Sunday, 29 November 2009

Twitter tales

I’m an early adopter. Gadgets, technology, new enterprise markets. You got ‘em, I’m in ‘em. I had a car fax in 1988, back when my first mobile phone was bigger than a housebrick and premium rate phone numbers were a licence to steal money. Oh happy days. We used to send out these black faxes to anyone we could find. To cancel them they had to phone or fax our premium rate number. We were raking it in. This was before all this red tape that stopped entrepreneurs like me from raising money from the pathologically stupid.

I’m now on Twitter (@rogercashman). It took me a while to work out the point of it, but it has huge spamming potential. Everyone who follows you can see everyone else who follows you. And you can send people messages letting them know what you think.

I told Stephen Fry he was boring – which he is – that got me a load more followers, but it nearly sent him back to the nuthouse.

Its use was rammed home at this techie conference in Manchester. Basically you can sit there and text in your opinion. Some guy called Alain de Bottom was beamed in by video link (memo to self, must get one for the games room at Cashman Towers). He prattled on about the future of work – sorry pal, writingbooks and talking is not work, so I told him: jog on, baldy. He then sends me a message asking what I’d done to offend him.

Now, at this point I’d already bailed out and taken a little posse up to Panacea for a Friday livener. Lord Tom Bloxham, who I used to think of as a friend, tells de Bottom he shouldn’t take any notice of me, because I’m a “made up character”. Outrageous. At least I don’t wear a hat.

Mrs C, a follower, not a leader, then gets on the Twitter bandwagon and notices that most of the people I follow are beautiful women – can’t win can I? I get called a “lecherous sexist pig” for taking an interest in professional women, and all this in the week when I’m up before an industrial tribunal for running a “macho culture” on the sales floor at RC Faxback Solutions. She then clocked that I was following someone by the name of Cheshire Escorts (whatever that is).

I swear I thought it was a Ford Dealer in Nantwich. Now she thinks I’ve been “at it” again and it’s going to cost me a fortune. Being accused of using high-class brass, I can deal with. But you know what they say, the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist. Think about it.

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