Wednesday, 25 July 2012

Loving to hate


I was sitting on my sofa the other night, munching on Malteasers, casually watching tv, finding myself getting all worked up about how many idiots there were in the world. I was thinking ‘where do they find these people’ ‘I hate them all!’ but most importantly… ‘Why am I watching this?’ This occurs night after night, it’s like an addiction, the addiction that is Big Brother. Throughout the programme I’m tweeting my disgust for Lydia, my hatred for anyone who says they want to go home, and how crap Scotts hair is looking. Basically if I didn’t love Malteasers so much they’d be thrown at the tv! And I’m not the only one, it seems to be something that is catching on. Everyone who is tweeting about it is commenting on something they hate about it. I honestly dislike 90% of the people on the show and more often than not, after the hour of attention seeking has finished, I find myself just annoyed and irritated at the world.

Why do I do it to myself?

Like 200,000-odd others I follow heatworld on twitter, and I spend a lot of my time thinking ‘NOBODY CARES!’ to the stuff they tweet. Josie Gibson, winner of Big Brother a few years ago has a new beach body! Really, Heat Magazine? Does anyone really want to know?… well yes, it seems.  I find a lot of what they say incredibly annoying, the way they get overly excited when they are stood in the cold at a premier (you’re journalists and work for one of the biggest gossip mags in the country, surely you’re used to this by now?!) But yet, only yesterday I found myself sitting in the park after handing over my £1.65 for 130 pages of  Z-list CRAP.
I could easily click unfollow and it will all go away, no more boring tweets about Michelle Heaton’s baby weight, or Joey Essex’s love life. I could easily spend that £1.65 on something I actually need…like Malteasers. But I just can’t do it.

Facebook is another one. I hate it, I really do. I hate being constantly reminded of people I used to know and don’t speak to anymore. There’s a reason we lost touch so why do I need to see what their baby did today?
But have I deleted my account? Course not. I have tried limiting my friend list to just people I talk to in real life but even then it still drives me mad. What is this generation’s fascination with sharing? (that’s a whole other blog entry entirely…) I describe Facebook like going to the fridge when you’re skint and hungry, you open it over and over again, but there’s still nothing there worth your time. But the fact that I still log into Zuckerberg’s masterpiece everyday must mean something.

Maybe I like having something to moan about? On some level maybe it makes me feel better about my life.  Maybe it’s a case of schadenfreude, I just like seeing things go wrong for others. So I continue with this addiction on the off-chance something great happens, I just don’t want to miss out!

I’d like to think we all do it, I hear people moaning about the tabloids every day. Yet these papers are still very big names, even after all the scandals. I see people expressing their hatred for the Daily mail, yet tweeting their articles constantly. It’s just the stuff we love to hate. These companies know what they’re doing, they don’t care if we like them or not, as long as we’re still making them money.

I hate Bluewater, but I still go.  I hate the tube, but I’m on the northern line on a regular basis and honestly if someone took it away I’d cry. It’s even the same with food chains,  ‘All you can eat Chinese for £4?! Wow it’s going to be delicious!’ A couple of hours later and I’m rolling around moaning about a stomach ache that I just cant understand. I’ll moan about the place to anyone who will listen but give it a month or 2, and I’ll be back, and I’ll be appalled that they’ve had the cheek to put it up for £4.50!

Recently I went into McDonalds, I wasn’t even hungover so I had no excuse. But even though I know their food isn’t exactly like going to the Savoy, I went in to get a burger. Each time I have high expectations. ‘This is going to be the one , the burger of burgers. I’ll never pay £15 for a burger in a gastro-pub again!’ And I’m greeted by a battered box of grease and some sorry looking lettuce. I sit down and moan about how miserable the person serving me was, the ‘types of people who love this stuff’ and how I’m surrounded by cretins. I’m telling myself I’ll never grace the golden arches again, but not before saying ‘shall we get a Mcflurry for the road…?’

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