'Scoring' followers: social media abuse

My name is Sam, and I am an abuser of social media.

I don't just use social media, I abuse it. But don't we all? Take, for instance, every Facebook status telling the world how many kilometres they ran (not miles, kilometres sounds better as there are more of them and therefore more impressive), and every tweet describing how tired they are that morning. Facebook friends crave a 'like' or a comment, as a smack addict craves their next fix. Twitter accounts are desperate for a retweet or to open their individual stories to discussion with a wider audience, in order to score more followers.

"Facebook friends crave a 'like' or a comment, as a smack addict craves their next fix. Twitter account are desperate for a retweet in order to score more followers"

The fact is that social media is self-serving. It's an online platform full of people who constantly need attention, and each user will persist until they hit the jackpot with a particular insightful status or humorous tweet - but even that won't be good enough. Once they've experienced the nectar of popularity, they're eager for more, to build on their modicum of success. They have visions of grandeur, becoming the 'next big thing', a social commentator who others will look to so that they too can beat the trodden path. Bees buzzing around the internet with aspirations to become the queen bee, to rise to the top, to gain respect from their peers. But there can only be one queen bee, and that is established from birth. The social media hierarchy is a monarchy, not a democracy.

I'm not so short-sighted that I don't count myself among this group, though. I tell myself, and others, that I use both Facebook and Twitter as an extension to the monologue that's continually running in my head, as a platform to gauge my jokes and general thoughts. I'm critical of myself, so if some witticism doesn't get the desired response then I'll delete the comment, erasing any history of it completely. I know that's not cool, but I do it anyway, my ego takes control of my sensibilities. Another example - if I deem something worthy to appear on Facebook, I tend to hold it back until the end of the working day because in my mind, that is when most people will read it, on their commute back from work or later in the evening in the comfort of their own homes, idly scrolling through that evening's updates.

I left Facebook for 18 months a few years ago, only returning in order to keep in touch with a friend who moved back to Australia, as well as others who were moving elsewhere in the world and across the country. But it sucked me back in and, while I don't feel the need to pass comment every single day, thanks to the rise of the smartphone, not a day goes by now without me checking my Facebook's home page or my Twitter feed.

I view it as a form of O.C.D. for my E.G.O. One final example highlights this and, again, I have never been afraid to admit this; indeed, I openly embrace the fact that I attempt to keep my following/followers ratio equal on Twitter. I can't put my finger on exactly why, but I'm sure it's some attempt at justifying my use of the platform - if I can attract a certain number of people who regularly tolerate my musings on life, then I am worthy to follow another person with each new follower.

Next week I'll be starting a new job, so I'm going to ween myself off having Twitter open at work in order to commit to the project properly. But take a look at your own history and ask yourself whether you're a user or an abuser. I envy the former, those who really can post something and forget about it, without wondering if others find it thought-provoking in any way. But I say it with a great deal of certainty that the majority of us fall into the latter camp of abusing social media.

Fantasy Fever

I recently begun re-reading Nick Hornby's Fever Pitch (for those unfamiliar with the book, it charts the author's obsession with football beginning when he was just a young boy and continuing into adulthood, looking at the parallels between his team's and his own fortunes in life) and it got me thinking about my own comparisons. Whereas Hornby often found himself living for the weekend and reliving favourite matches in times of boredom, in similar situations I find my mind wandering to how I want the fixtures to play out to hand me the advantage in fantasy football.

No longer confined to the pages of newspapers, broadsheet and tabloid alike, over the years there have been various iterations of fantasy games popping up all over the internet, with my game of choice being the official Premier League version. It was as a schoolboy that I first pored over the points and valuations of the players, attempting to second-guess who was going to fire on all cylinders in the season ahead. Once my team was picked, I'd spend a few weeks monitoring my players and regretting decisions until realising I couldn't make any changes until halfway through the season and then I'd lose interest altogether.

But with the internet came the ability to make constant changes, one a week for free or more for a four-point 'hit'. And with that ability came the addiction. One player might score a hat-trick at the weekend and become the flavour of the week, but in order to fit him into your team would require a bit of shifting around, dispensing two or three people in order to be able to afford him at the expense of other players who, quite frankly, weren't pulling their weight and thus were brutally dispatched so you could flutter your eyelids at your latest acquisition... who then, predictably (in hindsight, which is such a wonderful thing), would draw a blank while for another team someone might have scored a brace against one of the bigger clubs, and you think 'well, if he can do that against them, he'll end up annihilating the relegation fodder', and you dispatch the troops to get shot of that over-priced footballer, who also suddenly seems more overweight than you had seen before through your rose-tinted glasses, and bring in this week's golden boy... you can see a pattern emerging.

These days, I try and refrain from jumping on bandwagons, instead trusting my own judgement. I've had success on a small scale over the years, either winning or coming as a runner-up in a private league I've set up with 15-20 friends on a regular basis, so I'd like to think I know vaguely what I'm talking about. But I used the word addiction earlier, and never a truer word was spoken. It infiltrates my thoughts during the duller moments of the day, and has led to me scribbling various wish lists and formations on scraps of paper that spill across my desk. Of course, there's no way of knowing what the future holds, but you study the form and the fixtures and you think you've got an advantage over those who don't tinker with their team, much like those who hang around betting shops and racing grounds all year long. But when it comes down to it, who am I to say that I am standing on higher ground than them?

For the first time, I've entered a fantasy football league with monetary prizes, both monthly and for the final standings. At the same time, a friend and I have begun a weekly competition with £5 to whoever gains the most points per week. And although it is far from dominating my life, as Hornby chronicles in Fever Pitch, I find myself hoping that the football team I support actually concedes when they are playing an opponent with a player that I have in my fantasy team. Obviously I want my team to win outright, but it's a clear sign that my interest in the sport is now divided – once it was all about the league standings; now it is split between the Premier League and (my fantasy league) the Premier Inn League.

The end of reality TV?

It came to my attention earlier that tomorrow marks the final of the latest Big Brother series – the 'end of the new beginning'.

I did not find this out through being bombarded with adverts on the television. Nor did I read about it in articles among the various newspapers and website I read to keep up to date with current affairs. I haven't even seen it plastered all over Twitter, the domain that has become synonymous with social commentary while watching television. No, I was emailed with a seemingly desperate offer of free tickets to the live final.

This fact in itself shows the fall of the once-king of reality television. I've never been a particular fan, but you couldn't go anywhere without reading or hearing people talk about it around the proverbial water cooler. Social etiquette almost demanded that you were aware of whatever mundane 'scandal' was going on in the house. Now, the resurrected programme on Channel 5 looks like it could well be crucified once more.

Is The X Factor turning into The Ex-Factor?

On a similar note, The X Factor – its main rival for reality television dominance in recent years – has also gone under a transformation. Much was made initially of the new line-up of judges, until it shared the same fate as Big Brother – a drop in audience participation, a lack in concern and, ultimately, a lack of coverage.

To date, I have watched a grand total of one X Factor show this year, and none of Big Brother. This time last year, I would have been forced to sit through hours each and every weekend in the run-up to Christmas. But the fact that everyone else, the wider public and media alike, is obviously losing interest brings the question: is this the end of reality television? Is The X Factor turning into The Ex-Factor?

Arresting television

I like to see myself as something of a thought-leader when it comes to watching and promoting new sitcoms to my friends. I'm not egotistical enough to say that it is always only me who hears about them first or expresses an interest in watching a new comedy after seeing a trailer advert, but in bringing something new to a large group of people, I have previous form. Peep Show, The Office (US), Curb Your Enthusiasm, Modern Family, Community, and most recently Fresh Meat… I've seen something I've liked in all of them and spread the good word, much like Jesus would have if he was a television critic. But there's one series that I've heard about for a long time but never quite got round to watching, until recently: Arrested Development. And it's as good a sitcom as anything that's been aired before.

In a synopsis you will have heard before, it revolves around a dysfunctional family – rich, in the public eye and for most of whom the wealth has definitely gone to their heads, and the majority have never worked a day in their life. But the structure is anything but a repeated formula. Arrested Development is narrated, by none other than Ron Howard (who doubles as an executive producer), often with pithy and scathing observations on the characters, while also being self-effacing – near the end of season three, when there was doubts over the programme's contract being renewed, the show mocked this by satirising the lengths that others have gone to in order to save their own skins, introducing one episode with a blockbuster opening showing stills of the main characters (and a racist granny never before seen) stating "IN TONIGHT'S EPISODE, ONE OF THESE CHARACTERS WILL DIE!" – willingly ruining its own suspense halfway through by informing us that it will be the racist granny – while also urging viewers to wear 3D glasses to add an extra dynamic to proceedings… all very tongue-in-cheek, and all very un-American.

Which is why there are currently only three seasons. Arrested Development was lost on the American audience, its humour too British and, to hazard a guess, too intelligent for many stateside to understand. It dealt with subjects that other US shows stay clear of for fear of causing offence or alienating parts of its targeted audience. Some of the story arcs were brilliantly constructed, none more so than the youngest son Buster having his hand bitten off by a seal accidentally made bloodthirsty and subsequently released into the ocean by Gob, the alpha buffoon of the family, but looking back on previous episodes the narrative dropped in unseen hints of this happening – including Buster winning a cuddly toy seal in a fairground claw machine, and previously owning an Art Deco-style hand-shaped chair. It's moments like this that you can only sit back and marvel at the ingenuity of the writing – and at the same time, can hardly fathom why more seasons were not commissioned.

But the world has a way of righting wrongs. I started watching the first season several months ago – and the very next day, years after Arrested Development had ceased production, an announcement was made confirming a fourth season and a cinematic release. Its cast have gone on to become stars in Hollywood themselves, including Jason Bateman, Michael Cera and the fantastic Will Arnett, but it's testament to the belief held in the show by the actors, producers, and above all the fans, that there is more to come from this wonderful sitcom.

Escape from reality

In a world of ever-decreasing attention spans and lifestyles outside the outdated concept of the nine-to-five working day, television executives have a fight on their hands to retain their audiences and keep producing programmes that make people tune in on a regular basis. There is one unlikely candidate on our viewing schedules that has concocted the perfect formula, and that is Hollyoaks.

Over a decade now, I've dipped in and out of the show with varying degrees of interest. After school and college it formed my after-dinner viewing, while a snapshot of university life would depict a scene of my housemates in front of the programme, sprawled on sofas underneath a 'Girls of Hollyoaks' calendar. But as I entered the working world of nine-to-five Monday to Friday, I found myself behind a desk, travelling home or doing something else until gradually the show slipped down my list of priorities until it barely registered at all.

But the key to Hollyoaks' longevity is its ability for its audience to pick up where it left off. There are no wholesale changes to the cast with a plane crash or train wreck writing off half of the actors, so you'll always recognise the characters. Its storylines begin slowly but build momentum into a snowball effect over months and months, reaching a climax which has avid fans and casual watchers gripped in unison.

I write this as I watch a week's worth of episode back to back, after having barely watched Hollyoaks in recent years. But I'm right back into the drama, fixated by a tapestry of threads interwoven into each other, encompassing blackmail, deceipt, affairs and murder - 'nothing ventured, nothing gained' appears to be the motto, finding something for everyone. It's twenty five minutes of pure, sheer, unadulturated guilty pleasures - and no matter how long I leave it until the next run of episodes I watch, be it weeks, months or years, I know I'll be returning to a familiarity that can't be found elsewhere.

Cue Hollyoaks theme tune *dow-down-dowedy-dow-dow-dooowwwwn*

Let the Games begin

As expected, Stuart Pearce has been named as manager of the men's British football team at the 2012 London Olympics and, amid misgivings from Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland that their footballing identities will be weakened and overshadowed by an abundance of English players, he has to pick 18 of the Home Nations' finest footballers aged 23 and under – with the exception of three players over 23 by the time the Olympics start at the end of July next year.

It is my opinion that, in order to satisfy all parties, the team selection will have to be inclusive of all four countries while selecting a squad with sufficient depth to challenge the best of the world for the gold medal. Several of the biggest names in Great British football currently have already come forward and stated their enthusiasm for taking part, Gareth Bale and David Beckham among them.

Crucially, however, a sticking point will be the European Championship held in Poland and Ukraine. Many of England's current crop of talented youngsters will be hoping to make the squad and, in a world full of optimism and naiveness, the final of Euro 2012 on 1 July. Already mindful of the lack of rest and recuperation so badly needed in the absence of a winter break in the Premier League, club managers will be reluctant for their English hopefuls to go on and compete in a second tournament so soon after the Euros, and so close to the start of the 2012/2013 season.

Wrong kind of shell suit...

With all of this in mind, and ignoring potential injuries and suspensions, try putting yourself in Stuart Pearce's shell suit and pick a squad of 18. I've come up with the below, but see if you can do better.

Goalkeepers: Wayne Hennessey (Wales, over 23); Ben Amos (England)

Defenders: Kyle Walker (England); Phil Jones (England); Chris Smalling (England); Ryan McGivern (Northern Ireland); Craig Cathcart (Northern Ireland);

Midfielders: David Beckham (England, over 23); Aaron Ramsey (Wales); Darren Fletcher (Scotland, over 23); Gareth Bale (Wales); Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain (England); Barry Bannan (Scotland); Cory Evans (Northern Ireland)

Forwards: Daniel Sturridge (England); David Goodwillie (Scotland); Andy Carroll (England); Simon Church (Wales)

Day of the Undead Little Girl

I am a man, an adult male, and I have no qualms in proclaiming the following: there is nothing scarier than a little girl.

To clarify – specifically, I mean little girls used in horror films, oft in shadows, appearing at the end of a bed in the dead of night or ghostly visions with bedraggled hair. They freak me out; give me a deformed monster in a film any day of the week and I won't bat an eyelid. But, so help me God, Vishnu, Tom Cruise and all the other faces of religions, I will run for the hills if I see an undead pre-teen girl. Which is exactly what Phones 4 U's latest advertising campaign features.

I had the misfortune to first see this advert when half-watching while eating my dinner. It's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it beginning, so all I was aware of was the woman hurrying to her car in an empty underground car park, so it came as a heart attack to me when the creepy prepubescent popped up in the back seat. What's more, I work around the corner from the flagship Phones 4 U store on Tottenham Court Road and they've emblazoned their shop front with photographs from their latest campaign, images that send me scurrying back to the office to quiver in fear underneath my desk and jumping every time the phone rings.

I don't seem to be alone in my agitation, as the Advertising Standards Agency has received hundreds of complaints about this advert. According to Marketing Week, the ads are "unsuitable for children to see". It's not the children I'm worried about – unless they're dressed in Victorian nightdresses, their faces are covered by lank strands of hair and there are whispers of playground melodies infiltrating the air – it's me.

I, for one, cannot wait for Halloween and the month of October to be over.