...but not in a way that would constitute assault.
I write a blog. I’m not entirely sure why. In fact, I find it a challenge to accurately articulate what even constitutes a blog. What I know for sure is that many blogs consist of a factually based, life enriching collection of narratives designed to inform, educate or prompt independent thought. Contrarily, mine has a few random scribblings on the subject of...well, me. Yes, me. Me, me, me, me, me. It’s niche, it’s self-indulgent…it’s an unashamed narcissists playground. And it is the dedication to such a hugely diverse and wildly fascinating topic (me), that keeps my huge reader base of approximately twelve coming back time and time again.
There are those that might mock my meagre visitor numbers but to the ‘haters’ I say, ‘hold on there, Kemosabe’. Ok, I concede that my readership may be infinitesimally small, but they are an elite, refined audience (that’s you) who understand the depth and nuanced content that I am producing here. This blog isn’t some vacuous advert for how you can live your lives, it is much less fulfilling than that. I am providing you with an insight into something unique, something extraordinary, something that can literally pick your pocket of valuable time while being of no real use to you whatsoever. So, to you the reader, brother or sister (metaphorically speaking), you are my people.
Furthermore, my blog is blissfully agenda-free. I haven’t written Macrame Monthly or Quintessential Quails Quarterly or Wristwatch Weekly just to get likes. Of course, if I knew anything useful, I would write something that might provide some meaningful, helpful content, which may in turn furnish me with a substantial base of dedicated followers. But no, I know what you really want is for me to amble along in my own inimitable way writing this inane, rambling blether so all twelve of you can read it and feel, just that little bit disappointed. Yes, disappointed. Take a moment to reflect on those pictures you see of rich people on social media taking delivery of their new Ferrari Stradale, or perusing the designer shops of Milan, or sunning themselves in five-star Maldivian luxury. I don’t mean disappointed that you’re looking enviously at their pictures and not living their lives, I mean disappointed in the way that you inevitably feel you have wasted ten minutes reading the fragmented verbal scree that cascades from the astonishingly scrambled, steep cliff faces of my subconscious.
Sure there are a billion other better things you could be doing; paragliding, practicing an instrument, learning a foreign language, playing tennis, arguing passionately with your partner, partaking in a seance, swinging, but we all know you aren’t going to do any of those things; you’re lazy. That’s why your here. Either that or I’ve strong-armed you into coming. Probably the latter. Thanks for coming. Be aware that there is probably better shit on the other pages of this site, or indeed on other sites. Definitely on other sites.
But you know what? As you’re sitting there having exhausted all other avenues of entertainment; the seemingly endless pictures of god knows what on Instagram, the constant verbal assault that is twitter, the righteous confusion of Facebook, the plethora of news sites, fakes news sites, online games and satirical websites, there is always a tiny oasis of delight to which you may return and expunge your innermost anxieties. And that place is here. My small bible of personal opinions and hazily remembered memories with its unfeasibly nanoscopic readership.
And you know who else only managed to muster twelve loyal followers? The original king of social media himself...Jesus Christ. Yes, the son of God was better at this than me, I mean, he managed to get approximately five thousand people to follow him up a mountain (I’d never manage that, I’m pretty much agoraphobic for a start), but in terms of a core following it was always the key twelve. And he made the dangerously vain decision to refer to them as ‘disciples’. Pretentious. And in my view a huge mistake. No wonder he got himself into trouble.
‘Ah but he could perform miracles!’ I hear you cry. That is indeed true, but so can I. As an example, I challenge you not to admit that it’s a miracle you’re still reading this. Just mull that over for a moment. True, I can’t purport to turn water into wine (a dream social media lifestyle unique selling point) or successfully convert a couple of loaves and a few fish into a Knebworth-worthy fast food outlet, but you know what? I’m fucking great at turning wine into water and frankly, and when it comes to bread and fish, I’m a Welsh Rarebit and smoked salmon with a glass of Bollinger kind of man. Quality over quantity. In that sense, I aim for the gastronomic heights of Heston Blumenthal whereas Jesus is operating more like Heston Services. So to my readers (not disciples, I’m not affected) I would like to thank you for blessing me with your valuable time and I would beseech you not to chastise me for my blatantly blasphemous approach to social media. God bless you all. Amen.
