Category Archives: etiquette

How To Be A Teenaged Internet Millionaire

Kids today.

Kids today.

Nick D’Aloisio hit the headlines last week when he became a teenaged internet millionaire by selling his App, Summly, to Yahoo! for around $30 million. The App summarises news stories in one sentence for smartphone users, which seems like he’s just claimed to have invented ‘the headline’, but it has a few other bits and bobs in it. Allegedly.

Anyway, if you want to become a teenaged internet millionaire, here are my hints and tips to follow in the footsteps of Nick D’Aloisio. With these foolproof strategies, you’ll be snorting cocaine at a party full of people who are only using you for your money in no time.


Being an outcast in high school will stand you in good stead for the future as an internet millionaire. Attain outcast status by standing a few feet from the popular clique in the school hallway and stare longingly at head cheerleader, Susie Smileypants, knowing in your heart that she doesn’t even know, or care, what your name is. When Susie Smileypants’ boyfriend, big man on campus Joey Jocktrunks, calls you out for stalking his woman in the school cafeteria, stick up your fists and move them around saying, ‘Why I oughtta…‘ over and over again until he knocks you out in one clean dig.

Furthermore, having no life and nothing of any social value is key to becoming a teenaged internet millionaire, as, when all your peers are out having fun, you’ll be busying yourself at home working on your App and unknowingly embarking upon a journey that will one day lead you to find comfort in dismembering prostitutes and stashing them in little ziplock bags in your gold-plated freezer. Achieve your lack of social life by being such a pedantic arsehole that the only time the cool kids converse with you is when they are calling you ‘Poindexter’ and stealing your lunch money.

Moneygrabbing Wee Bastard



Being a moneygrabbing wee bastard will inspire you to dabble in get-rich-quick schemes, all of which are definitely going to make you a teenaged internet millionaire. While you may not be born with the personality defect that makes you a moneygrabbing wee bastard, you can hone your moneygrabbing wee bastardness by being so unappealing as a human being that you need money to give you worth. Once you’re hungry like the wolf, you’ll start chasing the dollar. After all, them bitches and hoes ain’t cheap.

Half-Arsed Idea

No teenaged internet millionaire would be complete with a half-arsed idea to combine with youth so that people who use Yahoo! as their primary news source will be all like, ‘OMG he’s younger than me but he has more money! LOL.‘ Basically, in order to create your idea, just take someone else’s already successful idea and copy it, being careful to say ‘It’s the new…‘ in front of it (i.e. ‘It’s the new Facebook’). Then ask mummy or daddy to get their venture capitalist friends involved so that they can pay other people to develop your idea while you play the XBox with Ashton Kutcher.


Seeing as you are a teenager and therefore, probably thick as pigshit, is is highly unlikely that you will be able to create anything of actual worth by yourself. However, as with the case of Nick D’Aloisio, you need not make reference to the highly-skilled group of adults who actually developed your half-arsed idea- instead, taking any and all glory for yourself. After all, you didn’t lose your anal virginity to Ashton Kutcher for nothing, did you?

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How To Manage Conflict With Your Neighbours

It is inevitable that, given the rapid expansion of the human race, the world is becoming more and more cramped. Inner city living can be an absolute nightmare, and from time to time you may find yourself empathising with those who throw themselves off massive skyscrapers to escape this cruel and torturous life.

Anyway, unless you live in the remote countryside (which has it’s own set of problem, such as inbreeding), it is likely that, at some point, you have found yourself irritated by your neighbours.

For the past few weeks, I have found myself at the receiving end of my own personal neighbourly nightmare. My new neighbours are huge chain smokers and when they smoke (which is all day and night), my apartment fills with grey smog. This would usually be a pretty hopeless situation, but I live in a non-smoking building, and the problem was getting really bad so I was forced to do something. But instead of letting it get worse, I nipped it in the bud and am happy that myself and my neighbours have smoothed everything out.

Here are my tips for managing conflict with your neighbours.

Confront the issue face-to-face

Confronting the issue face-to-face, as early as possible, stops the problem from festering while showing your neighbours that you are assertive and confident. When I first spoke to my neighbours, they realised I was a whiny bitch capable of scratching their eyes out if I didn’t get my way. They apologised immediately and even hid the last time I approached them. However, your neighbours may not be as pathetic as mine, so perhaps you may want to bring a knife, or other intimidating material, with you when confronting them. When they inquire as to the reason such objects are in your hand, laugh maniacally and say, ‘Oh, this old thing? I was just preparing a meal. I eat bitches for breakfast.’

Be proactive about solutions

The problem in question most likely derives from your neighbours lack of viable options, so, if you give them other ways to solve the problem, then it’s a win/win, and they may even thank you for it. For example, if your neighbour has a dog that barks through the night, why not say, ‘Would you mind awfully if I asked you to stop Rover from barking at 3 a.m.? If he refuses to stop, I could always climb into your garden and slit his motherfucking throat and pull out his voicebox, if you like? You wouldn’t even have to dispose of it as I’d happily store it on my mantelpiece as a trophy. Alternatively, I could just extract your own voicebox, but slitting a human’s throat is too easy for me- I like the thrill of the chase, so I’d probably pull it from your anus instead. Anyway, hope this helps. Cheerio.’

Keep them on your side

Unfortunately, while many of us would like to forget the presence of our neighbours, it is actually advantageous to maintain a relationship with them, as they will be more likely to be civil when disputes arise. So, if your neighbours are selfish bastards who like to party all weekend, send them a few bottles of beer in support of their festivities. Remember to add thoughtful touches such as emptying the contents of said beer into the sink, pissing into the empty containers, throwing in a dash of rat poisoning and resealing. If they invite you in when delivering your gesture, be nice and meet their friends. Make sure to take note of all party-goers under the legal drinking age, along with photographic evidence, as this will be easier for an administrator to add your neighbour to the Sex Offenders Register on Monday morning.

Be mindful

The only way to ensure that your neighbour remains happy to keep the peace is by ensuring you don’t start a war with them, which means you must be mindful of your own behaviour too. Therefore, you can either a) constantly be aware of your behaviour or b) secretly mentally abuse your neighbours. And admittedly, while I’d like to say I’m constantly considerate, I have been known to slip sedatives into their milk. Yes, maybe I am prone to accidentally causing the odd gas leak or faulty Christmas tree fire, but teaching your neighbours what true tragedy is keeps them grounded. They won’t want to waste their time on trivial matters like your TV being too loud. And isn’t that what life is all about- teaching people to live in the now and not get bogged down by silly things? In a way, you’re giving them a gift. The gift of near death, which technically, is the gift of life. You’re welcome, residents of 27B.

Candle in the Curse

After celebrity, journalist and all round beaut, Elissa Corrigan read my blog, she suggested that I should stop cursing.

My mother is delighted by this after having repeated this exact instruction to me for the last 13 years.

So I am going to give it a go and try to give it up*, seeing as I like to hide behind cursing because I think my writing style is rather depressing and unhilarious without it. Of course, not to miss out on a chance to be dramatic, I am bidding farewell to my old ways through the medium of song, as below.

Candle in the Curse (To the tune of ‘Candle in the Wind’, by Elton John)

Goodbye, vulgar mouth

Now I don’t know myself one bit

I must find a new identity

Or be exposed as an unhilarious tit

Started swearing back in school

To imply I was hard as nails

Should have smoked instead

Less maternal nagging it entails


And it seems to me, I’ve lived my life

Like a trashy, cheeky mare

Never knowing how to express myself

Without a swear

And now I’m on a new path

To speaking like a toff

And only uttering expletives

That I disguise under a cough

Going it alone

Cleaning out the mouth, my regimen

In the hope that I will succeed

To appear smart and feminine

Women who swear, it seems

Are perceived as slaggy and uncouth

And seeing as I’m skating on thin ice already

I must bid farewell to the lingo of my youth


And it seems to me, I’ve lived my life

Like a trashy, cheeky mare

Never knowing how to express myself

Without a swear

And now I’m on a new path

To speaking like a toff

And only uttering expletives

That I disguise under a cough

Goodbye, vulgar mouth

You embellish every noun

Make gossip more hilarious

And deliver a great put-down

Goodbye Vulgar Mouth

I’m sure it’s not the end

Considering my inner rage

I’ll see you one day soon, my friend

*By ‘try to give it up’, I mean I’m going to cut down. There is probably still going to be cursing going on. A lot. Sorry Mum.

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The Law of the Package Holiday

After watching the first twenty minutes of Sun, Sex and Suspicious Parents yesterday, I felt compelled to leave the sofa and go scrub myself clean with barbed wire. Now I’ve run out of bleach. Thank you, BBC3.

Anyway, apart from the unspoken objective planted in Sun, Sex and Suspicious Parents for all subject matter to obtain as many sexually transmitted diseases as possible, there was the underlying message that package holidays are hilarious.

Hilariously shit.

Ok, so some of this mirrors the Easyjet article here I wrote a while ago, but package holidays are so much more than just a miserable plane journey- there’s the miserable transfer, the miserable hotel and the miserable week spent living out a nightmare.

But let’s begin with the miserable booking process. If you were an adult in the 1980s, you probably got, and therefore still are, accustomed to locating holidays via Teletext. For those under 18, I cannot even explain what Teletext is- there is nothing in the modern day it can be likened to, I’m sorry. Teletext is a fucking liar and the cheap deal you keep seeing on page 19 of 1900 has went long ago, if it even existed.

Then there’s the option of calling into a travel agency for the hard sell of being pressurised into booking a holiday on the spot. I choose to not do this as, A) There are no seats because all the ‘lads’ of 7F, St. Ford Escort’s High School for Disobedient Cunts have just called in to book their holiday to Shagaluf, B) I don’t like the smell of suncream and they aren’t fooling anyone and C) I do not believe that Thomas Cook Sales Representative Cassandra-Louise has been to my hotel, nor has Thomas Cook Representative Sue who is listening into our conversation and says that it’s very central- not that she stayed there, but she walked past and it were lovely. Fuck off, ladies, your fake banter is less believable than Cassandra-Louise’s hair extentions.

If you are in any way connected to the outside world, you will have migrated to using the internet like the fucking rest of us, you uneducated swine. The internet, unlike Teletext, has the ability to show you pictures of your hotel and surrounding area (well, Teletext could do this too if your hotel was just a big yellow and red square set upon eternal darkness, or if your holiday was a trip to Legoland). Insider tip: all pictures of hotels and surrounding areas are bastard liars- your hotel does not really look like this. Take the picture that they have given you of the pool area, draw in lots of cunt stick-figures, throw a bucket of water over yourself to emulate getting splashed by said cunt stick-figure’s cunt offspring, all the while playing Barbra Streisand’s Greatest Hits Some Unknown Man Sings Barbra Streisand’s Greatest Hits in Spanish. This is a truer representation.

If you are stupid enough to still book a package holiday, then you’ll be heading to the airport by now. It’s probably nearing midnight. I have no idea why, but it always is. Great, a day wasted already.

Ensure that whilst waiting at the departure gate, you adequately sneer at your returning home counterparts who have just got off the plane in their shorts and party-hats. Their holiday is over, while yours if just beginning! Ha! Look how miserable they are- this is great.

Board the plane and instantly spot the loud party of inconsiderate dickheads, who insist upon calling all staff ‘Mr Air Hostess’ while exploding into a wheezy smoker’s laugh so cancerous, you feel sick by association. This party, who I will herein refer to as ‘The Pack of Loud Cunts’, will spend their time inadvertently making the flight miserable for everyone else through being loud as fuck, singing songs like ‘Country Roads’ and shouting ‘Are we there yet, Mr Pilot?!’ One of them is also likely to have the world’s most irritating laugh, which will penetrate your very soul. Fix this irritation by paying £6 for half a shot of vodka to have alongside your in-flight meal of beef vomit in glue, with a side of dehydrated bread and vacuum packed cucumber. Considering you’re flying for a whole three hours and 45 minutes, you’ll need nourishment lest you’ll die of starvation.

When you finally arrive, you need to be transported to your hotel. This is achieved through the torturous ‘Coach Transfer’ organised by whichever travel agency you’ve sadly booked your holiday through. Note that The Pack of Loud Cunts are on your coach, trembling with anticipation for your journey to commence so that they can sing ‘The Front of the Bus is the Huffs, Barney Boo’. Wankers. Pray to God they aren’t in your hotel.

Thank God, it appears that your holiday representative has taken centre stage at the front of the bus to inform you of basic Spanish phrases such as ‘Please’ and ‘Thank You’ to silence The Pack of Loud Cunts. The one with the weird laugh keeps laughing at a collective ‘Ola’ mumbled by the bus. Feel yourself moving closer toward that stroke you’ve been putting off.

Pull up to what looks like the burnt remains of a sex dungeon and pray to God your name isn’t called to denote that this is your hotel and that your miserable hotel experience can now commence. Of course, your name is called and you trudge off the coach. Don’t forget to be pressurised into giving the bus driver a tip, considering he did his job and no other frills were included to justify a tip. Happily, The Pack of Loud Cunts are also getting off here. Wohoo, they are staying at your hotel.

At this stage, optimism sets in and you start to allow yourself to hope that your hotel room isn’t the shithole that 600 Trip Advisor reviewers warned you that it was. Snooty desk clerk, Selina is annoyed that you’ve disturbed her slumber at 3 a.m. and puts you in room on the ground floor, guaranteeing your room gets robbed numerous times throughout your stay and that each night you drift off to sleep with the tranquil sounds of the nearby motorway.

On your first day, you go to the ‘Welcome Meeting’ hosted by your holiday representative to avail of the free thimbleful of orange juice and hear at length about Costa del Slum’s ‘Transvestite Drag Show and Karaoke Night’ that you can attend for the small price of 150 Euros each, not including drinks and depressing meal. I would advise against this as your holiday representative will be your host and, if male, he is most certainly going to use this opportunity to sleep with your teenager daughter. If female, she’ll be chirpy enough for the whole bus to club together and murder her, meaning you’ll have to tip the bus driver massively to dispose of her body in an empty, desolate forest. Considering the exchange rate, it could work out pretty expensive.

If you opted for Self-Catering, lucky fucking you. If you are Half-Board, Full-Board or All-Inclusive, shit one. You must now spend every morning of your precious week off work throwing your fried breakfast down your gullet at 6.30 a.m., while catering staff tut obviously at you because breakfast finishes at 7. If, like me, you have no control at buffets, be prepared to eat your weight in bacon so laden with grease, it’s practically singing ‘Summer Nights’ and calling Rizzo a slag. Thank God for The Pack of Loud Cunts who roll in at 6.57 a.m. and make everyone else look like upstanding citizens. The Pack of Loud Cunts insist upon wearing their pyjamas to the dining hall, but wonderfully, the one with the weird laugh isn’t making noise because he’s too busy vomiting Sex on the Beach down the side of the table. If you are from mainland Europe, you’re probably eating a small bowl of fresh fruit with yoghurt on it, and I’ll cry because I’m fatter than you later on. Thanks for ruining my holiday.

During dinner, be prepared to forge a relationship with dreamboat waiter, Fernando, who insists you are seated in his area every night so that he can charm you into bed, while bantering with your boyfriend and enquiring how many camels it would take to ‘buy you’. Don’t be fooled ladies, he does this with every sunburnt, blonde lush in the restaurant, and he is also engaged to desk clerk Selina, who would fucking destroy you. Plus, he already slept with the Mum from The Pack of Loud Cunts- you’d probably get the herp.

But don’t fill up on dinner because you’ll be too bloated to dance to ’99 Red Balloons’ with enthusiastic German patrons at the hotel disco after dinner. And this is the best case scenario. Worst case is participating with other hotel guests to compete for free drinks in a contest to establish which country in Western Europe is ‘the best’, not realising that underneath the charade of polite and civilised humanity lies an angry mob of xenophobes who are waiting for any excuse to pounce.

Speak of which, don’t stay up too late because you have to be up at 4 a.m. to pettily secure sunbeds for you and the rest of your party. Delightfully, The Pack of Loud Cunts are swilling round the pool and doing lots of drugs because they haven’t been to bed yet, so don’t be surprised if one of them shits in your towel because they are pack of utter dickheads. Thankfully, this lack of sleep causes one of The Pack of Loud Cunts to be rendered unconscious in a quad biking accident just hours later and sent to a Spanish hospital to begin years of rehabilitation that will later be documented when they sell their story to ‘The Daily Star’. When the Dad from The Pack of Loud Cunts, whom you’ve befriended out of fear, tells you they are leaving, you look remorseful but are secretly pleased.

Now that the hotel is quieter, you are free to enjoy your holiday by lying in the sun for eight hours per day, having a mediocre meal, getting pissed and enjoying absolutely nothing of any cultural value whatsoever.

Not to steal Peter Kay’s intellectual property, but he is very right- you will go to the Spanish Spar and look at products that you can buy at home, you will ring home to enquire about the weather and you will most certainly frequent an Irish bar, where you will eat the exact same shit you have at home. You will start to adorn some holiday spirit and talk to poolside wankers, make a few friends and make the train much longer by doing the Conga at your hotel disco.

Like your package holiday predecessors, you will erroneously assume that you will appreciate a cold shock to the loins when you land back home and wear shorts and a party hat on the plane. Upon stepping out of the plane, you will regret this choice and feel very miserable and sad. The airport will be a bastard and insist that you are paraded in front of those travellers waiting to go on holiday, so that you can be mocked the way you mocked those before you. This is the law of the package holiday.

I’m already loading up the Teletext to book my next trip.

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Ten Dos For The New Facebook Etiquette

As it turns out, my article ‘Ten Facebook Don’ts For The New Facebook Etiquette’ was a big hit. At least I think it was, but my mother has a cruel streak and the 200 hits it got last week could have just been her clicking the link and laughing maniacally. Oh well, I’ll get her back when I pick her nursing home.

Anyway, I thought I should write this article to address the need festering out there for list of suggested ‘Dos’ for all us Facebookers kept awake with the fear that saying the wrong thing will somehow result in the words ‘Die, Bitch’ being sprayed across your house. The succesful strategic management of your Facebook can brilliantly stick it to all the bastards you felt belittled by throughout life when they see how ballin’ you are as an adult. In hindsight, the word ‘ballin’ must only be funny when I say it in person because I’m a white woman, so scrap that.

To be fair, beyond a means of social interaction, Facebook is mostly used as a vehicle for bragging that you aren’t the failure you were predicted to be. It is the online equivalent of going to your high school reunion and hoping to Christ someone asks you what time it is so you can swipe your fake Rolex in front of their big wanker face. Ha ha ha ha (maybe if I keep laughing, people will think I’m happy).

Ok, so here are my Ten Facebook Dos For The New Facebook Etiquette.


Having a wonderful relationship implies that another human being wants to interact with you. It implies you are predominately happy, and do not crying your big loner self to sleep every night. It implies that someone finds you beautiful. It makes you fit in, and by fuck, you need to fit in.


And I promise you, every one of your mutual friends will be dying to know what is contained in that little oracle of truth. They’ll wonder what scandalous gossip you’ve overheard, probably whilst at the Ambassador’s reception, eating Ferrero Rocher and drinking champagne, laughing like a big posho and wearing an expensive dress. PMing your friends adds allure to your scrawny little life, and in your own demented mind, you’ve got some sort of secret worth knowing. It doesn’t matter that you’ve PMed your friend to tell her that your arse-rash cleared up- people will think you’ve got some sort of secret glamourous life that they know nothing about. Evil laugh.


Embellish the fuck out of the truth like a Rhinestone Cowboy, until the truth is a tiny speck in a mass of bells, whistles, lights and general tack. We all get a new job now and again, so merely saying ‘Yay, I just got a new job’ on Facebook will not make others feel bad enough about their own lives to envy you and wish you were dead (the ultimate achievement). Instead, say ‘OMGGGGGGGGGG Just got the job of my dreeeems, Sooooooooo happy!!!!! Loving life #yayme’. Going on holiday? ‘LOL Sooooooooo excited to be on hollllllllllsssssss wohoooooooo bring on da sunshine’ (incidentally, a daily countdown from a reasonable time such as fifty days prior to your holidays is so much fun for the rest of us, and don’t forget to check yourself in on Facebook at the airport, you gormless cunt).


If you are going to lie on Facebook, you must consider that people who know the truth can see your lies and can expose you at any time. For most, the ‘Train of Exposure’ runs through close friends and family, who see through your charade of happiness right through to your weary, downtrodden soul. My solution is to throw them a bone now and again in the form of a ‘Like’ for all of their stupid bastard statuses and write ‘Gorgizzz’ under pictures of their ugly faces. That’ll shut them up.


Hey you. Are you the sort of person who has ‘a great personality’? If so, you are not alone. Like you, I am a ‘funny gal’, I also get told I’m ‘beautiful inside (awkward silence)’. I try to minimise my collosal bingo wings in the ‘hand on hips’ pose and hide my teeth to de-serialkillerify my creepy smile. But I am still one ugly bitch. Therefore, I need Photoshop. I need a camera feature that blurs out the ugliness on my face. Photoshop yourself to within an inch of your hideous life, until the fusion of your mother and father milk-turning ugliness (here’s to you, Rumer Willis) is nothing more than Heidi Montag post-eleven surgical procedures in one day. In fact, you might be best just photoshopping her face onto your body, and her body over your body.


And watch while they try and take it on the chin. It’s hilarious, and a lose/lose situation for the unfortunate ugly bastard because if they de-tag, they look like a shallow fucker, incapable of taking a joke. If they don’t, people can see them at their lowest ebb and have something to sneer at behind the safety of an anonymous computer screen, like the big boys they are. Hashtag goodtimes.


If you’re the type of parent who allows their underage child to have a Facebook in order to gain access to a world of online rapists and child molesters, then pat yourself on the back- you are an excellent guardian. Ok, so most online predators are actually police investigators posing as paedophiles posing as teenagers, but even still, it could get you in trouble and you might have to go to court. And could you really be arsed going the whole way to court in your pyjamas? Set and match, my negligent friend, set and match.


These are incredibly informative and I appreciate those who take the time to enlighten others of on-going struggles in the wider world. For those of you who have no idea what I’m taking about, here’s an example: ‘Did you know that every year, four and a half people are killed by snake on a plane related injuries? Snakes are a wily predator, so when added to a plane they are extra dangerous. The next time you open your overhead bin, spare a thought for others who haven’t been lucky enough to open their overhead bin and enjoyed the time to spare a thought because they were eaten by a snake. This epidemic must end. This week is National Day of Snake on a Plane Awareness Hour. Please re-post or I’m not your friend.’ How useful. Thank you re-posters.


Having your page set as ‘private’ is great because it suggests to other that you are one classy bastard who needs not shout their life (albeit with modifications to make it unshit-friendly) from the virtual rooftop. Oh and when job hunting, its best to keep your crazy bastard exposure to a minimum. But Facebook now has a new feature in which you can make some posts private, and others public. As a general rule: your shit statuses about your actual life and ugly photos that show your ”natural beauty”- keep them private. Statuses about your made up fantasy life in which you have a great, well paid job you love, a partner you still find attractive and children you don’t want to leave on the steps of your local orphange, and the photos with your ugliness photoshopped to reveal beautiful, fake Heidi Montag you- stick them on ‘Public’. And by ‘Public’. The people who hate you enough not to add you as a friend but still visit your page to occasionally sneer at your existence will thank you.


Sometimes we all need to let off a bit of steam and have a bit of a scathing bitching session through Facebook. The key is to refer to the person who has annoyed you as ‘SOME PEOPLE’. Then in addition to being a passive aggressive human being, you also look like a Billy No-Balls. And because others who scour your wall for any sign of anything interesting can’t empathise with you, you also look like a big over-reacting psychopath. However, I would like to point out that Facebook is an incredibly appropriate place to air your grievances because a) it’s very private and b) the world and his wife can’t see your page, and judge you accordingly.Oh and while you’re at it, you might as well adorn your Facebook wall with cheeky cunt-isms in the form of non-rhyming poetry, a la Bebo, such as ‘dA pIcTuReS nEvA cHaNgE bUt Da PpL iN dEm Do’. That’ll show ’em.

And so another one of my sanctimonious rambles draws to a close. However, I would like to point out that I am living proof that adhering to these rules ensures people only call you a cunt behind your back and rarely to your face- hello, Easy Street. You are welcome.


Ten Don’ts For The New Facebook Etiquette

Interacting via the medium of social networking is a relatively new concept for most of us, and as such, common ‘Facebook etiquette’ has yet to be established. However, considering that (ideally) we know the people that we interact with, we have a vague idea of how to behave online. But for all of you big fucking maniacs out there who have no idea how to conduct yourselves, here are my 10 Facebook Don’ts:


For the love of God, please stop talking about your sex life. It’s making me get vomit all over my top. Think about it: would you stand up in front of everyone you know and snorty laugh while spluttering through all of the unsavoury details of your own private relationship. No? Well then, don’t do it in a place where your mother can read it. She pretends she can’t see it but she probably can and it haunts her. And don’t kid yourself that you’re just being a ‘bit cheeky’ (eurgh) and just having a bit of a laugh- no one wants to know. NO ONE.


This might come as a shock to you, but you’re not a model. You’re kind of pasty, and need better lighting. And your bedroom needs decorated as though it isn’t 1992 with your jazzy curtains and shitty boarder- hang on, is this even your house or are you in some sort of sex dungeon? You need not feel the need to satisfy societal demands of asthetic perfection. Or if you do, at least invest some of that time in the gym stealing yourself a new towel, because the one you’ve draped your ‘nads in could do with a wash. You’ve put me off my cottage cheese, you inconsiderate bastard.


There is absolutely no need for you to check yourself in at ‘Bed’, unless you like alerting burglars that your house is now easy pickings. Funnily enough, I kind of guessed that when it gets dark, humans sleep. I know, it’s like a sixth sense. Hashtag Mystic Meg.


The only thing you achieve by deluding yourself and indulging in anything that promises to tell you if your old boyfriend/girlfriend is weeping over your photos, ‘Look at what you could’ve won’ style, is looking a total cunt. Spoiler alert- the only people who can be arsed sifting through your sticky wall are the people who hate you, the people that like you and your mother (in my experience anyway). That’s it. No one else gives a fuck.


How many times do you have to give me a run down of your day? The only use I have for the details of where you are going all day, is as a warning for where to avoid. The truth is that we don’t know what counts as newsworthy in the world of Facebook- but if it’s too boring to say out loud without being swallowed by a yawn, it’s too boring to state on Facebook. I have little use for a fucking play-by-play of leaving your bin out every Wednesday or when you are doing your ironing. Keep this shit to yourself.


And if they pretend that they aren’t, they’re fucking liars. Unfortunately, as we get older, the realisation that life is a depressing, meaningless load of bollocks where we all repeat the same mistakes our parents did, have children who resent us, work in a soul destroying job and look forward to death hits us like a ton of bricks. We try to lie on Facebook- jazz up our lives with the odd holiday snap with our ugly faces photoshopped so people can’t see that our eyes are red raw from crying, document our lives with a series of ‘Check Ins’, and update our statuses’ with shit like ‘I’m happy :)’ (Acting Happy, Feeling Crappy). But the truth is, we are all miserable bastards. Look at my Facebook for example- looks normal, doesn’t it? But am I happy? Of course I’m not happy. I hate everything. I complain constantly. I wish I was never born.


This is my Facebook pet hate. I don’t mind if I’ve just made some sort of universal statement- it’s fine to ‘like’ my comment then because there is really nothing else to say. But don’t ‘like’ my comment when I’ve asked ‘How are you?’ or some other attempt at conversation. If I asked you this in real life, would you stand in silence just patting me on the head like a dog? No? Because ‘liking’ my comment is the mother fucking equivalent, you cheeky cunt.


People who use their drunkeness to excuse their anti-social behaviour are fucking pricks, and just like the eyes are the window to the soul, drunk ramblings hold some sort of truth for the unhappy individual so devoid of friends that they spend their ‘party time’ online. Think about it like this: your Facebook audience is your family, friends, aquaintances, work colleagues, school friends and the bastards who added you even though you never really liked each other. Would you stand in a room and drunkenly ramble on while they all stared at you in silence, aghast while you ugly-cry, laugh demonically and state cryptically that SOME people can go fuck themselves… you know who you are… big bastards… I hate you. *sad face, winky face, open mouthed face. No, you would not, because in real life, this would be an intervention for your impending nervous breakdown.


If you don’t like me or I ‘did something to you’ years ago, don’t worry about seeing how miserable my life is up close. Move the fuck on. Get over it. There’s nothing to see here. Don’t make me think you’re a class act who extends the hand of friendship when I didn’t, and then take it away. Prove to me that you’re not the petty dickhead I thought you were, or leave me alone. Don’t hover around my virtual door like a fucking stalker- man the fuck up, you silly bastard.


Take your fucking virtual farm and shove it right up your joyless rectum.

So there you have it, folks- 10 Facebook Don’ts aiming to minimise drama and general chaos in your life- to your face and behind your back.

I bet my Facebook friend numbers will reduce quicker than the lights on Take Me Out when Josef Fritzl comes down the Love Lift.

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