Disappearing Act

I wasn't sure how I would tackle this topic. I was favouring a piece about the mysterious disappearance of Agatha Christie in December 1926. But then last week I got locked out of Facebook for days, and I knew I had my angle.

I've no idea why I was locked out. One day Facebook was working fine, the next when I put in my id and password (I was using my laptop by the way) I got a screen I'd never seen before, telling me that an access code was being sent to my WhatsApp account. I checked regularly for half an hour but nothing arrived. I tried logging into Facebook on my iPhone only to meet the same screen, promising a code to my WhatsApp account but again nothing arrived. I logged off from all applications, switched off laptop and phone, rebooted my router and tried once more a few hours later. Same issue, still no access.

I'm a patient sort of guy and I knew from my daily BBC newsfeed that Facebook was experiencing some problems with all the applications on its Meta platform, so I decided to leave it until the next day to try again. I met exactly the same result, or more accurately, lack of result. This time when the promised code didn't arrive to my WhatsApp account I logged off and on again and took Facebook's 'Try Another Way' option. The alternative they promised me was to send an SMS code to my iPhone... and guess what? Nothing arrived. 

Naively I thought I might have been locked out of my account for 24 or 48 hours. I've heard of this happening, but I believed people usually got some notification as to the reason for it happening. All I had was a faceless nothing.

However, when Facebook failed to rise again on the third day, I must admit I began to feel like a character in some absurd existential Kafkaesque nightmare who doesn't know what he's done wrong, doesn't have any way of contacting the authority responsible for excommunicating him, and has no idea if this state of affairs is temporary or permanent. I was trying, and failing, to deal with Facelessbook!

from Franz Kafka's sketchbook (1901-1907) courtesy National Library of Israel, Jerusalem

I know the use of the platform is not as common or fashionable as it once was, but I do use it regularly to communicate with my 1,400 Facebook friends on a personal level as well as acting as supporters' liaison officer for Blackpool FC and as admin for a few Facebook groups, including Lancashire Dead Good Poets' Society, Fans United and Love My Greece. 

In fact I've been using it more, if anything, since I withdrew from Twitter/X (now Musk has made that such a toxic platform), so being 'disappeared' from social media was quite a serious issue. 

In a further bizarre twist, after I couldn't access my account for a few days I began getting emails from Facebook telling me that X people had liked certain posts, Y people had commented on others and that I had various messages waiting from Z friends - as though Facebook thought that I was neglecting it, and was sending me gentle reminders not to forsake it - while still promising, every time I tried to log in, to send me an access code which simply never arrived!

On the evening of the third day, I decided to go the route of re-validating who I was. This involved logging onto a separate Meta application and uploading as proof of identity a scan of either my passport or my driving licence. I opted for the latter. It came back and told me that my ID could not be verified.

Of course I thought this was completely bonkers and began to contemplate the possibility of having to set up a brand new Facebook account from scratch for personal use - but then I didn't know where that would leave the groups and pages for which the 'disappeared'  Steve Rowland is supposedly responsible, and I even foresaw the possibility of being told I couldn't set up a new Steve Rowland account because one already existed.

I decided to give it one more day - and lo and behold on the fourth day when I tried to log onto Facebook I received the following screen:

All I had to do was click on 'Yes, This Was Me'  who had sent them ID, you remember, the one that they said could not be verified), and I was back into all my accounts like nothing had happened, with no further explanation. 

Had some fiendish interloper really tried to log into my account? What made them think it wasn't me? Had they really locked my account? If so, why did they say (on several occasions) they were sending me access codes which never arrived, and why did they keep on emailing me about comments and messages they thought I would like to see? Finally, why did they tell me they could not verify the ID I sent them only to ask a day later if it was genuinely from me? None of it makes any sense, nor does it fill me with confidence that their security software actually hangs together. But what can you do (apart from write a blog about it)?

 

Those of you who know anything about Franz Kafka (1883-1924) and have maybe read any of his small but influential body of work (he destroyed 90% of what he wrote), will have understood why I used the term Kafkaesque in relation to my recent Facebook experience. His novels and short stories are pervaded by a sense of alienation and the absurd, of typically isolated, bemused and often terrified protagonists facing bizarre predicaments, often at the hands of some remote and incomprehensible socio-bureaucratic power.

Of course I personally wasn't terrified by this recent disappearing act, because it posed no real existential threat, but it was mighty annoying. At least it gave me the idea for this poem as I wondered how Kafka might have handled the situation. Maybe the title is the best thing about it. Think of it as a first sketch that I might work up into something more substantial in due course, given time.  

Franz Kafka's Facebook Meltdown

This is not felicitous.

I only do Facebook 

to prove to myself

that I still exist but you have

plucked my wings

and my words go nowhere.

What was my misdemeanour,

the ugly truth of which I alone

am unaware? I sense cold flames

beneath the floorboards and

my empty hours feed paranoia.

Is this cyber Metastasis

or a singular targeted and

punitive privation? If so.

to whom may I make my appeal?

Is anyone investigating my case?

Vengeance is mine, says the void.

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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I Did It My Way

Just recently I received a text from my oldest friend. We met at the age of eleven, sixty years ago. There’s nothing unusual about receiving a text from this friend. What was strange was that it was all about magazines, and it was right at the time that I was planning to write this blog. She listed every magazine she had ever read. It seemed a lot to me, but she was a copywriter, working in advertising for many years, and I think magazines went with the job. She asked me what magazines I’d read, and I realised, as I started to recall them that I also had quite an extensive list.

It all started with comics. My brothers read Beano and Beezer, and of course I read them after the boys, sneaking them into my bedroom when they weren’t looking. My own weekly comic was Bunty which featured, amongst other things, the Four Marys, schoolgirls who got into a new scrape each week, but miraculously managed to solve all problems and come out on top. 

Even at the age of eight I was slightly sceptical of the Marys’ abilities. My favourite page was always the back cover filled with cut out dolls and wardrobes of fancy clothes with little tabs to put them on the dolls. Many happy hours were spent with a Bunty and a pair of scissors, dressing the dolls. My twenty first century, eight year old granddaughter with her own make up bag, lipstick and hair products couldn’t be a bigger contrast to my twentieth century self.

When I was about eleven a new girls’ magazine appeared on the shelves. It was called Jackie, a popular name at the time. I remember there were three in my new high school class. I’m guessing it was named Jackie rather than Jacqueline in order to be more appealing to the young teenage market. It was exciting to wake up on a Wednesday morning and find my own Jackie Magazine on the doormat. I knew the boys wouldn’t be interested as it was mainly about fashion, make up and young love. looking back it was all very tame, but it meant a cosy half hour after school, reading from cover to cover.

Recently, I discovered a Facebook group devoted to Jackie magazine. It all started so well. I was amazed at the friendly tone within the group. Each post elicited hundreds of replies. They were always positive and supportive, praising the original poster on her views. I became quite addicted to this group and began adding my own posts and pictures. There was a craze for wedding photos from the ‘70s and ‘80s, presumably because this was the time that most of Jackie’s readers would have been getting together with their future partners. There were lots of discussion about the dresses and hairstyles, but all in good spirit. We Jackie fans had something in common. Our young teenage years been simple with no phones, laptops or computers to distract us. I suppose we were fairly immature and innocent. It was interesting to read about the weddings and to see that the majority of them had survived over forty years. I’m sure it was a higher successful percentage than the general public, those poor souls who had never read Jackie in their formative years, but what do I know?

Despite the original camaraderie one day the Jackie Facebook group exploded and disappeared. Only to rise again a few days later with new admin, new rules and a rather falsely jolly ethos. As far as I could make out this had all been caused by one unmarried or divorced (or perhaps unhappily married) group member who was sick of seeing all the ‘then and now,’ wedding pictures. Fair enough.

When I started reading Jackie I had only just learned the facts of life, which intrigued and appalled me in equal measure. The learning of these facts had come, not from a magazine, but from a rather different type of booklet. I remember the incident vividly. I was off school, in bed, poorly, and my mum was on the landing, ironing to keep me company. The conversation turned to a friend of my dad’s who was in an iron lung, due to polio. He had been in hospital for about 20 years but had recently married his physio and moved into a house with a mobile contraption which kept him breathing. Only his head - and two waxy looking arms and hands - were outside the machine He could move nothing but his facial features. Innocently I asked my mum if she thought he and his wife would like to have children. This was obviously the moment my mum had been waiting for. She dashed into her bedroom, and I heard the bedside cabinet being opened. She returned with a booklet, the cover a black and white picture of some smiling women in vest and pants, reaching up into the air. The title was ‘The Way to Healthy Womanhood’. My mum handed me the booklet, suggested I read it, and went downstairs for a cup of tea.

I flicked through the first few pages. There were several diagrams with labels, and a couple more pictures of (presumably) healthy women. It took me a while to get to the main event. I read it two or three times, with growing realisation of what it was all about. This ‘having it up,’ which was thrown about at school by some of the bolder, more streetwise children, was actually a euphemism for making babies. Wow, that meant my mum and dad had done it three times. Crikey.

My mum was great at answering questions so by the time I returned to school I thought I was quite the expert on sex (or Making Love, as ‘The way to Healthy Womanhood’ liked to call it). So when Jackie introduced a problem page I felt perfectly qualified to read and comment on these dilemmas, most of which were very mild and innocent by today’s standards. There were lots of questions on ‘heavy petting,’ (which always made me think of patting a dog); dating etiquette; whether to kiss on a first date; and not much more. Even then I remember wondering if they really merited publication.

Petticoat was my next magazine of choice. It was geared much more to older teens, and the problem pages had moved on. Heavy petting had apparently become much more common, which was news to fifteen year old me. Nevertheless, I devoured the problems, along with the fashions and make up, week after week, until I left home and went to college. I’d forgotten all about the magazine until I went up into our attic one day about twenty years ago and tripped over a large cardboard box. After the obligatory swearing, I opened the lid to see what I could blame. Inside was a huge pile of Petticoat magazines, which I vaguely remembered carting from house to house with each move, much to my husband’s annoyance. As I flicked through them I was transported back to the mid sixties and joss sticks, flowers in my hair, patchouli oil, tiny home made dresses and gladiator sandals. Life was so full of both angst and promise. By the time I discovered that box I’d got three adult children and had obviously found my own way to womanhood, healthy or not.

Postscript: I sold the Petticoat magazines on eBay for £1500 to a man in Japan, and my husband was not quite so annoyed. But that’s a story for another day.

The Way to Healthy Womanhood

The way to healthy womanhood
Or so they said in '63:
Be feminine
Be careful
Be virginal
Be sporty
But not too sporty
Beware of horse riding
And bikes
Save yourself
No risks
No leading boys on
No giving it away
No petting
No snogging
No tongues
No flirting
No undressing
No fumbling
NO SEX
And, under no circumstances……
No fun
No enjoyment
No wonder 60 years later
I never even took that first step
On The Way to Healthy Womanhood

Thanks for reading.

Jill Reidy

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The Eighth Deadly Sin - Social Media

The World Wide Web. Love it or hate it, use it or ignore it. We are surrounded by an invisible network capable of linking people with others all over the world within a second, or less. Send an email and it arrives at its destination, regardless of distance, at the same time that the final full-stop is typed and we hit ‘send’. No more neat hand-writing on thin, air mail stationery then having the letter weighed at the Post Office. The what office?  It’s getting like that but there are still a few around, for now. Use your webcam to ‘skype’ your cousin somewhere in Australia and have a conversation like you’re both in the same room, well, with the wonder of the internet, technically speaking, you are. When I was a child, I was fascinated by the wristwatches on the Thunderbirds characters. Press a button and there’s Virgil on the tiny screen chatting to  Scott, or Alan. I was seriously impressed.  Better than a Man from U.N.C.L.E. invisible ink fountain pen. The concept of those wristwatches exists now. It’s not Virgil though, it’s your own family and friends called ‘contacts’.  The eighth deadly sin, for me, Social Media, takes on many forms.

Check search engines like Google or Yahoo and everything you ever wanted to know, and even more that you didn’t want to know, is there. All the things once remembered, now forgotten can be found again. When I was at school, we had things to learn and remember in all our lessons; maths formulae, history dates, poetry to recite off by heart and more. By the time my eldest was working towards his GCSEs, he was very sure that none of us needed to remember anything because all the information was just a click away. I’d dispute his theory, along the lines of ‘what keeps your brain alive if you don’t feed it with knowledge?’ His peers were all the same and I used to despair for ‘the lost generation’, or maybe they are right.

My personal use of Facebook has increased over the years. It is a wonderful tool for collecting people together for events, keeping in touch with friends and sharing a bit of interesting knowledge I’ve stumbled across on Google. But it has its down side. There’s something I don’t want to see. Something I’d rather not know. Something I can’t unread.  And, that cryptic comment from a friend of a friend which disturbs and worries me and I can’t respond because I don’t want to show I’m bothered. Click bait. Yet I can’t leave Facebook completely alone. It is a minimised window on my lap top, so I can pop in and out while I’m busy with something else. It is the first thing I look at when I check my phone on my break at work. It’s sad. It’s a sin. Thank goodness I don’t ‘Tweet’.

Soon I’ll be enjoying a break in Dumfries & Galloway at the hidden away lodges where we often stay. No WiFi at all and no phone signal apart from a small area at the end of a long lane and I won’t be wandering along there on a cold, dark night. I will have peace and oblivion and the patience to wait until I can access the latest photos of my grandchildren, so cute with a Snapchat filter.

Social Media is here to stay. It’s a massive part of the electronic, technology-based lives we have, so I’ll continue to embrace it for what it is and carry on with the same level of discipline I have towards the other seven deadly sins.

My chosen poem is one of mine, a modern nursery rhyme.

Tom the Fool

Dashed home from school

To meet his mates on Facebook.

Oh what a frown

‘Cos the ‘net was down,

He didn’t dare to reboot. 

He hissed and swore

Like never before

And threatened to murder broadband,

Then found the hitch

Was a turned off switch
He should have checked beforehand.

 

PMW 2010

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x 

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Generation Gap? More like techno-overload.

I have never really acknowledged a generation gap.  My parents were pretty open-minded.  They had to be.  There were four of us born between 1947 and 1958. My Mum and Dad were big jazz and swing fans. They met in Blackpool in 1945 at the end of the war, so they had a lot to dance about. My paternal Grandfather, Fred Robinson, played tenor saxophone in Jack Hilton's band and transposed the music for Dolly Hilton who sang with them. My maternal grandmother taught classical piano and dance.  She lived with us until I was eleven.

My bothers and sister felt the generation gap more acutely than me.  Lesley was a big Beatles fan and in 1962, the Fab Four came into my Dad's pub. They wanted some food and  Dad refused to serve them.  He said that the kitchen was closed.  Lesley was devastated. He told her that he had no intention of serving those, 'long-haired louts.'  That was one bad move, Dad.  Think what the signed photo's would have been worth.

My two brothers loved Cream, Hendrix, Who, Dylan, Free, Pink Floyd, Tangerine Dream. The flat above the pub was often more raucous than the bar downstairs. Every so often Dad would come up and switch off the record player and make remarks about head-bangers but really he took it all in his stride. God knows what my Grandmother thought.

My own music choices were more to Dad's taste.  I was the little one.  I loved to sing his kind of music. When I was three, we all went to see Can Can (a musical with Frank Sinatra, Shirley McLane, Louis Jordan and Maurice Chevalier).  Dad already had the LP and as soon as it started, I stood on my seat and sang every song, word perfect.  I started ballroom dancing in 1966 and have loved big band, swing and Latin American rhythms ever since.  For me, Carlos Santana is the greatest musician in the world. 

My son is 27 now and often plays tunes from a Sting album that I like.  A neighbour tells me that he also does a mean Sinatra at the local pub karaoke nights. My 24 year old daughter and I share a love of The Script and Brian Adams.  It is just fun music and we blast it out in the car just as much now, as we did on the way back from gymnastics when she was ten. We all share a respect for the myriad personas and musical styles of David Bowie.  So although I can't confess to a musical generation gap within my own family, there are other gaping issues.  I do worry for the rest of humanity.

Ch-ch-ch-changes.

In my childhood summer days,
there were picnics by the sea.
I thought they called them sandwiches
because they had sand inside.
It got in your mouth and was grit when you chewed.
We got goose-bumps splashing around,
then a rub with a rough old towel.
No fabric softener – just love by the bucketful.

Up on Winter mornings,
banging feet on the lino floor,
watching the kindling sparks in the grate,
socks on the guard but you couldn’t be late,
so you ladled in thick sticky porridge,
burning your mouth in your haste.
Nights were warm and cuddly,
hot-water bottles and bedtime stories
tucked under eiderdown.

Now it is faster.
Rewind, replay, regurgitate.
Plug in, switch on, don’t hesitate.
Instant access, instant messaging,
no time to ruminate.
Ting dinner, ten minutes from frozen,
clothes washed and dried in ten minutes.
HG Wells would think it impressive.
Fibre optics speed communication,
before you have time to think what you say
it’s broadcast to the global Nation.

Some change must be for the better.

Yet I hold onto the pen for sincerity,

to the thrill of receiving a letter.

Not an email that’s not interpersonal
or a text often clipped and severe.

Automatons at the checkout,

designed to speed up the queue,

don’t even try to brighten the day.

They don’t ask the elderly 

“ …and how are you?”

 

Please don’t even mention the satnav,

I don’t need a nag on my dash.

A map gets me wherever I need to go,

Techno-free reading taught me what I know.

I appreciate lifestyles are different

Home workers are virtually free,

to stay all day in pyjamas.

I should say at this point that I know a guy

who has virtually worked since 1993.

 

We’ve been to the moon and back,

photographed Mars. We've spoken to stars,

Still no-one has been in touch,

So why not stop pushing these buttons

and try saying ‘let’s do lunch'.

Let’s go to the Lakes and go boating.

Let’s crumble the credit crunch.

Let’s cancel the Facebook and twitter,

Switch off the mobile phone.

Hold hands with the people who love you,

Take pleasure in knowing we are not alone.

 

Technology has succeeded

where extreme ideology fails

We’ve a worldwide community network

yet everything rotten, that should be forgotten

invades every home. 

It infects. It exhales. 

An innocent non-believer is demonised by using new-media.

A mid-eastern woman is still stoned to death

for an act of adultery,

while we in the West, free to do what we like,

can watch it unfold on real time TV.

All too much or is it just me?

 

Thanks for reading.  Adele

 

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The 10 Commandments of FaceBook

 by Ashley Lister

1 You shall have no other social media networking sites before Facebook.

2 You shall not do the Twitter shit (unless you feed Twitter links through to your status updates).

3 You shall not take the name of Dr Zoidberg in vain. [NB- this might not be the bloke's name. check it before going to print] 

4 Remember to check your messages every day.

5 Honour your father and your mother and don’t post photos that are likely to cause them embarrassment, just like you would not want them to post photos that would cause you embarrassment.

6 You shall only defriend people when they really piss you off. Or post status updates that contain grammatical errors.

7 You shall not post raunchy comments on photos of people of the opposite sex unless you’ve ticked the ‘it’s complicated box’ under relationship settings.

8 You shall not steal cool statuses and try to pass them off as your own.

9 You shall not photo tag friends in porn images.

10 You shall never click on the ads because they’re a pain in the backside.

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Social Notworking

 by Ashley Lister 

Come friendly bombs: fall on FaceBook

End its endless gobbledegook

And give us back the life it took

That we once had.

Come terrorists: come blow up Twitter

The loss will not leave one soul bitter

We’ll place the blame on some gas fitter

It won’t be sad.

Break Linkedin, Goodreads and the rest

Kill SlideShare, MySpace and Pint’rest

There will not be one tear expressed

We’ll all be glad.

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Hamlet (as told in FaceBook status updates)

 by Ashley Lister

 This has nothing to do with this week's theme but I can't add anything to the genius posts that have already been put on here this week on the theme of sequential art. 

The piece below was performed last night (Friday September 14) by a stellar cast at the No. 5 Cafe in Blackpool. The performance was made outstanding by superb acting from  Michelle (Hamlet), Standard (Horatio) Colin, (Polonius and Claudius), Louise (Ophelia and Gertrude) and Shaun (Bernardo, Laertes and Fortinbras).

As the title to this says: it's Hamlet told in FaceBook status updates.

Act I Scene I

Bernardo – location tagged ELSINORE

OMG. Look at that ghost.

Horatio.

STFU. FAKE. Photos or it didn’t happen. There’s no ghost. LOL.

Bernardo

There it is.

Horatio.

OMG. It looks like Hamlet’s dead dad. We should totally tell Hamlet. LOL

Hamlet was tagged in this post.

Bernardo.

Totally. Oh. It’s gone.

Act I Scene II

Hamlet (via Twitter)

King Claudius’s speeches are so f***ing dull. Boring mofo.

Hamlet (via Twitter)

mofo. LOL

HORATIO LIKES THIS

Hamlet (via Twitter)

My mum is such a S.L.U.T.

Hamlet (via Twitter)

She’s had more men under her than Fortinbras.

HORATIO LIKES THIS.

Hamlet (via Twitter)

Laertes is leaving Denmark. Awesomesauce. Maybe I’ll get a chance to pork his sister.

OPHELIA LIKES THIS.

Act I Scene III

Laertes posted on Ophelia’s timeline:

Watch out for that nonce Hamlet. He’s trying to pork you.

Ophelia has commented:

Coolio

Laertes:

It’s not coolio you dirty bitch.

Polonius:

No. It’s not coolio, you dirty bitch. Neither a borrower nor a slapper be.

Ophelia:

Father? What are you doing on my FaceBook? I thought I’d blocked you. And you’re an old person. You should be on MySpace. I swear your nosiness is going to drive me insane.

Act I Scene IV

HORATIO – POSTED FROM SOMEWHERE IN ELSINORE

OMG. Hamlet’s gone totally Ghostbusters chasing around the castle after Casper-the-ghost-dad. Ah, Hamlet. DTF.

Act I, Scene V

Hamlet (via Twitter)

OMG. Spooky ghost stuff. It was like an episode of Scooby Doo starring my dead dad. Or like an episode of Most Haunted with real ghosts.

HORATIO LIKES THIS.

Hamlet (via Twitter)

Ghost dad sez Creepy Uncle Claudius killed him.

HORATIO LIKES THIS.

Hamlet commented on his own status:

Dude, you’re not supposed to like a status about my dad being killed.

Hamlet (via Twitter)

Ghost dad wants me to avenge him.

HORATIO LIKES THIS.

Hamlet (via Twitter)

Killing seems a bit extreme. But Ghost Dad sez I shouldn’t bother the authorities with this. Ghost Dad sez the Gods want me to do this. Sounds legit.

Act II, Scene I

Ophelia changed her relationship status to single.

Hamlet posted to Ophelia’s timeline

WTF? Are you dumping me, bitch?

Ophelia

You’re acting like a dick, Hamlet. Of course I’m dumping you.

Hamlet (via Twitter)

You’re the one with the ‘daddy’s girl’ issues.

Ophelia

Harsh words from ‘mummy’s boy’.

Hamlet (via Twitter)

Why don’t you go and jump in a lake?

HORATIO LIKES THIS

Act II Scene II

Rosencrantz has sent a friend request to Hamlet. This friendship was suggested by Claudius.

Guildenstern has sent a friend request to Hamlet. This friendship was suggested by Claudius.

Polonius has asked Hamlet a question through Goodreads

Polonius asks: “What are you reading?”

Hamlet replies: “Words, words and words. And MYOB. Sod off back to MySpace.

Polonius has invited Hamlet to Elsinore Netflix

Polonius asks: “Do you want to see some players act a play?”

Hamlet replies: “The play’s the thing. Wherein we’ll catch the conscience of my creepy uncle.”

Act III Scene I

Hamlet (via Twitter)

To be connected to Samaritans online, or not to be connected to them. A pox on talktalk Broadband. A pox on this muggle-fudging BlackBerry.

Ophelia commented on Hamlet’s status.

FFS. All these actors in Elsinore, and you’re still the biggest drama queen in Denmark.

GERTRUDE LIKES THIS

Hamlet

Bitches. I’ve had it with women. You can all go and do one. I’m going to start going with men now. See how you like it if I do go gay.

HORATIO LIKES THIS

Act III Scene II

Claudius: (via iPhone)

What a crap play. I’ve seen better acting in Hollyoaks.

Hamlet

Did it make you feel guilty?

Claudius (via iPhone)

I felt bad that I’d wasted time and money on that when I could have been watching paint dry.

I’d have been better off spending time alongside an old man like Polonius, watching his daughter and my step-son trying to have sex. But not in a sinister way.

OOPS. How the hell do you delete updates from an iPhone?

Perhaps I should cleanse my soul with prayer.

Act III Scene III

Hamlet (via Twitter)

Just seen Claudius praying. I should have killed him whilst I had the chance.

Hamlet (via Twitter)

I think I’ll go and see the S.L.U.T.

Act III Scene IV

Hamlet (via Twitter)

Can’t believe my mother is such a slapper. She’s had more men go through her than the castle gates.

Gertrude

I can see your status updates. I’ll cancel your mobile account if you keep saying rude things.

Hamlet (via Twitter)

Well it’s true. You shagged my dad. Then his brother. And now there’s a dead Polonius tucked behind your arras. Did you shag him to death?

Polonius has cancelled his FB account.

Gertrude

No. I didn’t shag him to death. You just stabbed him.

Hamlet

FAKE. Photos or it didn’t happen. In fact screw this. I’m going to England with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. 

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were tagged in this post.

ROSENCRANTZ AND GUILDENSTERN LIKE THIS

Act IV Scene I

Hamlet (via Ye Olde Internet Café)

No broadband coverage in England. Duh. It’s so medieval in this godforsaken country. I’m having to update using dial-up. Will tell you all about the pirate adventures and high sea japes as soon as I return.

Horatio

FAKE. Pics or it didn’t happen. PMSL. Miss you, hon.

Act IV Scene II

Ophelia

God buy you.

Laertes

That’s autocorrect. Or she’s gone mental. Or her keyboard is f****d.

Claudius. (via iPhone)

I think she might be on the blob.

Laertes

Harsh, dude. She’s my sister.

Ophelia has cancelled her FaceBook account

Claudius(via iPhone)

It’s not harsh. Do you know how costly it is to dredge the local rivers when they’re clogged with drowned mental woman?

Act IV

Hamlet set up the following event: HAMLET’S RETURN  TO ELSINORE. DATE – tomorrow

The following people have accepted.

HAMLET (host)

Claudius

Gertrude

Laertes

Horatio

Fortinbras: message from Fortinbras – might be a little late.

The following invitees have not responded:

Ophelia

Polonius

Rosencrantz

Guildenstern

Act V

Horatio

ROFLCOPTER. Spent the morning in the graveyard with Hamlet. We just dug up some skulls and talked about kissing their lips but there was nothing kinky going on.

HAMLET LIKES THIS

Act V Scene I

Horatio

OMG. WTF. It’s kicking off at this party. Laertes and Hamlet are going to duel with real swords. Hamlet FTW. I hope he doesn’t get a prick in him. Well, not from Laertes.

Laertes

I’m going to stick it to you, dude.

Hamlet was tagged in this post.

Hamlet

Just like you stuck it to your sister?

HORATIO LIKES THIS

Claudius (via iPhone)

I wish Polonius was here to tell me how much poison to use. I’ve put poison on one of the swords. Poison in a drinking glass. And I’ve poisoned three out of four plates of the hors d’ouevres. Hopefully this will be enough to kill that annoying shit Hamlet.

OOPS. Didn’t mean to post that as a FB status. How do you delete from a mobile?

Gertrude

These hors d’ouevres taste f*****g awful. I’m going to try another plate.

Laertes

Ouch! That bastard stabbed me with a poisoned sword. Claudius – where’s the antidote?

CLAUDIUS WAS TAGGED IN THIS POST.

Claudius (via iPhone)

Antidote?

LAERTES has cancelled his FB account.

Hamlet

How am I supposed to concentrate on this sword fight when my opponent is dead and my S.L.U.T. mother is rolling around on the floor pretending she’s been poisoned?

Gertrude has now cancelled her FB account.

Claudius has now cancelled his FB account.

Hamlet has now cancelled his FB account.

Horatio

WTF? It’s like the end of a slasher movie in here. There’s dead Hamlet, dead Leartes, dead Gertrude and dead Claudius. I wonder if I could give Hamlet the kiss of life? I’ll just unbutton his trousers and see if that helps.

Fortinbras.

WTF! What are you doing to that dead body, Horatio?

Horatio

I’m not doing anything. I’m just trying to resuscitate Hamlet’s corpse.

Fortinbras

OK. You carry on. Stop updating these posts to FB. And I’ll see if I can resuscitate his mother. After this, the rest should be silence.

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National Teddy Bear Day blog

by Mitzi Szereto (with some assistance from Teddy Tedaloo)

The Brits are a savvy lot. As a naturalised Brit myself (or should that be “meself”?), I knew I was batting for the right team when I applied for my citizenship. Any country that declares a national day of recognition for teddy bears is a country to which I wish to pledge my undying loyalty!

You see, I know a lot about teddy bears. I happen to have one—a larger-than-life (albeit diminutive in size) furry gent by the name of Teddy Tedaloo. We’ve been together for about fourteen years and he’s kept me going through the proverbial thick and thin. He’s quite a character. In fact, you should see him after a pint or two. We’ve been permanently banned from a pub in Maida Vale, London thanks to a brawl he got into with a monkey!

Teddy is very much loved by his adoring public. He seems to be more popular than I am—so much so that we finally had to sit down and write a book together. I mean, I couldn’t let all of that talent go to waste, could I? I’ve met a lot of bears through him too, since he’s a popular personality on Facebook and Twitter. Last year we went on holiday to Belgium. Do you think anyone I knew in my vast social media circle suggested meeting up? Heck no! But the bears are always socialising and travelling and generally just living it large. So we ended up enjoying a lovely evening out in Brugge with a bear and a lovely afternoon out in Brussels with yet another bear. I tell you, these teds are the way to go. They’ve got humans beat by a mile!

I’m so grateful to have discovered that there’s a whole other world out there besides the rather humdrum one inhabited by us Homo sapiens. Bears have been where it’s at for generations. There’s Winnie the Poo, Paddingdon Bear, Yogi and Boo Boo, and let’s not forget Mr. Bean’s little companion “Teddy”. There’s even Misery Bear and the rather rude “Ted” who stars in a film with that Mark what’s his name bloke—the one who used to grab his crotch before Michael Jackson had ever thought of doing it (Mark, not the bear).

Maybe we should thank former U.S. President Theodore “Teddy” Roosevelt for putting bears on the map. One day while he was out hunting, his party brought him a bear to shoot. He refused, considering it wrong and unsportsmanlike since the bear had no way to defend itself. The story of the bear’s pardon spread like wildfire, and thanks to a shopkeeper asking the President’s permission to call his stock of stuffed toy bears “teddy bears,” the teddy bear was born. And the rest, as they say, is history!

Mitzi Szereto’s website: http://mitziszereto.com

Normal for Norfolk (The Thelonious T. Bear Chronicles) website: http://mitziszereto.com/normalfornorfolk/

Teddy Tedaloo’s Facebook fan page: https://www.facebook.com/teddytedaloo.fanpage

Mitzi TV: http://mitziszereto.com/tv

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