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Some of us learn the hard way that handling an iPhone while drunk is a big responsibility.
‘Mr C’, August 26th, 2010

The Mild-Mannered Lawyer and I recently found ourselves out at an art gallery opening, both of us with access to a free bar and to twitter. (Yes, I have an iPhone, now, don’t you know –  thanks to my dear friend Uncle B.)

Turns out it was too hard to tweet *and* hold a glass of wine at the same time, so that somewhat curtailed both activities. In the end, the worst thing that happened was I later took this photo at a pub and posted it on twitter with the caption “I don’t know what the cowboy is doing to that animal but I suspect it’s naaaasty”:

See? Not too bad. Not too bad at all.

Unlike last Friday night. An impromptu end-of-term catch-up at the house of The Fabulous Miss Jones well and truly answered the question of ‘how much alcohol is too much alcohol’ and the answer was ‘that much’. Unfortunately I don’t know how much ‘that much’ was because I was too damn drunk to keep count of my drinks.

I asked my husband the next morning if I’d been too embarrassing.

“No, not at all,” my husband – who, as the skipper, had remained sober – said. “You were just having a bit more fun than everyone else.”

And indeed I was. I got into the Fabulous Mister Jones’ music collection and started busting a move in the kitchen. For the record: dancing to the songs of your youth when you’re drunk is a bit like chewing gum with your mouth open – it feels a lot cooler than it actually looks.

In the middle of all this, I remembered I had an iPhone.

“I might just see what the good people of twitter have to say for themselves!” I announced to the room. And nobody stopped me. Nobody.

Friends do not let friends go on twitter when they are drunk.

Okay, so I might not have expressed my intention to go on twitter quite that articulately (it was probably more like “I jussshhhhttt urgh, um, twitter!“), but I did pull my iPhone out of my pocket and start looking at it, shortly after having sung my heart out to Foreigner’s ‘I Wanna Know What Love Is ‘. If that doesn’t cry out for some kind of intervention, I don’t know what does.

Anyway, on twitter, I discovered I had made an error in my post that day by crediting one twitter friend (love_kt) with another twitter friend’s comment (cookingkt). Looking at this with the kind of clarity that drinking your body weight in champagne  can give you, I decided that this was the worst possible thing I could have done to a person. Ever.

In my pain, I hit twitter big time with the following tweets:

Of course, I thought at the time I was being charmingly conciliatory, but turns out I was doing the twitter equivalent of Bernard Black’s ‘Belly Savalas‘ impression.

And then I moved on to Facebook. Yes, Facebook. Luckily, all I managed to do was post an “I’m drunk. Deal with it.” status update before just lying on The Fabulous Miss Jones’ couch and letting the great world turn. I didn’t start hassling my highschool friends by posting comments like ‘Nice tits!’ on photos of their pets. Nor did I manage to share links to clown porn sites.

But I so easily could have.

Yes, it could have been much much worse. Which is why next time, I’m installing an app on my iPhone that turns the phone off the minute my blood alcohol level reaches a certain level. Oh, and also short-circuits any hi-fi equipment within a twenty metre radius in case of dancing or singing.

I think it’s best for everyone.

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The main purpose of the sleepover party is to take a group of children, get them high on sugar and hysterical through lack of sleep, and then release them back into the community.

The following documents my eight year old son’s recent sleepover party using the medium of ‘Twitter’. The tweets are fictitious but the events are (mostly) real.

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Keeping son’s party simple this year. No themes. No home-made pinatas. No party games. Just a few friends for bowling, tacos & sleepover.
1:03 PM Aug 28th via Tweetdeck

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My husband just left for bowling with five 8 year olds. I don’t think either of us realised what that actually meant until he was leaving.
2:47 PM Aug 28th via Tweetdeck

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Yep. I can see I’ve made the right choice for my son’s party this year. I can say this mostly because I’m not actually at it yet.
3:46 PM Aug 28th via Tweetdeck

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Husband has returned from bowling a mere shadow of his former pre-bowling self. He’s headed straight for the whisky.
5:15 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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Husband has prised his lips away from the whisky bottle long enough to mutter something about letting the boys drink Coke. Oh, the humanity!
5:55 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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Boys having punch-ups over custody of the Wii controller. That’d be the Coke talking, husband dear.
6:16 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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Just read that my friend @bolshymum is having 4 kids under 6 sleep over. I have 7 under 9. We’re having a sleepover-off. Who will win?
6:48 PM Aug 28th via Tweetdeck

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Apparently @bolshymum is already onto her second vodka. I, however, am competing without the aid of alcohol due to medical reasons.
6:52 PM Aug 28th via Tweetdeck

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Stupid medical reasons.
6:53 PM Aug 28th via Tweetdeck

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.@bolshymum is claiming the first to get kids to bed is winner of sleepover-off. I’m looking at it more as an endurance event.
7:25 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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Still, how reasonable is it for me to expect to get the kids into bed and asleep by 7:30 considering we haven’t had cake yet?
7:26 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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Here is the cake. Somewhat eerily, it also depicts how I will look tomorrow.


8:02 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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Kids now watching a movie. Bedtime seems another lifetime away.
8:14 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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News in that @bolshymum’s kids are all asleep. I expect she, herself, is about to pass out drunk. Ha! What a soft cock.
8:26 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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Just told my husband if we’d had a ‘normal’ party, it’d have finished 5 hours ago. It’s not nice to see a grown man weep like that.
9:38 PM Aug 28th via Tweetdeck

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At least someone is tucked up asleep in bed, even if it’s just my husband.
9:49 PM Aug 28th via Tweetdeck

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Movie finally finished. Kids running around screaming. I’ve left my husband’s empty whisky bottle in charge and am hiding in the toilet.
10:01 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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If I had a video camera rather than this iPhone, this would totally be my Blair Witch moment. I’m so scared. We’re going to die…
10:04 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone
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Sorted! What a marvelous invention the sleeping bag is! I’ve zipped all the boys in. They might still be shouting but at least they can’t move.
10:48 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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What’s that noise? Oh god. It’s some one telling jokes. At 5:45am. Isn’t there something in the Geneva Convention to prevent this kind of thing?
5:45 AM Aug 29th via Twitter for iPhone

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Husband just asked if I was awake. I pretended to be dead.
5:56 AM Aug 29th via Twitter for iPhone

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2.5 hours to go. I am busy putting everyone’s belongings beside the door to make myself feel better.
7:28 AM Aug 29th via Twitter for iPhone

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I told the parents 10AM. TEN. A. M. WHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY?
10:01 AM Aug 29th via Twitter for iPhone

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Son just thanked me for the Best. Party. Ever. I guess it wasn’t so bad. Of course, I can say this now that everyone’s gone home.
11:32 AM Aug 29th via Tweetdeck

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My husband just left for bowling with five 8yo. I don’t think it struck either of us what that would mean until he actually was leaving.
2:45 PM Aug 28th via Tweetdeck

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The last thing my husband said before he left was something about letting the boys drink Coke. Oh, the humanity!
2:47 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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Husband has returned from bowling a mere shadow of his former pre-bowling self. He’s headed straight for the whiskey.
5:32 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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The boys are now punching each other up over custody of the Wii controllers. That’d be the Coke talking.
6:37 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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I have made an important discovery: the easiest way to diffuse conflict between 8yo boys is to accuse someone in the room of farting.
7:56 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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My friend @bolshymum has apparently got 4 kids under 6. I’ve got 7 under 9. We’re now having a sleepover-off. Who will win?
6:55 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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How reasonable is it for me to expect to have all seven kids asleep by 7:30 since we haven’t even had cake yet?
7:25 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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That @bolshymum is onto her 2nd vodka. I can’t drink because the antibiotics I’m on will make me chuck.
6:58 PM Aug 28th via Tweetdeck

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Just realised that if we’d had a ‘normal’ birthday party, it would have finished 3 hours ago. Vodka’s looking good right now, vomit and all.
7:30 PM Aug 28th via Tweetdeck

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This was the birthday cake. It is also an eerie prediction of how I will look tomorrow.

7:42 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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Now @bolshymum is claiming the winner of the sleepover-off is the 1st to get kids to bed. I’m thinking of it as more of an endurance event.
7:48 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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Kids now watching a movie featuring Lucius Verenus and Diver Dan as Greek Gods. Bedtime seems another life time away.
8:02 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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Movie is violent AND scary. Kids will be up all night either whacking each other with sticks or freaked out of their skulls.
8:14 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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News in that @bolshymum’s kids are all asleep. Everyone here still wired on coke. My husband has slunk off to bed with the whisky.
8:46 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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One 8yo has gone home. I had a tear in my eye as he left. I wanted to go with him.
9:48 PM Aug 28th via Tweetdeck

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Movie finished. Kids releasing pent-up energy by running and shouting. A lot. I’m hiding in the toilet.
10:02 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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The sleeping bag is a marvelous invention. I’ve zipped all the boys up. They might still be shouting but at least they can’t move.
10:28 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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What’s that noise? Oh god. It’s some one telling jokes. At 5:45am. Isn’t the Geneva Convention supposed to prevent this kind of thing?
5:45 AM Aug 29th via Twitter for iPhone

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Husband just asked if I was awake. I pretended to be dead.
5:56 AM Aug 29th via Twitter for iPhone

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2.5 hours to go. I am busy putting everyone’s belongings beside the door to make myself feel better.
7:28 AM Aug 29th via Twitter for iPhone

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I told the parents 10AM. TEN. A. M. Where are they? WHERE ARE THEY?
10:01 AM Aug 29th via Twitter for iPhone

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All guests have gone. The shouting has stopped. Let the over-tired sobbing begin, starting with…. me.
10:35 AM Aug 29th via Tweetdeck

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Daughter just asked if she could have a sleepover for 10 of her closest friends on her 6th birthday. I can’t stop shaking.
11:32 AM Aug 29th via Tweetdeck

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Daughter just asked to have sleepover for her 6th birthday. I can’t stop shaking.
2:45 PM Aug 28th via Tweetdeck

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My husband just left for bowling with five 8yo. I don’t think it struck either of us what that would mean until he actually was leaving.
2:45 PM Aug 28th via Tweetdeck

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The last thing my husband said before he left was something about letting the boys drink Coke. Oh, the humanity!
2:47 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

____________________________________________________________

Husband has returned from bowling a mere shadow of his former pre-bowling self. He’s headed straight for the whiskey.
5:32 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

____________________________________________________________

The boys are now punching each other up over custody of the Wii controllers. That’d be the Coke talking.
6:37 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

____________________________________________________________

I have made an important discovery: the easiest way to diffuse conflict between 8yo boys is to accuse someone in the room of farting.
7:56 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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My friend @bolshymum has apparently got 4 kids under 6. I’ve got 7 under 9. We’re now having a sleepover-off. Who will win?
6:55 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

____________________________________________________________

How reasonable is it for me to expect to have all seven kids asleep by 7:30 since we haven’t even had cake yet?
7:25 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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That @bolshymum is onto her 2nd vodka. I can’t drink because the antibiotics I’m on will make me chuck.
6:58 PM Aug 28th via Tweetdeck

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Just realised that if we’d had a ‘normal’ birthday party, it would have finished 3 hours ago. Vodka’s looking good right now, vomit and all.
7:30 PM Aug 28th via Tweetdeck

____________________________________________________________

This was the birthday cake. It is also an eerie prediction of how I will look tomorrow.

7:42 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

____________________________________________________________

Now @bolshymum is claiming the winner of the sleepover-off is the 1st to get kids to bed. I’m thinking of it as more of an endurance event.
7:48 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

____________________________________________________________

Kids now watching a movie featuring Lucius Verenus and Diver Dan as Greek Gods. Bedtime seems another life time away.
8:02 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

____________________________________________________________

Movie is violent AND scary. Kids will be up all night either whacking each other with sticks or freaked out of their skulls.
8:14 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

____________________________________________________________

News in that @bolshymum’s kids are all asleep. Everyone here still wired on coke. My husband has slunk off to bed with the whisky.
8:46 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

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One 8yo has gone home. I had a tear in my eye as he left. I wanted to go with him.
9:48 PM Aug 28th via Tweetdeck

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Movie finished. Kids releasing pent-up energy by running and shouting. A lot. I’m hiding in the toilet.
10:02 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

____________________________________________________________

The sleeping bag is a marvelous invention. I’ve zipped all the boys up. They might still be shouting but at least they can’t move.
10:28 PM Aug 28th via Twitter for iPhone

____________________________________________________________

What’s that noise? Oh god. It’s some one telling jokes. At 5:45am. Isn’t the Geneva Convention supposed to prevent this kind of thing?
5:45 AM Aug 29th via Twitter for iPhone

____________________________________________________________

Husband just asked if I was awake. I pretended to be dead.
5:56 AM Aug 29th via Twitter for iPhone

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2.5 hours to go. I am busy putting everyone’s belongings beside the door to make myself feel better.
7:28 AM Aug 29th via Twitter for iPhone

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I told the parents 10AM. TEN. A. M. Where are they? WHERE ARE THEY?
10:01 AM Aug 29th via Twitter for iPhone

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All guests have gone. The shouting has stopped. Let the over-tired sobbing begin, starting with….  me.
10:35 AM Aug 29th via Tweetdeck

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Daughter just asked if she could have a sleepover for 10 of her closest friends on her 6th birthday. I can’t stop shaking.
11:32 AM Aug 29th via Tweetdeck

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Dear McCann Sydney,

It has been some months since your initial call over the interwaves for ‘Australian Mum Bloggers‘.

I, along with half a zillion ‘Australian Mum Bloggers’, dusted off my CV and sent it off, in the hope of one day making an honest buck from what I love doing most (other than sleeping).

I was excited. After all, I loved that you were looking for someone with “proven experience in the online content space”. It made me walk around muttering ‘Online Content Space: the New Frontier’ to myself for a few days. I was even tempted to include in my application a photo of me sitting at my computer, wearing Spock ears and maybe, just maybe, one of those Seven Of Nine outfits that’d make my breasts look like they were about to start their own blog. But I didn’t.

Perhaps, in hindsight, I should have. You see, I recently found out that some other ‘Australian Mum Bloggers’ had already received rejection letters from you weeks ago.

Me? I’ve received nothing. Nothing.

I mean, don’t you know who I am?

For one thing, you might think I’m just some sad pathetic housewife who likes to write about menstrual accidents. And yes, I am that, but I’m also a sad pathetic housewife who dislikes rejection so much that she will try to pass off a bruise on her leg as the image of Jesus Christ. Remember this, McCann.

For another thing, I know people. Important people. Why, one of my friends won a Creative Emmy just the other day (it’s the same as an Emmy except the statuette apparently comes with its own hand-crocheted cover). Although, having said that, when I tweeted about my friend winning the Creative Emmy on Twitter, nobody seemed to care. Perhaps it had something to do with me also tweeting at the same time about my cat splatter-crapping all over the carpet. People were a bit more concerned about the state of the carpet and the colour of the shit than they were about the Creative Emmy. And me, being me, I went and told my friend that my cat’s shit was evidently more interesting than his Creative Emmy so he might not actually be my friend any more. Still, he said he’d let me have my photo taken with his statuette so my plan is to start claiming I’m a Creative Emmy Award Winning Blogger and make all you McCann folk regret having put my McCV in your McBin and missed your McChance with my McWriting Genius. Are you following me, McCann?

But actually, now that I think more on the subject, my cat is probably the most effective weapon I have at my disposal.

So let me conclude this letter by saying this: I have a splatter-crapping arsehole of a cat who will fuck your soft furnishings up big time.

You have been warned.

Yours sincerely, etc.

The NDM

cc. The Age Online. You’re next.

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A friend told me he once found himself camping in a remote location with a veritable United Nations of companions. For reasons I can’t quite explain except perhaps through the excessive consumption of alcohol around a campfire, they all took turns standing up and singing their national anthem. And it was decided that the Australian anthem was the Worst Ever, hands down.

I mean, the Icelandic national anthem – for example – might mention something about a small flower of eternity “with a quivering tear that prays to its God and dies”, but it doesn’t go anywhere near the Australian anthem and its “joyful strains” which makes us sound like a nation who simply enjoys having a good shit. And in any case, the Icelandic national anthem (for example) also has a beautiful and rousing tune to recommend it, and not one that’s jumping all over the scale like a seven year old high on E102 colouring like the Australian anthem .

Anyway, they often say that children allow you to look at the world anew, and listening to my (then) six year old Mr Justice singing his nation’s song certainly did that. He transformed the following lines:

“With golden soil and wealth for toil
Our home is girt by sea”

TO

“With golden soil in Welfington
Our home is good by sea”

Before I knew it, I had shared his improvement with the twitterverse. The Sharpest Pencil, not being called The Sharpest Pencil for nothing, was the first to pick up the Welfington scent by tweeting:

“Ask your six year old to take you with him. Sounds like an incredibly good place by the sea.”

And before I knew it, I had announced:

“So @sharpestpencil & I are moving to Welfington. We will write loving, moving blogs about our children back home. And drink margharitas.”

And then:

“Anyone else want to join us? Welfington, though entirely fictitious, has much to offer. For example, four-for-one Cocktail Thursday.”

Before I knew it, the concept of Welfington started to take off and the twitterverse began to buzz with excitement. Here is a (small) sample of what people were saying:

“No nagging spouses in welfington, well I do have a spouse in welfington but it is Hugh Jackman.” (@AngelaPJ)

“Ahhhh, Welfington. Where the drinks are on the house & the bar staff are ridiculously good looking” (The NDM)

“NO KIDS on the Welfington Express & the bar serves hangover-free-mojitos ALL DAY.” (@AussieWaffler)

“There’s no such thing as a hangover in #Welfington and the calories in alcohol don’t actually count!!!” (@M3lizza)

“I’ve heard tell that the township is mostly comprised of attractive, semi-clad young men who “dig” older women.” (TheNDM)

Welfington, Welfington. Such a powerful concept: a place where mothers can go – albeit only while on a mini-break of the mind – where they can forget about the kids and the laundry and the housework and that unidentified puddle in the hallway. Many men already have a place like that in real life: it’s called “The Pub”.

Over the ensuing months, mention of Welfington was made in quiet, longing whispers on the twitterwaves. The dream was kept alive… until a recent exchange between myself and friend Muliercula about daiquiris and beautiful young men fanning palm fronds, caused me to refer her to previous Welfington tweets. 

But when I did a search for the hashtag #Welfington on twitter, there was only an ominous message that said “Older tweets are temporarily unavailable”. And indeed, those older tweets have continued to not be available for weeks now. Weeks! It’s almost like Twitter likes the concept of Welfington as little as any husband who, say, came home to a wife who said ” “Sorry, sweetheart. I haven’t fed, bathed or dressed the children today because I just couldn’t stop sipping gin cocktails through twisty straws in Welfington.”

Which is what has prompted this post. Help keep Welfington alive. I need it, people. I need it so bad. Future posts will show why. If you believe in Welfington, clap your hands! Clap them really hard! Clap! CLAP I TELL YOU!

And then, when you’re done clapping, pass me another calorie-free mojito will you, love? I could really do with one.

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I understand now why my husband rides his bike to work most days. It’s because occasionally he hits paydirt.

Just the other day, he rang shortly before I left on the school run saying he’d had to halt his journey because of the “extreme weather conditions” and could I please come and pick him up, say, in an hour’s time? He all but said “Thanks, Mum!” at the end of the conversation.

Of course, ever-so-conveniently enough, the only place he could find to take shelter was a pub. The only place. Still, I didn’t mind. I was all a-buzz with some exciting news of my own to share with him. 

No sooner had he climbed in the car, I told him how on Twitter that day, I had changed my profile picture to become Shelly Ryan. THE Shelly Ryan. Except with a pilot’s cap set at a jaunty angle – thus tipping my hat (literally) at the time I accused the Flight Centre pilot of being drunk and ended up sparking a brief international fashion trend where two guys in Canada actually changed their Twitter profile pics to include a jaunty-angled pilot cap. True story. 

My husband, as someone who eschews Twitter, Facebook and the rest of the 21st Century, was confused. “Who the hell is Shelly Ryan? Wasn’t she in Cheers?”

“She might well have been. Her reach is that great,” I remarked. “Anyway, you’re thinking of Shelley Long.”

And I launched into a lengthy explanation about this woman Shelly Ryan who is stalking almost everybody on Twitter but only because she cares!  She’s just so damn excited about her TURBO CASH GENERATOR!!! and her INSTANT PROFIT MACHINE!!!, both of which she guarantees will make you “so much money you’ll think it’s illegal” but without ever actually revealing how. Conveniently for Shelly, those secrets are “only for buyers” and I suspect the actual secret is to set up a whole lot of websites selling a secret where the secret is to set up a whole lot of websites selling a secret. If you know what I mean. 

That Shelly’s such a card. She’s always taking me by surprise on twitter by disguising herself with foreign names like “VKsYuC” when all I’ve done is use the words “fast money” “recession buster” or even “the” in a tweet. I’ve been followed by up to 8 of her clones at any one time. She’s everywhere. Like Victoria “Posh” Beckham, except she’s smiling. I even think she is completely naked under her business jacket. Plus there are photos of her on her site holding trays of cash – TRAYS OF CASH – like she’s about to throw the whole lot on the barbeque – she’s that rich.

“Of course, the only downside to me becoming a Shelly Ryan is that people are now blocking me out of hand on twitter thinking I’m some kind of a viral predator,” I concluded. “As opposed to blocking me out of hand because I keep tweeting about Evil Dead Cat Robots and anal bleaching.”

“Well, you’ve had your fun,” my husband yawned. “So why don’t you change your profile picture back?”

“Naw,” I replied. “I’m waiting until my friends at Flight Centre see it and make Shelly Ryan their New Face. Because they so totally will – nobody can carry off the jaunty cap like old Shelly. Especially if she’s bearing trays of cash. She may even give one of those trays to us, she’ll be so grateful. And then we’ll be rich. RICH, I TELLS YA!” 

“Shit, and to think I’m the one who’s just drunk three pints…” my husband mused. 

“Hush now, I’m thinking of new ways to create multiple income streams…” I said.

Jaunty!

Jaunty!

Read Full Post »

It’s no great secret that my mind works in strange ways.

Just the other day, on of my Twitter followers (and “IRL” friends) LSK, tweeted me the following pertinent question:

Are you sure you weren’t born with two brains? One for all the normal stuff and one for, um, everything else?

My reply was swift but simple:

What normal stuff?

I felt that I had raised a fair point. Especially considering my recent shenanigans on Twitter where I decided to make a fake version of myself. 

“A fake version of yourself NDM?” I can hear the usual suspects exclaim. “Honestly! It’s bad enough that you even joined twitter, let alone blog about twitter. And now you’re wasting our preciousssssss time with tales of fake twitter accounts. Two words: Grow. Up.”

Oh COME ON, you people who ask questions! Don’t pretend you wouldn’t do the same given half a chance. Why, Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan and that guy who played Dudley “Booger” Dawson in “Revenge of the Nerds” all have fake versions of themselves on twitter. Absolutely everyone is doing it, darling.  

Still, I have to concede to those people that yes, I was extremely bored when I did this. I had been up since 5:15am, had already published my blog post, made Mr Justice’s lunch, laid out everyone’s clothes, found everyone’s shoes, made breakfast, done the dishes and I still had an hour and a half until I was officially late for school. What’s a Not Drowning Mother to do? Make her own fun, is what!

And so “TheFakeNDM” burst onto the twitter scene at about 7:27am on the 10th June, heckling her real counterpart by calling her blog post “vomit in a bucket” and tweeting deep ontological questions such as:

I wonder how many fake versions of celebrities on twitter have managed to get the real celebrity twitter account suspended.

By midday that same day, TheFakeNDM tweeted:

Being a fake version of a non-celebrity isn’t turning out to be as much fun as I thought it would be.

And then…

The problem with being a fake version of yourself is that you STILL have to do the dishes. You’d think there would be more perks, really.

By 2pm the next day, after asking how many black hairs you had to grow on your chin before it could be considered a beard, TheFakeNDM finally fell silent, the joke well and truly spent. Although whether the joke had any buying power in the first place is highly debatable. 

And yet, nobody can deny that I did what I am always telling a bored Mr Justice to do: I made my own fun. And it was truly very much “my own” in that it was really only fun for me. And nobody – nobody! – can ever take that away from me. Except maybe Twitter, when they suspend my fake account for “strange activity”. 

 twitsup

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For the record, Curtis Armstrong, the actor who played Dudley “Booger” Dawson in ROTN, does not have a fake version of himself on Twitter. But he should. If I was his publicist, I’d be so onto him about it. You know I would. 

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Imagine my excitement when I heard that Twitter is being overrun by robots.

“At last!” I thought to myself, “The robot uprising has begun!”

I was imagining something kind of like “The Terminator” and that Flight of The Conchords song set in “the distant future, the year 2000.” But my friend Mr C set me straight.

Apparently these robots don’t want to kill anyone. At least not yet. Instead, they spend their days trawling through the twitterverse for keywords. And these keywords are specified by companies (and motivated individuals) wanting to hook up with people who might need their services.

For example, the robot might be programmed to automatically follow anyone who mentions “auto insurance” or “personal injury” or to search for phrases such as “I wish someone could tell me how to make Big Money Fast!!” and “Don’t tell anyone but I really do suffer from embarrassing erectile dysfunction problems”. 

So, all you have to do is innocently mention something like “lactating asian babes” on Twitter and you instantly get “auto-followed” by the Breastfeeding Association of East Anglia, The Chowking Chinese Food Chain AND @HotLesboticChicks69.

And yes, for the record, you can mention lactating asian babes innocently. I do it all the time, actually. 

Sometimes, however, the link between what you’ve just tweeted and who suddenly starts auto-following you isn’t that clear. 

Why, just the other day I found myself tweeting a lot about dead cats and seconds later a very buxom lass started following me, trying entice me to some “Adult Dating Site”. I couldn’t for the life of me work out why she’d appeared, unless, of course, she worked as a part-time pet mortician to supplement her adult “dating”. 

“Now, hang on a moment, NDM” I can here some people say. “Let’s go back a little there. Why, exactly, were you talking about ‘dead cats’ on twitter?”

Sheesh, you people have to know everything. Can’t a girl retain some sense of mystery?

But if you really must know… (*sigh*)

You see, I’d signed up with a Twitter-based service called “Mr Tweet” to try and maximise my twitter exposure. You know, as part of my strategic plan to become an Internet Phenomenon like Susan Boyle, Perez Hilton and “The Keyboard Cat”.

Anyway, Mr Tweet analysed my twitter activity and concluded that there were dead cats that were more “engaging”. Okay, so that was my (wrong) interpretation of his report. But let’s just pretend, for the purposes of this post, that Mr Tweet’s exact words to me were: “NDM, frankly there are dead cats on twitter that are funnier than you”.

Understandably, I complained bitterly about this on twitter. I also complained about the fact Mr Tweet had recommended I follow Ashton Kutcher (Mr Demi Moore) above all others on Twitter.

What the…? Is Mr Tweet Ashton Kutcher’s bitch? My next tweet said something along the lines of:

Follow Ashton Kutcher? I say to Mr Tweet: “Over my dead cat’s body!”

And it was at this point that my well-endowed pet mortician friend started following me. Shortly after that I noticed my number of followers had dropped and I tweeted:

Someone stopped following me after those “dead cat” tweets. Don’t know who but must have hurt their felines… Yes, I am drunk.

And for the record: I wasn’t exactly drunk. Okay, so maybe I was just a little. But listen, I’m not the enemy here. 

However I do appear to be the only person concerned that some evil genius out there has invented a robot to look out for the term “dead cat” so he (or she) can entice them into his pornographic adult XXX dating lair. And I strongly urge everyone with a twitter account to randomly include the tag #deadcat in their next tweet so that we might smoke him out of his hole once and for all.

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