My school reunion was supposed to be next weekend. Unfortunately, despite the best efforts of the organiser, it was crushed by only attracting four acceptances on Facebook and has been cancelled. I think there were two problems. One is the hideously public nature of the Facebook invitation system which encourages lurking on a massive scale, with dozens of people waiting for enough of their friends to break rank first. That’s certainly what I was doing.
The other is more fundamental. Facebook has killed the meaningful reunion. I am friends with at least 20 people on there that I haven’t seen since the glorious day in 1999 when I strode out of the school gates and became a man (-ish, given that I looked like a lesbian hippy. Ah, last day fancy dress - what a hoot). I’ve got Facebook friends from school that I couldn't pick out of a line-up containing them, my parents and the Cadbury’s gorilla. Why would I go all the way to Nottingham to eat sausage rolls with them? All I need to know is who has a better job than me and who is balder than me - I can find that out at home and sob over my own sausage rolls.
Just to prove I’m not the dangerous loner that the paragraph above suggests, I spent Saturday lounging around on Primrose Hill with my girlfriend. Seconds after I alerted her to the high-celeb count in the area we chanced upon Alexa Chung and a Geldof. Chung was beautiful of face and terrifyingly skinny of leg. The Geldof, with her peroxide fright-wig, fag hanging out of messy red lips and bovver boots, looked she was in a Saved By The Bell ‘issues’ episode about falling in with the wrong crowd and ending up looking like a picture of a punk drawn by a dog. I expected Zack and A.C. Slater to leap out of a car and bundle her off to that shit canteen for some magic tricks from the creepy owner. Obscene hereditary privilege - just say no.
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