Is Twitter Going Down The Shitter?

One could hear the rapid tapping of the hailstone ricocheting off the windows of The Badger’s Snatch. Outside it was freezing. Yet, inside the entire lounge area was warm and toasty. One’s dear friend, Fanny O’Dour, had lit a roaring fire earlier in the morning and, after taking a firm grip of Willie’s poker an hour earlier and inserting it forcibly into the depths of her glowing mound, achieved optimum heat.

“Another glass of Pere Ventura cava, Crusty?”

“One shouldn’t, Fanny dear but as the bottle’s open.”

Perched elegantly on the leather upholstered bar stool, one took a sip of the crisp, bubbly elixir of Catalunya and looked about one. The fruit machine was flashing its lights blissfully, along with the infuriating tune forcing itself from within. Daphne Dewdrop, significantly tanked up on Diamond White, was leaning upon a rather portly trucker, who’d only stopped off for a cheese and jalapeño Panini.  As he tried, awkwardly, to eat the contents of his lunch, Daphne rested her chin on the top of his protruding stomach, and looked up at him with her bloodshot eyes

.

“I think you could be the one,” she slurred several times.

The words didn’t make any connection with the gentleman; no doubt due to the fact Daphne was drooling from the right-hand side of her mouth, leaving a damp patch on his sweatshirt, ever increasing in size, that was well on its way to make connection with the sweat patches he had under each arm.

Fanny placed a plate of tapas assortments next to one’s glass and one sighed.

“That’s a deep sigh, Crusty!”

“Hmmm?” One replied. “Oh, forgive one, Fanny dear. One finds oneself a little flat from the world of Twitter.”

“Twitter?! What’s wrong? You love tweeting with everyone.”

“Not recently, dear. Yes, one has a pod of precious poppets who one nuzzles to one’s loving bosom but … dear Lord … there are some rather unpleasant scrapings of a mangy dog’s anal area on there too.”

“How so?” Fanny enquired, putting down a 3-colour pack of bingo cards she was preparing for that night’s entertainment.

“Take one’s delicious morsel of gorgeousness, Doctor Christian Jessen.”

“Right.”

“The man is Heaven sent! Every particle of his frame has been crafted by the hands of angels. A smile that could disintegrate one’s most high-tensile strength undergarments with just one glint off his molars. Goodness knows how many times one has seen him in one’s mind's eye, in varying states of undress, with one battling one’s mind to remove the remaining items of clothing without success but people are vile to him!”

“Vile? Why?”

“One suspects Stephen Fry was right, dear. A swarm of people getting twinges and lady-stiffies from thinking they have got one up on a highly trained professional, who just happen to be in the public eye. Take for example one creature; a female with an unnaturally pointy face; the type that could pass through a set of period railings without her ears touching the metal. To make matter worse, a rather piss-poor sense of fashion give her the motivation to top it off with an unflattering hat. She describes herself as a ‘bitchcake’, whatever such a thing is.”

“What did she say?”

“One’s blocked much of her nonsense from one’s mind, dear. Sufficed to say she had children, had read an article in Take a Break, or some such fancy, under a competition for knitwear and claimed to know more than Christian about vaccination. The woman is an airhead!”

On a roll, one continued, ”It’s like those ‘Ya! I wanked off in a porn cinema and wiped it on the hood of the guy in front and that Doctor Christian thinks he knows more than me about sperm donation?”

One knocked back the cava contents of one’s glass. Fanny obliged with a refill.

"Then, this week, an attack on one’s most treasured poppet, Derren Litten! Some woman, who – honestly Fanny, should never have a profile photo taken in close-up, without soft lighting or a veil – decided to advise him his show was on its last legs! Quite frankly, from the look of her, one’s surprised she lasted to the end of her first bile-drenched tweet! Apparently, he ‘writ’ 6 fantastic series. Writ?! Dear God! The woman casts aspersions on the comedy genius of one’s dear friend and can’t string 140 characters together to form a coherent tweet?! Clearly she only attended school on the days they were focusing on consonants. She finished by stating she won’t be watching Series 9. One thinks at that stage, an entire legion of Benidorm fans breathed a sigh of relief  and cracked one off … er … open to celebrate the knowledge she would be steeping in her own poison elsewhere.”

One was increasingly outraged but continued, “Then, to top it all, some vile former member of UKIP, Julia Gasper – you know the one, looks like she’s left her dentures out and her tonsils are sucking her lips in - called one a troll?”

“You?! A troll?!”

“Quite, you gorgeous thing. All because, while she was spouting her venom of anti-LGBT opinion, she directed one detractor to read her book and one, quite rightly, said one would rather read tea leaves.”

“I take it another glass is in order?” Fanny asked with the exquisite bottle of Pere Ventura lifting in her hand to the rim of one’s glass.

“No thank you, Fanny. One’s going to head off back to Crusty Hall.”

As one dropped from the stool, took the last mouthful of cava and sashayed elegantly towards the door one heard Fanny’s voice.

“You know what you should do?”

One turned. The trucker was now attempting to make an exit past one, with Daphne Dewdrop embracing the calf of his left leg, being dragged along with each step. “I think he’s the one, Crusty.” She said, trying to keep her tights from rolling down with the friction as she moved towards the door. One looked back towards one’s dear Fanny.

“Write your blog again.”

Outside, clipping oneself into the driving seat of GUSSET 2 and switching on the finely tuned Aston engine one thought, “you know, Fanny, you may be right.”