Many things puzzle me about modern life. I rather suspect that I have begun the inexorable slide into old fogeydom, and that I will now spend the rest of my life muttering that I don’t understand young people nowadays and how it wasn’t like this when I were a lad (probably because I never was a lad). But one aspect of modern life really has me pondering how its name just doesn’t make sense.
Why is social media called social media?
It’s not that social at all. Not in the ‘enjoying the company of others’ sense. People seem to spend more time updating their profile with selfies and wittering on about the exciting things they’ve done, and less time doing the exciting things (which are generally not that fascinating to the people they’re trying to fascinate) or actually socialising with other people. Presumably the ‘social’ bit was tagged on in an attempt to convince users that they needed to join these platforms, thus making the owners shitloads of money. And it worked. Zuckerberg’s hardly short of a bob or two, as we used to say in ye olden days.
I’ll admit to owning a couple of social media accounts, but I’m not that interested in documenting my social life on them. And I’m only interested in interacting with people I would interact with in real life. Instead, I use my accounts mainly as a platform for sounding off about the many things that piss me off (I’m sure I’m a lot more pissed off than when I were a lad – just as well social media didn’t exist way back then), and as a showcase for my undeniably sparkling wit. It’s such a shame the likes of Noel Coward and Oscar Wilde aren’t around to tweet. And tweeting is actually an interesting intellectual exercise in saying what you want to say in such a short space. Indeed, I actually edit my tweets. I will not allow them to be less than flawless and have even been known to delete a tweet after spotting a spelling mistake (yes, I’m a grammar nazi).
So, if you follow my Twitter account (@Kitty_de_Vine), understand one thing: I’m not there to be social at all. I’m just generously allowing you to live vicariously through my ability to deliver finely-honed bon mots in 140 characters or less. Step aside, Oscar. Miss de Vine is in town.
