Textiquette

Although I have been aware of it for some time, something has come to my attention in the last couple of months that merits discussion: the sms. Or, more appropriately, sms civility – textual education, if you will.

The reason this thorny little problem comes to mind arises from a friend of mine whose last-minute escapades with university freshers saw him firing off these 150 character bomb-shells like they were going out of fashion. Desperate for replies, the occasional flicker of hope drifted in like a rudderless ship but with no conviction. However, on occasion, a promising “we should do something” would appear and the balance was seemingly restored.

Unfortunately, said friend’s over-eager joy led to an immediate reply that was not so immediately returned. In short, he was given the textual cold shoulder.

The dilemma he then faced however, was not “How do I get over this crushing blow?”, but rather, “She hasn’t texted back – maybe she’s just forgotten. Should I text her to remind her of my existence?”

Clearly, as outside observer we can all see what’s going on here. So as to not let down the hero of our amorous narrative, female textee has let him down gently, potentially promising a reply only to feign amnesiac foolishness. This kind-spirited gesture, well-intentioned as it was, has nevertheless gone amiss, such that our protagonist is both disillusioned and tortured by the own Sisyphean lack of either crushing rejection or joyous satisfaction.

A familiar tale.

Now, even more unfortunately, I now sit facing the same potential problem. “What?” I hear you cry, “it’s obvious – she’s just not texting you, she doesn’t care!” “Silence!” I retaliate, “She texted me first and said she’d get in touch to organise something lovely! How dare you?!”

The saga continues.

And here’s the thing, delusion is a powerful bastard. Who wouldn’t rather believe that their beloved has potentially forgotten to reply, mislaid their phone, casually sworn to forsake facebook for a month or even died rather than not get in touch? And in fairness, it’s easier. They’re not present via the digital medium, therefore they’re probably just not around in real life either. A far more pleasant reality than the one in which they have simply decided not to include you in theirs.

The point being therefore, that communication media makes this delusion a lot easier to swallow. And it’s not just texting, facebook and all the other things us kids get up to. Think about it: the unanswered letters, the complaining sonnet of the unrequited lover, portraits of imaginary lovers. There’s probably an entire section of the Lascaux  Caves somewhere filled with troglodyte scribbles all of which represent Neanderthal longings and rejection.

The truth is then, we’ve always turned to some sort of expressive vehicle to get our message across in a way that could hopefully soften the whole experience. Far easier to post an anonymously written love letter to your darling than walk up to her and say, “Hey, I quite like you” – even if the latter is probably more effective and, ultimately less embarrassing. In short, media do just that. They mediate. The bastards…

City slickin'

Fine, fine, it's taken another age or two to get back to the blogosphere. But let's be honest, there were balls to arrange, Indias to visit and internships to get our way through. Anyway, hopefully this will be a definitive return and I can keep this up (like now) in those moments of time when something approaching boredom but basically free time rears its opportunistic head.

A few things have brought themselves to my attention since my return to the country that require addressing. The first one, although being the musical genius I am I was aware of many moons prior to now, has some graphic content so children, look away now. For those of you old/wise/curious enough to plough on, please do so and sample the delights of Dev (as remixed by or basically talked over for a bit, by Tinie Tempah). When there, please pay special attention to the lyrics between seconds 37 and 41. For the audio impaired, here's what she's saying:

"wanna get your mits in my oven?
wanna get a lick o' this lovin'?"

Now, this is the kind of song that, with any luck will be played for a while, occasionally resurfacing at nightclubs across the land until hopefully, it dies the natural death of a reasonably good dance song, passing away from memory except for the odd flashback. However, these lyrics ought to stand as a testament to bizarre metaphors employed by musicians everywhere. What, exactly, is it that Dev is trying to say here? Getting a lick of her loving does, I suppose hold its enticements but an oven? I can only assume the male population is meant to seize the innuendo here and read 'oven' for 'female sexual organ' but doing so has its difficulties. I mean, is Dev seriously suggesting that her womb is a cavernous metal furnace that reaches exceedingly high temperatures, dangerous to most living things but very efficient for the purpose of roasting, grilling and baking cakes? Clearly this is taking the analogy a bit too far but even so, if heat and a certain level of insertion are the only grounds of comparison she's going for, why include "mits", a synonym for hands which has all the connotations of clumsy, insensitive oafishness that men presumably want to avoid in a seduction process. The whole thing's just bizarre...

That said, if Dev really does have a vagina like an oven then mits are probably exactly what you'll need so fair play to her in that case.

Lighter hearted things aside, the riots happened and realistically, there's not much more I can add that the sensible person won't already have decided for themselves. A good share of community service and jail will get served up and then god knows..

In terms of economy, I'm currently interning at a publication called Hedge Funds Review in London. The editor is a bit... idiosyncratic, but the experience is interesting nonetheless. Having to learn a lot about economics and, in particular a pretty niche area (certainly from my point of view anyway) in a very quick time which is a bit daunting but, then again, most of what journo-ing is all about. Met a guy called Dan Illett last night at some drinks thing who was very kind and has offered to let me go and point and shoot some camera in his TV studio for a laugh. On reflection this does sound very random and hey, we'll see. Going back to the niche thing by the by, this statement has to be one of the most ridiculous things this journal has ever published (from a 9th August 2010 article from HFR entitled, "Influence and infamy: the most significant hedge fund managers"):

"Within the hedge fund world, there are some managers who have become synonymous with the industry. Even the average man on the street who does not understand exactly what a hedge fund is will probably have hear of people such as Paul Tudor Jones and George Soros."

WHAT?! WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?! WHICH STREET? WHAT AVERAGE MAN?! Whoever wrote this (they've left their name off it apart from 'editorial' leaving me unsure as to which editor exactly this was...) clearly has no idea. Unless the street in question is Wall Street, Paul Tudor Jones might as well be a relative of Henry the frickin' eighth as far as half the people I'm imagining are concerned. The sheer lunacy of this sentence is just mind-boggling when you consider that half these people deliberately keep a low profile even amongst investors. Anyway. Getting carried away. In fact, it's almost time for lunch and this has been a good output for a revisit to blogging so I'll leave it at this for now. Here's a story about Gerard Depardieux take a piss on a plane. Until next time,

ever yours,

Dodgson.