Disingenuous What?

Difficult to find an interesting picture of a carpet, so it’s a mat.

I just wondered if anyone would know what a plopcarpet actually is? I’ve had the word going round and round in my head ever since that actor – the less-funny-than-James-Cordon one from Gavin and Stacey – tweeted it at BBC political news editor Laura Kuenssberg in the middle of General Election night. It was meant to be an insult:

Resign, you disingenuous plopcarpet. 

It’s given me the worst kind of earworm – the one word kind.

I haven’t bothered to read the back story too closely, because frankly it’s not as memorable as the insult itself, but I have a feeling poor Laura – my favourite reporter, as it happens – had foolishly mentioned that Labour’s Red Wall appeared to be crumbling. Now, it was crumbling, it did crumble, and you would think it was simply her job as a political analyst to make at least a passing mention of crumbling, but less-funny-than-James-Cordon actor person took offence.

To be fair, he did (eventually) delete the tweet – or string of tweets – and apologise to poor dear Laura, who graciously accepted his apology with more humour than I would have been able to muster at the end of a long, exhausting week of trailing round after politicians.

I googled plopcarpet, assuming it was one of these ultra-trendy snowflake, gangsta, hipster or woke-type words. It was obvious what it sounded like it would have to mean, but if people were going round regularly calling each other plopcarpets, why hadn’t I noticed? Get to the back of the queue, you queue-jumping plopcarpet, you!  Or perhaps they were. Perhaps only an ancient boomer would be unaware of all this electronic plopcarpetry.

But Google had no suggestions either, which means, probably, that the less-funny-than-James-Cordon actor made plopcarpet up on the spur of the moment, and thought it just the right epithet (epithet?) to tweet at a lady news presenter.

And assuming he made it up, what made him imagine that disingenuous was the adjective to qualify it?

However, I must thank the less-funny-than-James-Cordon actor because he has given me an idea for a flash-fiction story. (I am collecting them at the moment, in an exercise book.) It is story in which a person thinks up a ludicrous insult, only to have that predictive texting gremlin helpfully correct it to something horrifyingly unpleasant. And the consequences thereof.

Just to round off this tiny post, here is a selection of famous, and slightly wittier, insults from pre-Twitter times:

She ran the whole gamut of emotions, from A to B. (Dorothy Parker)

All morons hate it when you call them a moron. (J D Salinger)

My dear, you are ugly, but tomorrow I shall be sober and you will still be ugly. (Winston Churchill)

I like your opera. I think I will set it to music. (Ludwig van Beethoven)

His mother should have thrown him away and kept the stork. (Mae West)

She speaks five languages and can’t act in any of them. (Sir John Gielgud)

He is simply a hole in the air. (George Orwell)

Blending in with the rhododendrons

My niece has purple hair at the moment. This isn’t her, by the way.

I wouldn’t have discovered she had purple hair at the moment if it wasn’t for Facebook – so the stupid social media site has had at least one use. Three in fact, since it inspired this post and has also, I suspect, inspired an as yet unwritten (but plotted) sci-fi story.

I don’t think I’m really a Facebook kind of person. I mean, I joined it, but then it asked me for friends. Friends? I thought. Oh dear! Well, I do – I have three, but none of them are on Facebook. The only people, shamefully, I could think of to ask to be made a friend of was my sister, her husband and their daughter, my niece. There was a longish wait before they agreed. For a while I thought it was only going to be the brother-in-law, who is a kindly soul and probably felt one of them had to. So I get an awful lot of stuff about football and motorbikes.

After a while I realised they weren’t actually reading my posts, or rather the links to my posts, put there by WordPress. (Not another of those dire Auntie Linda ramblings.) A while after that I realised WordPress and Facebook had had some sort of coming-to-blows over my posts, and Facebook was no longer posting my posts. Miserable, useless thing! If Twitter can do it, why can’t you? I worked out how to post manually, but I was discouraged. Why am I faffing about like this, posting links to posts that only three other people in the universe will see, and they won’t be reading? So I stopped.

However, there was this phrase – blending in with the rhododendrons. My niece had taken yet another selfie of herself in front of some rhododendron bushes on a visit to a country house, and appended to it a tiny story, of how she had had to dye her hair four times in a single day because the lilac (obviously the colour she was after) wouldn’t take at the roots, meaning she had orange roots and lilac other-bits, which wasn’t a good look. It was that phrase. A little shiver of recognition – another writer. So the gene did get passed on – from Dad to me – and to her. What would you call that shiver – WriteDar? And I recalled that Mum was always telling me how good at writing my niece was, when at school, and how that had truly pissed me off since writing was all I could ever do well, and no one had thought to sing my praises. Basically, I was jealous of the infant. Then I forgot. Till Facebook.

In the photo she is smiling, rather sweetly, and wearing glasses. I haven’t seen her for years but I see she has a silver stud underneath her lower lip. She always did look – the way I wanted to look, but didn’t. She turned up to Dad’s funeral in Doc Martens, I seem to remember, and something long, black and gothic, and pink spiky hair. Tattoos – she has those too. When they were going to whip her kidney out – or was it put the new one in – she was so worried about spoiling her best tattoo. And now she’s got no kidneys at all, poor kid, no functioning kidneys anyway. There’s the long drive to hospital three times a week for dialysis.

However, in between times she works in a chemist’s shop, and she’s looking for a flat. And she visits country houses and gardens with rhododendrons, and takes her picture in front of them, grinning, because she never knows how long she’ll be well enough to enjoy her freedom. Long spells in hospital. Spells of purple hair, rock concerts and rhododendrons.

So, that’s the post inspired by duff old Facebook, by a photo of a niece I haven’t seen for ages (who knows, she may come to my funeral) and a chance turn of phrase.

Now on to the sci-fi short story.

purple hair

This isn’t her either, but a lovely shade of purple, don’t you think? Especially with the snow. I wonder – if I was to – no, I couldn’t –

I was just wondering if having purple hair, say, or Doc Martens, tattoos and piercings – would be enough to keep one out of the old folks home. I mean, would they be able to view you as an old person and make the assumptions people do about old persons, if you didn’t look anything like one?

A Mind of Many Colours

So, Joseph’s father loved him and gave him this coat, right. In a land of yellow dust and burnt sienna sand, it was a wonderful thing – a rainbow woven into a cloak. Not that it did poor Joseph much good. His brothers became jealous and decided to kill him. Then they decided not to kill him but rather throw him into a pit to die. Then they decided not to let him die in the pit but to haul him out and sell him to some slave traders for twenty pieces of silver. Many colours can be a good thing, but it ain’t necessarily so.

I just joined Twitter and Facebook and am finding it hard not to keep tuning in and checking, to make sure my Tweets/Posts are still there; almost as hard as not tuning in to WordPress to find out if anyone’s reading anything… and, more importantly, liking it. I’m already a bit ‘fragmented’ – easily distracted – a bit of a magpie. This can be useful, for blogging, but it can also be a form of torment. It depends how tired you are. And how many things there are to distract you. Now I have two more.

And I’m one of those compulsive readers. I can’t not read things, whether they’re adverts, cereal packets or instructions as to legal tyre-tread depth on the wall at the garage. Brain homes in on letters of the alphabet and nothing much else. It works like this. I wouldn’t know the colour or make of a car, even if I’d just been travelling in it (unless it was my own, of course.) Cars in a car-park are uninteresting as far as I’m concerned: mere rows of shiny objects with wheels. Yet recently I located a friend’s misplaced car in the hospital multi-storey, not by remembering where we parked it but by asking her to say the registration number. I turned, ran my eye along the first row and the number plate jumped out. It will always jump out (if it’s there at all).

It comes in useful, but it also means I find myself random-reading stuff on Twitter, when I haven’t really got time. The other day it happened to be an article from the Guardian by biographer Alexander Masters. And actually I’m glad I read it because it reminded me of something – that I have a long way to go before I can call myself a journalist. This was journalistic writing at its best. He was basically publicising his new, not-quite-published biography, A Life Discarded, and telling the story of how it came about. It was fascinating. Basically two good friends of his discovered 148 handwritten notebooks discarded in a skip, in an old Ribena bottle box and littered about generally. Since he was a biographer, they brought them to him. After many delays, partly caused by a bizarre accident to one friend and the discovery that the other friend was terminally ill, he started to read them.

They were diaries. At first he did not know the person’s name or gender – they were just ‘I’. Eventually he discovered that she was called Laura, but not her second name. He pieced her life together from the notebooks, discovering in the process that these were by no means all of the diaries. The 70s, the second half of the 60s and the 80s and most of the 90s were missing. He assumed that Laura was dead, since her diaries had been dumped in a skip, but as it happened, she wasn’t. And he found her…

I’m afraid I just have to read it, and have pre-ordered it – all because I got distracted. So, was distraction a good thing, because I stumbled across an author and a book-title I had never heard of before? Because it got me reading a Guardian article, which I would never normally have done since I don’t get the papers. Or was it a bad thing, because I ended up spending money on a book I shouldn’t even have known about?

Which reminds me of still other things: of my mother’s love of uniformity and her Alexander McCall Smith collection; of Nicholas Carr’s book suggesting that our brains are being seriously rewired by the internet; of Jane Austen and the Dead Sea Scrolls; of shoes and ships and sealing wax and cabbages and kings. Which may well find their way into another post.

colour coat

(Coat of Many Colors: Shoshannah Brombacher)

To Tweet, but what to Tweet – that is the question

I just opened a Twitter account. It was my intention, in fact, to join all three – Twitter, LinkedIn and Facebook – in a single day. Then I could then have written a smug and witty post entitled:

I joined Twitter, LinkedIn and Facebook in a single day (and now I need a little lie down)

Unfortunately I’m not going to be able to use that one because it’s taken me most of the morning to join Twitter and my nerves are already shot. I need the little lie down now. What if, in my experimentation, I accidentally tweeted some really foolish thing and everybody in the whole universe was splitting its sides laughing at me?

Pssst: why is the past tense of I text (absolutely counterintuitively) said to be I text rather than I texted, yet the past tense of I tweet remains I tweeted? Or is it in fact I tweet with a silent ‘ed’ and I just don’t know that yet?

And now of course I have no idea what to tweet. I googled What am I supposed to tweet, then? And Mr G replied: Think of it as small talk

I’m pretty bad at small talk. Also, I have no confidence that Kim Kardashian, say, or Olly Murs or The Queen would want to know that I just made myself a cup of coffee, or that the tumble dryer sounds as if it may be about to tell me it’s completed its cycle by piping the musical motif from Close Encounters of the First Kind. You know – the one where the hero builds a huge, fascinating mud-pie spaceship on the kitchen table and then hares off across the USA in search the real thing? Which no doubt is more than 140 characters.

How I hate that tumble-dryer noise, by the way. There must be a way to silence it, in the instruction manual. Which is lost.

There is nothing interesting about my life I realise now, too late.

Nothing at all.


Whereas I can’t seem to stop writing blog posts I can’t seem to think of anything at all to tweet or have tweeted. Or have tweet(ed). And what makes it worse is I have no Twitter followers. Understandable since this is my first day in the Nest, but… I’d be tweeting into thin air. Wouldn’t I?

Why am I putting myself through all this? There was a kind of logic behind it, I think. I had come to the conclusion that I ought to use the only two things I had – a computer and a compulsion to write – to make money. This sort of thinking has never worked in the past but I don’t seem to have access to any other sort.

So I asked Mr G how to make money through writing online and he sent me to one of those Wiki-whatsits with Janet and John-type illustrations. Wiki-whatsit listed a number of ways but warned me in Big Red Letters (no, it didn’t, I made that bit up) to establish a social media presence in advance. It didn’t tell me why, in any great detail, but I think the idea is you’re forming a kind of network – a bit like the network of links constantly forming and reforming inside La Tour Abolie, and between La Tour Abolie and other blogs/websites except that this is… outside my blog – like allying one complexifying

(cut out the red-wigglies, Spellcheck, there is such a word!)

network of links to another? Everything feeds back into, enhances and magnifies everything else? Everything hangs on the instant findability of information? Have I got the idea?

Please not that! I thought. I’ve managed to avoid it for so long.

I shall draw an analogy. Yes, I shall. Or maybe will.

As many of you know, I am a big fan of TV science fiction series but can only watch them in unevenly spaced, non-sequential gobbets on Freeview. At the moment I am watching not one but two ancient seasons of Stargate. One of the characters, Teal’c, has this thing inside his chest, like a worm with feelers, and there’s this big X in his chest where he’s been cut open at some point and, at moments of high drama and stress, he reaches into this X and pulls out the worm thing, which is actually called a symbiont, and he the host.

Well, how I feel about that symbiont is how I have tended to feel about Twitter, and social media generally. Something along the lines of: why would you ever want to?

It’s one of those schizoid things I expect – something to do with transparency and inadequate boundaries – ontological insecurity. It’s that instinct that other people could walk all through you if they wanted to, walk all over you…

On the other hand I sometimes do feel, when watching some TV debate, that I would like to say something pithy and devastating about Donald Trump, say, or… or Donald Trump. I have even sometimes mused If only I was on Twitter…

The other annoying thing is it means plastering my real and deadly dull name around the internet. Some of you already know because you asked, and I confessed, that I am not so much of a Rosie as a Linda. Rosie is the name of my favourite moggy. People came to address me as Rosie because rosiebooks2009 was the username WordPress concocted from an old email address when I joined. I would love to be a Rosie but sadly I’m a Linda. Every woman in the entire world is a Linda; there were at least four in my class at Junior School.

To add insult to injury I am, perforce, a Clark. I married an interesting man with the least interesting surname in the world. After we got divorced I had other things to worry about than fiddle-faddling about reverting to my maiden name. So, call me either. I’m both.

So, my Twitter ‘handle’ (handle?) is @lindaclark944. Quite what good that will be to you at the moment I don’t know.

Perhaps I ought to tweet that I have just posted a post about tweeting?

Yes, that might be a start.