Let’s be insensitively honest, Twitter is like a huge kennel on a bleak and isolated Yorkshire moor. Every dog (or user) barks louder and louder and then runs around in frenzied, redundant circles.
Does anyone really listen to the barking or care about what others are trying to do or say?
Even the gaining of followers is like the canine version of sniffing bottoms – small dogs, prestigious dogs – let me follow you to that illusive bone. But where is the bone? Where is the reward?
Twitter is a whirlpool of superfluous howls and the illusion of death is rife. The bodies of a thousand discarded tweets, stretched as far as the eye can see, like litter washed up on a beach.
And yet, we all continue to enthusiastically dress up our little darling tweets in tartan poodle-coats and decorative ribbons, and then send them out to the frontline. Some will tumble immediately, others may survive a little longer, but none will even enjoy the lifespan of a moth.