Online social networking is now part of the fabric of our society. Even those of us who haven't formed umbilical cyber-cords to our PCs and PDAs know that the idea of new, vibrant online communities is an unavoidable fact of life.
And predictably, with all things new, there is much suspicion and a sense of foreboding about the unknown.
Facebook perhaps was the first and most high-profile of the social networks. The internet seemed to morph into an entirely new world, techn
ology interphasing directly and (crucially) usefully with the needs of the users. Soon Facebook was surpassed, it became passé. Pages of information, hunners of photos and applications were superseded by Twitter.
Now I have to confess to rather unwillingly signing up for a Twitter account. I didn't quite understand the point. It took me some weeks, some months of perseverance before the penny dropped. You have just 140 characters to convey a message or sentiment; this is called a tweet.
There are no fancy opportunities to interphase with other users, no vast photo albums, no online Scrabble, no music-sharing possibilities.
Twitter is the ultimate stripped-down social networking experience.
It's all about the ability to convey a message, sustain a discourse whilst being pithy and succinct. One hundred and forty characters is not very many; it can be immensely challenging to create a cohesive thesis. Twitter requires constant action and reaction. Where a MySpace page or a Bebo entry is built up incrementally over time, an ongoing personal resource that can for some users become an online journal of their lives, Twitter is about disposability. You are judged on your last one hundred and forty characters and only your last one hundred and forty characters.
Having understood the way Twitter works, I have had great fun playing with the medium, challenging the people who follow my exploits online to exercise their minds and wits. There have been The People Who Are Buildings trend: President Barracks Obama, Norwegian footballer Tower Andre Flo and jazz legend Shed Baker. Then there was the one that involved cheese and Hollywood, which included The Gouda, The Bad And The Ugly, Bridget Jones's Dairylea, A Brie Too Far, To Herve And Herve Not and Buffalo Mozzarella Soldiers.
On screen you have a constant note of the number of folk following you. My number of followers would surge upon the creation of a new trend like the Hollywood/Cheese thing. However, after an hour and 30 posts I would witness numbers dropping off; clearly the cheese was too much for them.
Then it struck me how upside down the whole arrangement was. Of all those that follow me on Twitter, but a handful are actually known to me. Why do I find myself hurt and responsible for the actions of complete strangers? Maybe it's because they aren't actually complete strangers. Maybe it's because even though it's remote and seemingly impersonal, certain connections are made with people. And cut just as quickly.
Soul Kitchen's warm embrace There are very few cafes that you leave with a takeaway coffee and a smile. There's a wee place called the Scandinavian Kitchen in Great Titchfield Street, London W1, that does exactly that. Before you even enter the place the board outside offers a heart-warming message: "hugs help but kisses never misses". Inside the greeting is warm and welcoming – and true to its word. One of the staff offered me a free hug with my Americano. I took him up on his offer and left smiling and embraced. Scandinavia might be cold but the people aren't.
Down-to-earth guy who's too strung out for high life I'm in the process of making a radio documentary about a man called Blondin, a French tightrope walker (pictured right) who made a living out of walking across Niagara Falls. Quite a feat. And while I am no sort of athlete, no sort of funambulist, I felt that in the interests of veracity I ought at least to attempt to capture something of the sense of the event of tightrope walking. I felt the immersive approach to story-telling would be the way forward. Perspective is fascinating. From the ground in the big tent at Zippo's Circus, nine metres didn't look that far up. As I climbed up a scaffolding pole to the wire (and it is a wire: it's no sort of rope) the height of nine metres changed dramatically into the drop of nine metres. I am with a small, lithe Colombian man called Chico who has spent the last 21 years of his life walking a wire; he is only 25, so he is somewhat expert. He suggests that I hold the back of his shoulders as we attempt to step out together, without a safety net below. (I cannot allow you to be misled into thinking I was that brave/foolhardy to attempt such a stunt unprotected: I had a full body harness attached to a long rope with three burly men as custodians of my safety). There I was; on the verge of stepping out on to the wire, almost 30 feet above the world. And I bottled it. Couldn't do it. Put one foot out and retracted it quick-smart. Shrouded in ignominy I climbed back down to earth. I felt like a right clown. Which was fitting since I was at the circus.
Passion for puntastic Perth On Tuesday I was in Perth, a place I love. Apart from being breathtakingly beautiful and steeped
in history, it always makes me think of a clutch
of friends I have that were all schooled at the world-famous Glenalmond School. Toby Webster, the curator; his brother Tim, the lawyer and former actor; actor Al Mackenzie; and comedian Phil Kay: all fine upstanding denizens of the world. I also remember Perth as the place where, at Scone, Scotland's kings were crowned. And now I have a third impulse to relate to the city, thanks to a Dundonian friend of mine. Apparently Perth is the smallest town in the world: it's built on two inches. (The North Inch and the South Inch – Perth's two main parks).
