|Facebook: still like a "normal" e-mail to me|
We live in such dynamic, interconnected times that we tend to assume everyone else is equally prompt at updating online profiles and posting photos of family gatherings. Some of us do not. But whereas you will find people who actively rebel against the “tyranny of social media”, I am just a procrastinator. That is just a very posh way of saying that I am a lazy sod and can’t be arsed to check my Facebook wall or my Twitter feed. The latter gets a look-in every time I publish a post. Facebook, on the other hand, only gets irregular visits. I guess Mark Zuckerberg will be knocking on my front door soon. Just to make you aware of my laziness when it comes to interactive social platforms, I do not even have the Facebook or Twitter app on my smartphone. So, no “pinging” for me.
This unusual behaviour – as measured by modern life standards – has spilled onto other territories. Take reading, for instance. I am an avid reader as you all know and yet I got a headache the other day after reading a column in Prospect by the writer Sam Leith. Sam has just been appointed as one of the judges of this year’s Man Booker Prize. He is supposed to read approximately 150 books. 150 books! Sam Leith, a man who makes a living out of writing book reviews is supposed to read around 150 books. Please, pass me the smelling salts, I’m about to pass out. As much as I love reading I could never do it as job. Not that I will ever be eligible anyway. First off, as I mentioned before I would have to confront my own laziness (other people would call it “pace”). I like reading in my own time and when I feel like it. Secondly, if I were one of the participating writers I would never trust someone like me to judge my book.
150 books approximately. I’m still thinking about it and I’ve got a couple of Paracetamols in my hand. And still my friend queries my Facebook status.
News that the Church of England is debating whether to have a baptism of service without mentioning the devil or not, put a smile on my face. I can just imagine our horned friend marching up to the nearest job centre, queueing up and meeting one of the much-feared advisors whose main role is “to get people off benefits and into work” (by whatever means possible, even if the means do not justify the end). I can just picture pumped-up, face-turning-puce Mephistopheles holding forth, chest out, shouting out the predictable question: Do you know who I am? And an unimpressed advisor answering: No, but that attitude will not get you very far, sir. Following this exchange, the usual protocol will ensue with questions about the devil’s current status (unemployed and unemployable, according to the church), previous work experience (“last job was with HSBC’s Swiss private bank but that one didn't go very well”) and ambitions (“to take over the world, both this one and the ‘other’ one”).
By the time Satan signs on, he will find out exactly how much he’s yet to learn from the Department for Work and Pensions and its inscrutable, tough-looking, soulless army of IDS clones. The Church of England needn’t debate about mentioning the devil in its liturgy. After his first visit to a job centre, it is very likely the devil himself will change his name and career.
Next Post: “Food, Music, Food, Music, Food, Music... Ad Infinitum”, to be published on Wednesday 18th February at 11:59pm (GMT)