So I’m up late making some improvised business cards for my new thing – which is called Thinner Media (and which doesn’t strictly exist yet and certainly doesn’t have a web site so don’t ask). I’m going to hand the cards out at tomorrow night’s ‘An Internet Decade’, one of a string of ‘the net is ten’ events over the next few months. This one’s organised, as far as I can tell, by the DTI, NOP and e-consultancy. 100 of us (of uncertain pedigree, for sure) are to be ‘honoured’ for our contribution to the UK Internet over the last ten years. We are to be addressed by Tim Berners-Lee, our only authentic grandee. Ivan will, inevitably, be there…
I’m entertaining a fantasy that, once we’ve all had a glass or two of warm white wine, we’ll be taken out into the alley and given a good kicking – “and that’s for the ridiculous online petfood store, and that’s for the stupid lawn in the middle of your fucking office and that’s for sticking .com on the end of your name in a pathetic attempt to boost your share price and, you bastard, that’s for the string of major league baseball teams you bought with the money you looted from my pension fund!” Think I’ll stay at home.
You’re on drugs, aintcha? And staying up way too late too!
Actually, after last week’s debacle, I decided to stay away. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy last week’s bash. But when you lose your bag, spend all week trying to remember all the objects that went with it, cursing dirty rotten bag thieves, only to be phoned on the monday morning and asked whether you had, maybe, checked your bag into the cloakroom at the restaurant, and yes, they have one there, and do you have a pink ticket in your wallet, you do? And you get a memory rush of actually paying a pound to put the thing in there in the first place. And now it’s the following Friday and you’re off to get your life back. You just think you won’t bother to go to another one, if that’s how you treat yourself.