Neknomiate- The Gift That Keeps On Vomming.

I have just watched a woman stand in a supermarket, wearing nothing but her underwear and a zany hat. No, I'm not watching every episode of Miranda ever made, but in an effort to do a little research for what I am about to write I decided to watch a few Neknominate videos. I've avoided the chicken heads and raw rabbit liver in favour of more reserved challenges; your raw eggs, your giggling timidly sipping a can of Strongbow whilst modelling La Senza's finest next to the discounted asparagus, etc.

I probably don't have to explain the concept of Neknominate, but just in case you've been hooked into a Netflix series for the last fortnight and have consequently sacrificed hygiene, personal relationships and current affairs, then Neknominate is essentially a drunk game of Chinese Whispers, with the whispers being those hot, wet, breathy whispers that only drunk people can produce. As is always the case with Chinese Whispers, the end result is very much far removed from the original message; what started as simply downing a pint of beer or seeing off a couple of shots has evolved into teenagers drinking tumblers of fluorescent car cleaner.

The reason that I don't need to properly explain Neknominate is because the media have already done it for me. A lot. I'm not saying that the press should have headed to The Winchester and waited for all of this to blow over, but why the mindless hysteria?
Tragically, five young British men have died since Neknominate hit our Newsfeeds and of course this should be reported on and offered as a sobering reminder of the dangers of excessive alcohol consumption, however I can't help but think that Neknominate has certain sections of the media rubbing its hands together with glee.

For a start, social media stories are cheap and easy. There's a reason that social media stories never really leave the pages of our paper, or are constantly wheeled out by topical 'magazine' shows whenever there's a slow news day; it's because they're quick to knock up. They very rarely require an expert's opinion, and even if they do they're denied one. No one has to be flown out to a strip of desert that was once a town, risking their life to produce a glitchy, out-of-sync news report . Journalists can sit quite comfortably, wedged onto their sofa whilst scrolling through months and months worth of tweets in order to find out everything that they need to know to write a sensationalist, misinformed social media piece.
A social media story is a quick tick on the whiteboard; “Right, that's some news done. Is it still raining? Great! More news!”

However, as much as a social media story is an easy lay for the media, there are other motivations behind the excessive, doppleganger-y reporting of Neknominate. You see, I think that the media kind of hate social networking sites. They're in constant competition for our attention, and more often than not it's social media that comes out on top. If a news story breaks, it'll often break on Twitter before newsrooms pick it up. During the 2011 London Riots it was Twitter that people turned to for information, with newspapers and news bulletins breathlessly playing catch up. Newspapers and broadcasters are aware of this; they're sitting in the corner, jealously eyeing their younger sibling as it performs for an engrossed audience.
So, naturally, the media will slag off social media at any chance it gets; it's kind of like the ex-girlfriend talking about the new girlfriend to her friends. Sometimes social media is a lawless state in which anyone can say anything to anyone, always with dire consequences, and at other times it's single-handedly turning Britain's teenagers into mute, illiterate, claw-handed “twits” (New Drinking Game: take a shot every time you read an article which smugly refers to people who tweet as twits). Social media is constantly portrayed as The Baddy, with the ever-noble, never knowingly underhand British press casting themselves as The Goodies.

I also feel like the media's decision to devote a, in my opinion, disproportionate amount of time to the reporting of Neknominate related stories is a preemptive reaction to the disapproving eyes of other European countries.
You know when you do something really embarrassing and for months afterwards, whenever The Incident comes up into conversation, you have to jump in and tell the story yourself so that it's told the way that you want it to be? I think that the press is doing exactly that; it's essentially standing up and shouting “Yes, Europe, we know that this is stupid. Look how stupid these young people are! And these! Of course, WE don't approve of this, look how much we don't approve of this!” whilst holding up pages and pages of articles.


The thing is, Neknomations have sort of stopped now, haven't they? I can't remember the last time that I ignored one on my Newsfeed. Yes, the original videos went viral, as did the more extreme challenges, but for the last week it's really been the media that has thrust a challenge into the faces, and glasses, of bored teenagers. Whether it's the tragic deaths that have been linked to the drinking game, the simple passage of time, or both, it seems that Neknominate is starting to burn itself out.
The media have already done the job that they've been lobbying social media big-wigs to do; once a 'youth craze' has featured as a discussion topic on the daily First Wives Club that is Loose Women, you know that it's dead in the murky drown, raw egg, Tabasco sauce infused water.

Reasons Why I'm A Slag...

On Monday 10^th February, I was called a slag.
It certainly wasn't the first time I've been called a slag, and it certainly won't be the last. It was pretty much a non-event; I crossed the road at a zebra crossing, assuming that the driver of an oncoming car would stop. He obviously wasn't really into the whole 'rules' thing, and ended up having to heavily apply the brakes. As I did a little half-jog half-walk to get to the pavement, he shouted “Stupid slag” from his window and drove off.
Although on the outside my expression appeared blank, on the inside I was enraged; so enraged that I had to take off my scarf and unbutton my coat as I stomped through Wordsley, before I angrily sweated myself into a dehydrated stupor.
Between fantasising about running after the car, catching up with him and 1)delivering a short but powerful speech on how damaging the term slag is to women and converting him into a FeMANist and 2)beating him to death with my purse (anyone else's purse get really heavy? Like, REALLY heavy?), I started giving some thought as to why I find the word slag so hideous.

Since November 2013 I've kept a note on my phone, recording all the times that I've been called a slag; I've been planning a post like this for quite a while. Let's take a little trip down memory lane, shall we?
- I bumped into a man.
- I didn't get onto an escalator quickly enough.
- I walked past a builder at Aston University.
- I told a guy to “Piss off” when he called me a “sexy bitch”.
- I gave a guy a dirty look when he shouted “FIT” into my face.
- A man bumped into me.
- I walked past a man at Birmingham New Street Station.
- I said “Fuck you” to a man who, whilst enjoying an e-cigarette outside of a bar, told me that he'd love to fuck me in the arse. I realise that my response was probably not the best, considering.
- I moved to a different train carriage after a group of men old enough to be my father surrounded me and tried to put their arms around me.
- I walked past a man in the street.
- I hit a man on the arm with my handbag when getting off a bus.
- I told a guy to “Piss off” when he leaned into me and made a weird humming noise.

Before I continue, I'm going to say something that shouldn't need saying, but I know that at least one person will think it; this isn't a humble brag. When men say things like this to me, I don't think it means that I'm attractive and I don't find it complimentary. All girls know the difference between the feeling that you get when you've caught someone checking you out, and the stomach-churning, skin-crawling, lump-in-throat-inducing feeling that you get when a stranger leans into you when you walk past them, or a group of men leer at you and begin to follow you.

We all know where the term 'slag' comes from. Didn't we all watch that mind numbing video about iron ore smelting in Year 9 science class, whilst stifling giggles every time the narrator said 'slag'? We were all giggling because we knew the real meaning of the word slag; at that age it was any girl that had let some inexperienced, ink-stained hands get beneath her bra, but you get the picture.

I don't want to sound like the start of a bad Powerpoint presentation, but Cambridge Dictionaries Online defines slag as “a woman who people disapprove of because she has had a lot of sexual partners.”
Ok, nothing new here; a slag is a woman who’s sexual behaviour is not approved of. I don't agree with the sentiment and I definitely don't give a toss about anyone's sexual behaviour, but that's the definition that we all know and love (or see as an example of a seemingly-inescapable, suffocating patriarchy, or whatever).
So why are women called slags when they voice an opinion that someone (The Slag Caller, as we shall affectionately title them) doesn't agree with? Or they tread on The Slag Caller's toe in a club? Or they try to get the faces of inspirational women printed onto our currency?
Personally, I think it's because to be seen as too sexually available (although, be careful that you're not too sexually UNavailable ladies, because that's bad too, apparently) is still thought to be one of the worst things a woman can be. You're waste material. Being too sexually available is associated with all sorts of things; bad parenting, lack of education, poor hygiene, even gluttony.
I might sound like I'm quoting Christina Aguilera (and Lil' Kim), but there really is no male equivalent. You can call a guy a dick, but you can call a woman a dick. Any time a man is referred to as a slag, it's always prefixed with the word man; I.e man-slag, man-slut, man-whore etc. This is because those words are all inherently female, and that's the problem.

So let me be clear, I'm not angry because the driver called me a slag without knowing whether I have in fact had a lot of sexual partners or not. Maybe I have had a lot, what's a lot? I have definitely done some things that someone, somewhere would deem “a bit slaggy”. I think it's pretty shitty to be called a slag whether you've slept with 2 or 200 people.
I'm angry because 'slag' seems to be the go-to insult when you want to make a woman feel small. There are much worse things that I could be called, things that would make me cry and question who I am as a person, but nothing makes me feel as angry, frustrated, invisible, silent and unfortunately sweaty as being called a slag.

I'm now taking my 'Time's I've Been Called A Slag' list to Twitter. Every time I'm called a slag, or a slut, or I remember an incident with a misty-eyed fondness, I'm going to post it using the hashtag #ReasonsIHaveBeenCalledASlag
Please, join me.
And then hopefully everyone will realise how fucking stupid it is.

PS
Guys, don't call girls slags.
Girls, don't call girls slags.

Ja'mie: Private School Guy-dressed-as-a-girl.

I feel like I've been a little distracted recently. Bug-eyed homophobes disguised as X Factor winners, dating apps, sex texts; they've all pulled me away from my one true love; TV.

As I have mentioned many times before, I am a hardened binge-watcher and the colossal-ly shit weather that's hit the UK over the last few weeks has provided me with the perfect opportunity to bang through some shows that are yet to make it to our shores (shores that, due to last week's downpour, can now be found in Leicester). First on my list was Chris Lilley's latest offering- Ja'mie: Private School Girl.

For those of you who aren't familiar with Chris Lilley's work, get familiar with it; if you haven't watched Summer Heights High at least then we can't be friends. Each of Lilley's series' focuses on a group of characters that are all played by Lilley himself, regardless of whether they are male, female, young, old, black, white or Asian; he does it all.Ja'mie: Private School Girl continues the story of Ja'mie King, a character first introduced to us in Summer Heights High. Shot using a single camera and interspersed with talking-head interviews, the show mimics a documentary that follows Ja'mie as she completes her final term at Hillford Academy.

Although the show seems to have been well received by Lilley's fans, Ja'mie: Private School Girl seems to have divided the opinions of TV critics, with some declaring the show a “crowning glory” and other's branding it “transphobic drag” (Phil Dyess-Nugent, of The AV Club, I'm looking at you).

And here is where I pull out my soap box, stretch out and take a swig of water.

First up, let me make it quite clear that I don't find Ja'mie: Private School Girl to be transphobic. In fact, what I do find to be a tad transphobic is referencing trans-sexuality and drag in the same sentence, as if the two are in any way related. To put it quite simply, Ja'mie: Private School Girl isn't transphobic because the show isn't laughing at trans-gender people; it doesn't feature a transgender character, or actor. Ja'mie: Private School Girl has nothing to do with trans-gender people at all.
I'm assuming that the trans-gender-ness that Phil Dyess-Nugent is referring to is the fact that Lilley, a man, plays the title character, a teenage girl. However, the humour in Ja'mie: Private School Girl isn't supposed to come from the sight of Chris Lilley wearing a school dress and applying lip gloss; if that's what has got you laughing then you've missed the point entirely, and I suggest that you head to HMV and pick up the Little Britain box set, I imagine it's pretty cheap at this time of the year. The comedy in Ja'mie: Private School Girl comes from the fact that the script is routed in reality, like all good comedy; the brilliant script is just magnified because it's performed by A GUY IN A DRESS.

For me, Lilley's decision to play Ja'mie just underlines and exaggerates the point that I think the show is trying to make; girls like this exist, and we helped to create them. Ja'mie: Private School Girl is a social commentary, an anthropological exploration into the culture of teenage girls; whether it's a culture that they've created, a culture that we've created around them, or a bit of both.

Also, it's really bloody funny.



PS- I've also seen some critics call the show bigoted. Personally, I think that's bullshit, but I went to town on the baked Camembert over Christmas, and this soap box is starting to sag beneath my weight, so I'll have to save my defence for another day. However, does a bigoted protagonist result in a bigoted show?

Celebrity Big Brother - Launch Night

It's been around 6 hours since the last series of Celebrity Big Brother ended, so of course, it's time for the next one! The start of each series fills me with hope and enthusiasm, a little like the start of the new year. However, I usually give up after a couple of weeks; again, like the start of the new year.
As is tradition now, CBB launch night was stretched over a two hour slot, when it could have fit comfortably within an hour and fifteen minutes. Although, dragging things out does seem to be an ongoing theme within CBB; whether it's the career of the housemates, a poorly thought-out theme, or the series itself.
However, I am BB until I die (or the series does) and cleared my Friday night in order to live tweet the crap out of launch night. Here are my thoughts, freed from the constraints of 140 characters...

The show began with the obligatory house tour, lead by the unstoppably-beautiful Emma Willis. The décor is predictably gaudy and the diary room chair looks like something that Liberace threw out for being a little too tacky.
Jim Davidson & Linda Nolan
We finally get to meet our first housemate; it's Jim Davidson. Jim fucking Davidson. The second his suspiciously pink, squidgy face flashes onto the screen I instantly worry about what each episode will do to my blood pressure. Jim says that lots of people shout “There's that sexist, racist, homophobic comedian!”; I would suggest that next time they save themselves some breath and just shout “There's Jim Davidson”, as I find the two terms to be completely synonymous.
Jim also keeps mentioning how he missed out on appearing in the last series of CBB due to his arrest as part of Operation Yewtree; a little like how if someone has a spot on their face they mention it at every opportunity, in an effort to head you at the off.
It's at this point that The Twist is revealed; you know, the twist that they crowbar into every single series? Word on the street is that the latest twist was inspired by 50 Shades of Grey, only two years after everyone lost their knickers over it. The housemates are to enter the house in pairs, shackled together by an exaggerated pair of gold handcuffs. As always, the first two housemates in are given a Special Power; they can choose one pair to de-cuff at the end of the night.
Jim's new buddy is revealed to be Linda Nolan. Apparently they have some history; Jim once got Linda thrown out of a club and she hates him. Of course, when they see each other it's all smiles and kisses and off they trot into the house together.
Dappy & Liz Jones
The next housemate we meet is Dappy; the guy in the hat from N-Dubz. I know he's a bit of a dick, or a lot of a dick if you've seen that picture, but I think he'll be a great housemate. Anyone who's seen his infamous Never Mind The Buzzcocks appearances will know that he's pretty bloody funny, whether to laugh at or with.
Dappy is paired up with Daily Mail 'journalist' and sacked Marie Claire editor Liz Jones. It's at this point that in the show that I become suspicious that producers have tapped into my brain and have deliberately found housemates that already really piss me off. Liz says that as a result of giving bad reviews she has been banned from major fashion shows, like Victoria Beckham and Burberry. Perhaps if I get her to write a bad review of me, which shouldn't be too difficult as I am 1) a woman and 2) 23, I can ban her from my life too?
Sam Faiers & Jasmine Waltz
Our next pairing is Sam Faiers, who has made a career out of being from Essex, and Jasmine Waltz; a girl so un-famous that even my wealth of Z-List celebrity knowledge can't save her. Her most recent work includes hitting Lindsay Lohan.
They're both attractive, so obviously they will hate each other, right? I doubt it, they seem like nice girls, but that's clearly what the producers are hoping for.
Lee Ryan & Casey...Someone
Once they're in, Lee Ryan's gormless face fills the screen. Last year's series featured my first love Abz from 5ive and this series features my second love, Lee from Blue. He enjoys leaving socks in hotel rooms, apparently, so it's safe to say that my taste in men hasn't improved much in the last 13 years. But in case you were labouring under the false pretence that Lee is an idiot, he tells us of his concern for orphaned 'Badger Children', so it's clear to see that he's not afraid to tackle The Issues.
He's paired up with Casey...Someone; a glamour model. She foolishly declares that “gets 'em out”, so cue the boos!
Ollie Locke & Lionel Blair
The ninth housemate is Is-He-Isn't-He-He-Definitely-Is Made In Chelsea cast off Ollie Locke. He seems excitable, but harmless; kind of like a Labrador. He's one of those housemates with the potential to get quite far, but could end up being fucking boring.
He's been matched up with his long-lost Grandfather Lionel Blair. Expect tap dancing and impromptu singing. Or lots of sitting down, saying nothing of note.
Luissa Zissman & Evander Holyfield
Finally, we get to our last couple; Luissa Zissman and Evander Holyfield. Luissa seems desperate to make “energy of a Duracell bunny, brain's of Albert Einstein and looks of Jessica Rabbit” her 'thing' and has clearly enjoyed a few spritzas in the dressing room.
I know nothing about Evander Holyfield, other than he's the guy that Phoebe from Friends has a cardboard cut-out of to get her through the sexually charged months of her pregnancy.

So, there are our 12 housemates, although I'm sure they'll chuck some others in there at some point. And when they do, I will be right here to make snooty remarks about them. If you actually watch the show then please drop me the occasional tweet; us CBB fans have gotta stick together.


P.S Jim and Linda chose Dappy and Liz to be un-cuffed. They cited Liz looking stressed as their reason, but I think that's just how Liz's face looks.

Correct Sext-iquette.

In the last week we've seen both Twitter and Instagram announce new features that will allow us to send images directly, and privately, to other users. Now, given their history it's no surprise that these two have engaged in some sort of tit-for-tat one-up game, however I did find the implication that we needed these features in the first place quite surprising; isn't that what Whatsapp's for?
I racked my brain long and hard thinking of how these latest changes would benefit us.
I came up with only one reason.
FLIPPANTLY SENT NAKED PICTURES.
For the purpose of this post we shall refer to these types of pictures as 'sexts'; I am aware that 'sexts' are traditionally text based but, ya know, the title?

Maybe my conclusion that the only images that can be exchanged privately can be of the naked variety says more about me as a person than I would like it to, but honestly, what else would you use it for?
Much like the non-textual act itself, sexting consists of a complicated set of rules and rituals. Poor judgement regarding timing, positioning and lighting can all serve to ruin your hard work. You've favourited tweets, you've liked photos of their dog to prove that you don't just see them as a piece of meat and really are interested in their life; it's time to reap the rewards.

Here are my top five tips for successful sexting-

1. Don't go in too early-
Guys in particular, you have one card to play in the sexting game. Play it too early and you'll receive a diplomatic response that was typed whilst the recipient held their other thumb over said picture so that they could avoid looking directly at it.
How do you know when the time is right? If your flirting has been reduced to increasingly strained and thinly-veiled euphemisms then hit send.

2. Filter is your friend-
If filters can make even the most banal and unappetising of meals look inviting then the same goes for genitals. The right filter can neutralise angry pink tones and make things look altogether more tasteful. Ones to avoid? Anything with too much contrast; you're not in The Wizard of Oz, grey scale; this ain't a perfume ad and sepia; this ain't The Others.

3. Be aware of your surroundings-
Decide where you're going to take the snap and tidy the area. Get rid of depressing, mood-killing items such as pizza boxes, DVD's that are out of their cases, tabloids, an over-flowing bin etc.

4. Be aware of their surroundings-
Girls, if a guy is “chilling with the boys” then refrain from hitting send. Someone other than the intended will definitely see it. If you were having a good day and have already taken the picture then save it for another night (no one sexts in the day, right?) when you've been bare-faced and top-knotted since 6pm and have no intention of changing.

5. Let it go-
When you press send you're releasing that picture into the world like a dirty dove. It's never coming back; it's out there now, free to fulfil it's destiny. Chances are, someone's gonna see that dove. They might exclaim “Ah, what a pretty dove!” or they might confuse it with a pigeon, but you'll never know. And honestly, does it really matter? The only time that picture is coming back to haunt you is if you make it to boot-camp on The X Factor, and if this is the case then I suggest you've already got much more significant problems than a badly lit, pixelated picture of your bits being featured in The Sun.


So, it's time to find your most flattering angle and practice your nonchalant, 'this-is-just-how-I-look' face. Ya know, if you want to. But Twitter and Instagram are basically asking you to.

How Not To Use Social Media; The James Arthur Story

Whether you've just started up your own business selling novelty cupcakes or you're an international supermarket brand that buys every spare piece of land in the country in order to build lots of mini supermarkets, social media is now an essential marketing tool. Twitter in particular can add a voice to your brand, adding personality and appeal.
Now, this shouldn't be too difficult if 1)your brand is a person and 2)you are that person. However, this proved a little tricky for 2000-and-no-one-cares X Factor winner James Arthur, who last week handed over/was rugby tackled to the ground for control of his Twitter account to his management team after a series of faux pas'.

Let us now analyse all of these social media mishaps in order to avoid falling into the same pitfalls ourselves. Or, to just laugh at him.

1. Don't abuse the RT
It's nice to get compliments. Who can deny the spring in their step after someone says “Ooh, you look nice today”? Or the grin that spreads across their face when someone describes the meal you just made as “really nice”? Now imagine how much of a dick you'd look if you then wrote a send-to-all text that looked like this “Sarah said I looked nice today” and then four hours later followed it up with another that said “Mum said my soup was really nice”.
This is essentially what retweeting compliments is. It's also the kind of annoying shit that your news feed will be flooded with if you follow James Arthur. Whilst I'm sure he is very excited about the release of his debut, and most likely final, album he seems totally unaware of the fact that 15 year olds would call a dishwasher inspirational if it got them a retweet.
Also, if you're reading this James, retweeting the horny tweets of underages girls is kinda gross. I'm not expecting you to do anything as meaningful as saying “Hey girls, I really appreciate the support but I'm not going to retweet your comments because by doing so I will in fact be validating them and giving you the impression that offering yourselves sexually is the only way to get noticed and ladies, you're much better than that”, but next time maybe just, ya know, ignore them?
Retweeting should be reserved for dry tweets, hilarious pictures and giveaways, but only if the prize is really REALLY good.

2.Don't pick a fight you know you can win
Out there in 'real life', where there is grass and fresh air and stuff, arguing with a child when you're an adult is pretty embarrassing. Well, there's no Twitter loophole; it's still embarrassing. Calling teenage girls “sad and pathetic” for questioning your claims that your album was self-penned is...sad and pathetic.
Unless you're arguing about feminism, homophobia, racism, politics or exchanging furiously typed tweets with the customer services profile for an online retailer then it's best to just leave it, yeah?

3.Don't pick a fight that you definitely can't win

It's an undeniable fact of life that there are people that are cleverer than you. You probably follow some of them on Twitter. They might occasionally tweet something that you think is 'not cool', but in these situations I find it best to keep schtum. Not necessarily because your argument is any less valid then theirs, but because they most likely have the wit and vocabulary to publicly annihilate you.
Case and point- James Arthur vs Frankie Boyle.
Whilst some of the things that Frankie Boyle says make me pull a weird face in which the corners of my mouth turn down and I suck in air through my teeth, the suspiciously-curly-eyelashed X Factor winner was asking for 140 characters of shit the second he used the phrase “fucking queer” in a particularly cringe worthy rap battle with Micky Worthless (?).
I won't relay the whole argument as that would be tedious (as opposed to the rest of the post, RIGHT?), but a highlight for me was Boyle saying that he'd confused James Arthur's photo with a child's drawing of a monster. The feud climaxed with Arthur telling us all that he was “coming off Twitter for good”; the social media equivalent of flouncing off in a strop.
As I was scanning through the tweets between the two, I could think of only one thing, a quote by Simon Amstell from the Never Mind The Buzzcocks episode with Donny Tourette in it- “He's a professional comedian, you can't win.”

4.Don't forget about the 'draft' function
I am a big believer in drafting things out. I would gasp in horror when, during my GCSE's, boys would tell me that they hadn't written a plan for their coursework. Believe it or not, this post was drafted. If I'd have publicly rapped a homophobic slur then you betcha, I would draft my public apology before dividing it up into 140 character segments and releasing it like a dove.
Unfortunately, James Arthur did not.
Following the news that some fans were asking iTunes for a refund after buying his album and then hearing him use “fucking queer” as an insult in a rap battle, Arthur tweeted that “homophobia is not something that [he] believes in” and that he was “disappointed in [himself] for being so naïve and deeply sorry to any gay or lesbian people out there.”
Now, if James had just saved that tweet as a draft and said to someone “Would you mind reading this? Just want to check that I don't sound like a dick” then that someone would have hopefully said this- “Actually James, you do sound kinda dickish. Firstly, you've confused homophobia with Santa. You've suggested that you were naïve for saying “fucking queer” in an open forum, rather than saying that you were ignorant for saying it in the first place. Also, heterosexual people can find homophobia to be offensive, so I'd probs just change that last bit to 'anyone I've offended'”
He then rounded his apology off by saying “Plus Rylan is one of my best mates and he's as gay as they come.” Nothing like the old 'some-of-my-best-friends-are-black' defence to really validate an apology.

5. Don't say stupid fucking stuff like this
“I actually was a child in need though...Were you?” on the night of Children In Need.

And there we have it folks! Five tips for avoiding ending up with 'acute exhaustion' like James Arthur. I think it's fitting to sign out with James Arthur's final tweet-
 #LOVE to my fans but I'm coming off Twitter for good. HQ will be doing all my tweets from now on. PEACE!
Nothing says peace like capital letters and an exclamation mark.

Tinder Surprise

“Tinder is a social discovery app that helps you meet new people. Tinder finds out who likes you near by and connects you with them if you are both interested, whether it's for dating, friendship or networking.”

Now, I'm not sure who wrote the Wikipedia description of Tinder, but I suspect that they still believe that the “smallest electric toothbrush” that keeps advertising really is used to maintain dental hygiene, as I highly doubt anyone is mindlessly scrolling through the Facebook pictures of locals in order to source business leads.
If Tinder is news to you then allow me to explain; you download the app, sync it with your Facebook profile, allowing it access to your location and profile pictures. It then searches for Tinder users in your local area and puts them into a little pile for you to sort through at your leisure. Swipe right to LIKE someone (insert a predictable and tedious Mr Right joke here) and swipe left to stamp NOPE across their face. If you've both right-swiped each other then congratulations, you've matched! You will now be allowed to talk and...network.

It was my own morbid curiosity that led me to download Tinder. Whilst I had no intention of meeting up with a match for casual sex, I wanted to know what all the fuss was about. Also, I gave into the nagging, suppressed part of my psyche that is constantly curious to know what other people think of me; the part that would lead me to stage a Ross Gellar style fake death in order to know what others would say about me. In short, I wanted to know if people would fancy me, ok?
I'd like to think of it as investigative journalism, but in reality it was me killing time whilst desperately sourcing freelance projects, swiping through photos of people I fancied when I was sixteen with one and eating mince pies with the other. T'is the season.
Given that I once left-swiped so much that the app actually crashed, I feel I've developed more than a few opinions on how you should and shouldn't market yourself on Tinder.

Tinder is all about judging a book by it's well lit, flatteringly shot, eighteen month old cover, a concept that is unfortunately lost on many users. Now, I'm not talking about people who haven't edited their face into Victoria's Secret/David Gandy oblivion, I'm talking about people like this guy-

Now is not the time to get experimental. The photo that's shot from behind as you look wistfully out to sea, the photo of you wearing your new ski mask on the lifts, the selfie you snapped to show off your skill at applying Halloween prosthetics; these could all result in a left-swipe.
If the only flattering photo you can find is one that was snapped by a 'photographer' at a student club night then that's fine, but for gods sake take the time to crop your friends off. Group photos don't work on Tinder and will lead to a self esteem crushing radio silence when you tell your match which one you are.
Also, guys who are posing with babies, children and animals; I see what you're doing and I ain't biting.

All this being said, don't underestimate the power of words; especially their ability to make someone fancy you (a truth that I have been trying to exploit for the last 7 years). You can post the triple threat photo combination of close up, formal wear and beach wear but it don't mean a thing if your bio box is blank. Your BBM pin doesn't count.
I'm not denying the difficulty of writing a 'bio', but if anyone can manage it then the Myspace generation can! If you're suffering from writers block then go for a humorous quote from a film or TV show (not Anchorman, it's been done. To death). If your match doesn't get the reference then they will hopefully think that you're being witty and irreverent, and if they do get it then at least you'll have something to talk about as they sheepishly scramble about trying to collect their clothes before they leave.
Try to keep it light, no one on Tinder is swiping through faces in order to find a quote that will inspire them to finally start their own business; they want to know how big your thigh gap is (I tried to think of the male equivalent for this but it turns out there isn't; we'll save that for another post). However, don't keep it so light that you type anything that resembles this-

If you manage to successfully navigate this giant game of snap and strike a match then congratulations, you've just done a Tinder! 

So, what happens next?
Turns out, not a whole lot. According to statistics only 1 in 5 Tinder users actually meet one of their matches in person, compared to 66% of people who meet using other online dating apps.
As bizarre as it sounds, I think that those figures are due to the fact that Tinder was quickly referred to as “the straight version of Grindr”; it's essentially a hook-up app, and the problem the with hook-up apps is that everyone using them is assumed to be, you know, DTF, but this just isn't always the case.
Whilst there are those who know what they want and when they want it (more power to ya!), the remaining 4/5s probably hit download due to vanity, boredom, curiosity or an urban myth of a guy who right-swiped a plain looking girl only to discover upon meeting her that she was a dead ringer for Miranda Kerr and the proceeded to go back to her penthouse apartment and have an orgy with her and her hot friends. This means that 80% of the faces you've swiped through aren't truly committed to the cause and that when faced with the choice between tarting themselves up and heading out into the November chill to meet a stranger for the possibility of anti-climactic sex or staying in to watch Gogglebox, they'll probably plump for the latter.

Ultimately, although described as a hook-up app, Tinder allows for one thing that the majority of actual one night stands don't; rational thought.
The two bottles of wine, the agony of seeing the holiday pictures of your ex and their new significant other pop up on Facebook earlier, the underlying chemistry you have with that guy who gave you a pen in a lecture 6 months ago, the fact that yesterday you realised that you have fat knees and need validating, missing the last tube; they're all missing on Tinder, and call me a traditionalist, but receiving a message asking whether you “fancy a bang” at 11:42am when you're sitting at your desk frantically trying to repair a spreadsheet that you didn't save properly yesterday just isn't the same.