A COUPLE of years ago at an Oscar party, I met Jack Dorsey. The rapper 50 Cent and Cameron Diaz were pushing through the crowds to pay homage to the co-founder of Twitter, but I could only think of one thing to say to him: “If my marriage dies, it’s your fault.”
He laughed; I didn’t. I wasn’t joking. Diana had three people in her marriage – I’ve got more than three million. And I’m tired of it.
I’m tired of people I don’t know telling me stories of my husband’s Twitter escapades. I’m tired of the dinner party conversation surrounding those virtual romps – I’m oblivious to what goes on in the Twittersphere.
I’m tired of the pitying glances of other women in restaurants as he sits there, tapping out cricket tweets to Kevin Pietersen.
I’m tired of watching him miss out on little things like, oh, his daughter’s first step –too busy taunting Alan Sugar about the size of his “follower count”, sunsets – preoccupied, flirting with Cindy Crawford, meteorites – something happened involving Arsenal and Van Persie, and birds of paradise –who cares about them when you’re in the midst of a cyberspace caper with Wayne Rooney.
When he walked into the kitchen recently, beaming, to tell me he was trending worldwide – whatever that means – because “the members of One Direction tweeted ‘Piers Morgan is smelly'”, I should have skipped the divorce lawyer and demanded the house right there.
Twitter is about forsaking the present moment, in all its freshness and its glory, in order to brag about it later. It’s about perceiving anything that is not shared with thousands of people you don’t know as being entirely without value. Saying you’re on Twitter for the newsfeeds is like saying you read Playboy for the articles.
There are plenty of Twitter widows out there. Gary Lineker’s wife, Danielle, allegedly banned the former footballer from using the site earlier this month, but Lineker’s red card was rescinded on appeal. However ecstatic Lineker was, he was nowhere near as jubilant as my husband, who came running into the room, shouting: “Lineker’s back!” “That’s great darling,” I said. “Oh, and your daughter just said ‘Daddy’ for the first time.”
According to the New York Times, an American man named Jordy Trachtenberg has documented every bowl of ramen noodles he’s eaten in the past two years and posted pictures of them on his blog, Ramentology. US restaurateurs are now cracking down on food photography. In California, the flashes going off around you in restaurants are more likely to be people immortalising their 2lb (900g) ribeyes than would-be paparazzos grabbing furtive shots of Eva Longoria eating mac ‘n’ cheese.
Talk about not living for the moment. Rather than confiscate their cameras or eject them from restaurants, management should let them keep their photograph and confiscate the food. See how much fun these people find their cretinous pastime then.
This week’s Hollywood Reporter ponders whether Arnold Schwarzenegger’s new film, The Last Stand, is tanking at the box office because the 40% of the audience that should have been female “stayed away because of Schwarzenegger’s separation from Maria Shriver following the disclosure he had a child with their housekeeper”.
It would be rare for such a scandal to have an adverse effect on an actor’s career. Far more damaging than sleeping with the nanny in Hollywood is simply getting old. – The Daily Telegraph