Ilyen hőségben ellustul az ember! Ne tessék kinevetni minket, Londonban 28-30 fok már soknak számít, ilyenkor lusta vasárnapokon egy hideg cider mellett csak olvasgat és mélázik a dolgozó nép.
A LondonBudapestMetro így bukkant rá a The Times online kiadásában egyik kedvenc szerzője, Giles Coren cikkére s most nem általlik egyszerűen bemásolni ezt ebbe a posztba. Velősen megfogalmazva nagyon érzékeny pontra tapintott, ugyanis. A fickó szerintem jobb pillanataiban zseniális, viperanyelvét gyakran köszörüli hálás témákon; állítólag a tévében is majomkodott és amúgy étteremkritikus, de azok még kánikulában is hidegen hagynak.
Aki azt mondja, hogy ez az egész social media lájkolósdi kritka már régi lemez és miért lep meg, az szerintem vagy nem itt él, vagy nem esett le neki, mennyire elburjánzott és aktuális a probléma. Szövegértési problémákkal küzdőknek megsúgom hogy a cikk NEM a fészbukra föltett nyaralós képek kifigurázásáról szól. Nem elemzem miről, aki nem érti, szar ügy, aki igen, annak váljék épülésére. Az utolsó résszel ugyan nem értek egyet, lehet, hogy addigra már kifogyott a spirituszból de még hiányzott a karakterszám, vagy az asszony elkészült az ebéddel és csak összecsapta a befejezést, de azért ez nem ront az összképen.
"A former Facebook boss who helped to create its “like” button — and thus the like button on Twitter, Instagram, YouTube, your blog, the “recommend” button on comments below this column and for all I know the jam-splodge approval knob on your granny’s homemade jam tart website — has admitted that she herself became addicted to the sense of “validation” that being “liked” could provide.
In the end, Leah Pearlman told a Panorama programme called “Smartphones: The Dark Side”, the very social media platform she spent five years helping to develop destroyed her self-esteem.
“I noticed that I would post something that I used to post and the like count would be way lower than it used to be,” Ms Pearlman recalled. “Suddenly I saw — uh-oh — I’m actually addicted to the feedback . . . that’s when I started to realise I wasn’t sure that having this number over which somebody else was in control . . . was healthy.”
No, Leah. It’s not. It’s absolutely disastrous. Because what the “like” button has done is to take the extremely complex business of human popularity, which is the opposite of “loneliness”, which is the cause of most human anxiety, and make it into a game. Fun, fun, ha, ha, likey, likey, whoops, I just destroyed the very fabric of human society. Nice one, Leah.
Obviously there are lots of positive things about social media. I don’t know what they are, I’m just saying that so that you “like” me and don’t think I’m going to go on and threaten the online life that is all you have left in the world. But an undeniable downside is the way that they have commodified positive feelings, simplified them down to a single emotion called “like” and made that the only possible way of responding to an image or utterance.
You see a photo online of your mate’s new car, your niece’s baby rabbit, a political protest in Myanmar, your slightly older niece’s new bikini, Kyle Walker with cramp after the Colombia match, Kim Kardashian naked in a hotel mirror, your boss’s lunch, Mount Fuji at dawn, a raccoon on a bicycle or a politician choking on a bacon sandwich and you are implored to “like” it. Or you could ignore it, which hurts people’s feelings. Like or ignore. Like or ignore. That’s less of an emotional range than is offered to a chimpanzee in one of those “can animals talk?” experiments. Or a dog. Or a rat.
So it’s no wonder that we so crave a “like” on our posts (as a dog craves a pat) and that we so suffer when it is denied. To avoid that feeling of rejection, we post exclusively things that people might “like”. There is no point soliciting any other response. And the guaranteed way to get likes on, say, Twitter, is to tweet things that people will want to be seen to “like”. And the way to do that is to tweet what you think a really nice person might think about something, regardless of what you think yourself.
So you wish the NHS a happy birthday (sorry, but *vomit*), you go big on Grenfell, #MeToo, trans issues, literally anything to do with equality, sling up an #RIP whenever anyone popular dies, retweet missing persons, say how such and such a story “made me cry”, big up any old charity bullshit, oh, and have a pop at Brexit and Donald Trump. Always have a pop at Donald Trump, everyone wants to be seen to be liking that (I once got myself 12,000 likes and 1,000 new followers for tweeting, quite cynically and without really meaning it, that he was “a thick c***”).
But it achieves nothing. Brings no one back from the dead, creates no new hospital beds, saves no political unions, changes nothing at the White House. All it does is drive traffic through sites built to monetise the “like” addiction and makes a handful of wonks in white trainers even richer than they were. In that regard, the internet generation has been sold a massive pup. Probably on eBay.
I also abhor the way it has spread offline to affect columnists and commentators. I hate the way they increasingly seem to have sat down at their computer and thought, “now, what would the nicest person in the world think about this?” It makes them popular, swells their social figures, but it isn’t the route to truth.
Take the immigration debate that flared briefly when some toddlers washed up on beaches but petered out when there were more “likes” to be had out of Eurovision. At its height, it was mostly just everyone hashtagging away, swapping photos of dead babies, and commentators saying what the nicest person in the world would think, which is, obviously, “open all the borders to everyone, come and stay in my house, have some heirloom tomatoes and burrata and my old Balenciaga hoodie. . .” Because that’s what gets you 10,000 likes and retweets from JK Rowling and Ed Miliband. But it never saved a single life.
Liking is the weakest of all human responses. It is some way down from love and just up from “don’t care”. And the people who try to inspire it in us usually turn out to be wrong ’uns. Everyone liked Tony Blair and David Cameron, for example. It was being likeable that got them elected. But now they are the most hated of all prime ministers. They are blamed for everything. And the reason you hate them so much is because you “liked” them so much before. But nobody ever liked John Major or Gordon Brown. So now, in their dotage, we’re cool with them. They didn’t fool us with smiles and pop songs. They never betrayed our liking.
We need less liking in this world. And less pandering to liking. It makes us weak and deluded and impotent as a race. Much as religion once did. You do see the parallel? People on social media (which is pretty much everyone) believe in the interconnectedness of all things. An invisible organising force. A higher consciousness that can see us at all times and knows what we’re thinking. So we’d better be “good”. We’d better “like” stuff and, in turn, do stuff that is “liked” by others. We believe that by hashtagging the bejesus out of something we can make it happen, with all the credulousness of faith.
The “like” of the current century serves the function of prayer in centuries gone by. It is a lazy nod of acquiescence to the prevailing wind. But prayer didn’t stop wars or famine or holocaust or death. And nor will this."