Today is my second bloggiversary.* Wahey.
Truth be told, I feel more forlorn than an amputee hairdresser who’s just had his entire collection of scissors, brushes, hair laquer, and specialised bionic limb attachments crushed underfoot by a gang of sneering skinheads.
And look! I’ve ascended higher, faster, and more perilously up the Ladder of Abject Misery than an actress who’s devoted the whole of her career to playing a much-loved character in a soap, only to discover at the age of 85, scant weeks before the Bafta ceremony, that her services are no longer required on account of her “looking like sicked-up portion of tripe, acting like a concussed drunk, and smelling like the underside of a particularly dirty horse”.
To add insult to injury, if, on this specialest day of days, aliens should invade and demand the pickled head of the Earth’s Most Miserable Wretch, the ease with which the majority of my fellow men and women would reach a decision resulting in every single finger of every single member of the human race being pointed at my sorry backside, accompanied by loud cries of, ‘HIM! HIM! HIM! HE’S THE ONE!’could be equalled only by the sense of disappointment felt by a captive elephant tossed a bun containing a flavour of jam it didn’t much care for at a time when a rare trunk and tongue paralysing disorder had rendered it incapable of separating said jam from said bun without monkeys in the neighbouring enclosure mocking it relentlessly.
The reason? In two whole years of blogging, I have attracted unto my person but 35 followers.
Setting aside the whole question of precisely why my megalomaniac utterings have failed to secure the adoration of millions that is my birthright, I’m beginning to wonder what this says about those of you who’ve publicly hitched a ride thus far.
Averaged out over two years, thirty five followers makes roughly 72% of a person a month. [Note — it doesn’t, of course. It makes 1.45%. But I wrote out what follows late last night on the basis of three years, and as it’s relatively amusing, I’m leaving it in. Go ahead — taunt me for being a fool.] So...Averaged out over two years, thirty five followers makes roughly 72% of a person a month. Maybe you’re all amputee hairdressers, using the comments trail as a covert cyberspace meeting place to discuss your plans for world domination using the fabled Coiffure Code. Or maybe half of you have only one leg, while the rest make up for the imbalance caused by your colleagues’ 25% body mass loss by possessing 3% more of appendages you’re rather fond of? Or maybe all but a dozen of you are merely single organs, cells, while the remaining twenty three pulsate as a trio of Graft Beasts in a multi-limbed, multi-headed, multi-skinned celebration of shameless horror?
I wouldn’t care to speculate. What I’m absolutely certain of (and stunned near to unconsciousness by) is that there are so many people out there with more followers than myself whose current lofty flitterings amongst the Ludicrously Adored Praiseworthy are owed to their having done seemingly next to nothing at all.
Take that Fairyhedgehog, for instance. 75 followers — and all she does is talk about cats.
Or what about Writtenwyrdd? She doesn’t display her figures, but we all know she’s got followers, and at dead of night, retrieves them from her secret hidey hole and polishes them, talks to them, pets them.
As for Kiersten freaking White, she’s got 630, and all she’s managed is to bag herself a three book deal with Harper Teen and engage, for two whole years, in the continuous sporting of healthy looking hair.
Which kind of begs the question — hey, all you people out there who don’t know what the hell you’re missing, WHAT DO YOU WANT? BLOOD?
It worked for the Romans, after all. According to my research, two hours before any gladiatorial contests in mainland Italy circa lunchtime, volunteer centurions were sent into the streets carrying monstrous sandwich boards made out of those bulky rectangular shields of theirs. In the same way that town criers of medieval England would later shout, ‘Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!’, they would bang their shields with ornamental brass spatulas (or spatulanorae), and holler (in Latin), ‘hey, all you people out there who don’t know what the hell you’re missing, WHAT DO YOU WANT? BLOOD?’ — at which point every Tom, Dick and Harrae for miles around would make a toga-clad beeline for the nearest colosseum, there to partake of the zestiest intestine hurling festival history would ever know till Alice Cooper played live in LA in 1973 after consuming two rancid hamburgers and an undercooked pork schnitzel.
And as I always say when my manic episodes tail off and give way to common sense: What’s good enough for Julius Caesar is good enough for me. PUNK.
So here’s the deal. Over the coming weeks and months I’m planning to engage in a series of spectacular online stunts (likely to be in the form of regular posts — hey, I’m no Evel Knievel**) in order to draw in a few more people. The more people there are, the more fun this gets. When I’ve amassed a gleeful horde that matches exactly twice the number of months I’ve been blogging — a unique celestial phenomena on a par with 01/11/10***, a conjunction of all the planets in the solar system, and George Michael having a proper bloody shave — the follower responsible for erecting, then crossing, this rubycon will be awarded a special Abysswinksback crap crap crap crap crap prize.
So — a competition for someone who can’t possibly know they’re entering it, to be held on an unspecified date, with unknown numbers of cartoon mice jumping up and down in the background cheering, ‘Ahoy! Ahoo! Ahee!’ Perfect!
With any luck, it will be latvialovedoll1877.
*Bloggiversary? Whoever got that one started deserves a kick in the teeth. With a pick axe.
** And this is not for want of courage, note. I just hate wearing flappy trousers.
*** Which, like most BBC broadcasts, will not air in the US due to them insisting on writing out the numbers the wrong way round.
NB — my first BV is here, my incarnation here.