clearly also suspecting foul play announced that she was leaving the show along with some other dancers. But, instead of exiting quietly, dignity intact, she went apeshit, telling the press that she was being pushed out and did not know why. All this squawking seemed to work as, later that year she was back on the show and was paired up with legendary golfer Tony Jacklin.
Had she learned her lesson? Had she fuck. Instead of looking after this national treasure, she concocted a ridiculous routine that showed off all his flaws, and that, along with the most ridiculous unflattering outfit I’ve ever seen, earned him the order of the boot in the first week. You could see the triumph in her eyes, and she barely bothered to feign disappointment as she trotted upstairs to rejoin the professional dancers.
This year, unbelievably, she returned again and was duly paired up with Masterchef presenter Gregg Wallace, who, it has to be said, was a veritable Chippendale compared with the other two, but was Modom content?
Hardly. Whilst her face managed to hold it’s rictus grin, her eyes indicated that she’d rather take to the floor with an incontinent tramp. In a way I got that ‘cos I don’t like him much either, but tough titty sweetie, it’s your JOB to teach him!
You know you really hate someone when you hate them more than someone you really hate. And I just hate that.
So much wasted energy…
So, seeing a pattern forming, I take to Twitsville and predict Mystic Meg style that poor old Gregg will be first off in week one.
And I was right. The curse of Aliona struck again. Not only that but it turns out that she was so cold and hostile to the poor sap that he was in tears and having panic attacks before his performance. But she’s not all bad. She did wait a whole 24 hours before retweeting hundreds of messages saying she shouldn’t have to dance with ‘old puddings’ anymore and begging for the BBC to give her someone hot and young to partner with next time.
Incensed by the unfairness of all this, I went after her on Twitter, telling the world about her evil strategy, how arrogant she was, and that she should be more kind and tolerant or leave, and when I was retweeted and supported, my stony little heart swelled with appreciation and self righteousness. Until I noticed some rather horrible, mocking carping little tweets nestling amongst my nice ones in my outbox….
Kind? Tolerant? Just like moi eh?
Then I realised that I was using my boredom, hopelessness, anger and fear to vent at someone I didn’t know, to make me feel better, and whilst I wasn’t being horrendously cruel or threatening to shank her or anything, I was starting to morph into an ugly, bitter, ranting little troll, that crouched, snarling, snuffling and gibbering over her keyboard, just waiting for someone to trip trap over her hypocritical sensibilities so that she can ‘justifiably’ pounce and rip into them, laughing gleefully as they squirm and bleat with pain.
Who is this girl to me and what right do I have to demand that she loses her job? What does she resonate in me that pushes my buttons? Her youth and beauty? Her arrogance? Her ageism? The fact that she gets away with moider?
Whatever it is, my fury is not about her, it’s about me and I have to stop launching myself at people and use that energy to sort my life out instead.
So I’ll stop.
Not totally though ;-)
Anyone with a piss taking gene as strong as mine would have to be made of stone not to join in the #askrobin campaign, someone has to support the underdogs of this world, and I can’t tell a lie, the Donald Trump/Fred & Rose West debacle and the resulting barrage of hilarious retweet requests made me snort tea all over my keyboard.
But when I get really ‘attack dog’ it’s time for me to turn this damn computer off, sit in a quiet place and find another way to vent my pain, before it envelops and poisons the world at large.
God, this self examination shit is hard.
Aliona, you’re a spoilt, disrespectful little cow, but you mean nothing to me or my world, therefore I will leave you alone from now on.
But if you pull the same stunt next year, you are toast bitch, you hear?