Thursday, February 26, 2009
So there’s direct Facebook voyeurism, that has some obvious gleeful results, like coming across a picture of an ex boyfriend, chin adorned with dribble or otherwise caned to the eyeballs facedown. Or a tagged crotch shot of the gold digging blonde who leaves you cold.
Those are obvious key finds, but sometimes you’ll find something immensely satisfying and hilarious, only because your idleness dictates it. The indirect voyeurism – shit you stumble upon by accident where your casual interest is picqued by the high bell-curve of boredom, when you’re suddenly struck by the arcane differences between dudes and birds.
Stumbled onto a goldmine yesterday, and had quite a giggle.
Was posed a question from a male friend the other day over a plate of Tofu Surprise. ‘Why are girls so catty and bitchy to each other?’ Staring at him squarely back: ‘In my very humble opinion, I have found men can be harsher, more direct and cutting, not to mention crueller, than women. At least in my experience.’
Perhaps women have compassion packed into their genetic makeup, and their bitchiness is often behind the smoke screen of a charming smile, but in actual fact, they secretly hate you.
Still very much find this amusing, how classic men and women can be in their own right.
So I’m yawning and surfing through Facebook, and I came across one pearler of a random picture. You know those old school photos scanned in from the 90s? A photo, of a bunch of nouveau posh boys, all looking very poncy, clearly all in the throes of being privately- edumacated.
Girls’ commentary in these types of photos is loosely self-deprecating: ‘Crisis Shazza, I’m untagging this picture. If you’re wondering where all the pies went, check out my waistline.’ Or ‘Oh my GOD, it’s a side ponytail.’
A look at an old formal dinner picture, the commentary goes something like this:
Patsy Clinehead: Pooh Bear, you’re the only hot one in this picture. Horrible horrible horrible.
Caroline Pugh: Look at my cheesy grin – eeek – ha ha ha!
Sarah Hucknell: Not our best girls.
[Not this lot. It’s brilliant. It goes like this:]
Andrew Shackleton: Jesus. I am short.
Freddie: Nesbit: ….of hair.
Rupert McCrory-Heatherington: Cunts
Octavius Trilby: Such a dark photo anyway - I can’t believe we paid for it. Mine wasn’t even in focus.
Robert Dunford: I'd forgotten what an upstanding figure of authority you were Heathers.
Andrew Shackleton: Nesbit, you are a dead man.
Henry Smythe-Ellis : Actually Nesbit is married – so he’s probably is.
Henry Smythe-Ellis: Is Knudsen still a gaylord?
Clive Wetherington: Come on children, play nicely.
Mark Gilbey: Just like old times eh?
Octavius Trilby: I don't remember Heathers using language like that when we were at school. He must have picked it up since he left...
Andrew Shackleton: He's now in Brighton surrounded by pinkos and Gomorrahites, so just possibly the lady doth protest too much?
Will Foster: Has anyone seen Eddie Webster recently? I hear he is now a fat bastard?
Eddie Webster: [looking decidedly rotund] Hi guys, I have indeed piled on the pounds and weighing in at cool 18 stone. Just really enjoying eating at the moe! Don’t think you anything special Foster just because you’re donning grey hair.
Andrew Shackleton: Is all this exciting physiognomical chitchat some kind of covert foreplay? I thought the Brown Triangle was limited to Heathers, Nesbit and Trilby.
Yours weirdly aroused,
[All conversation comes to an abrupt halt. At least for a bit.]
Mark Gilbey: That seemed to be a conversation stopper.
God it must be fun to be a dude. And have a hairy chest and balls to scratch.
Although, that said, come on – like I’d ever want to give up Hannah and Elizabeth (my boobies) for a pair of man-testicles.
Now could you imagine if us girls were to say something like, ‘Does anyone know if Shelley-Anne is still a dyke?’ Or ‘Crisis Jennifer. How chubby were you?’
Could. You. Imagine.