It is in the news today that News Corp and Microsoft are going to team up so we can only search for Rupert Murdoch’s news stories on MS’s worse than ever search engine, Bing. They just don’t get it do they? The Internet is no longer about large-scale news corporations delivering our news to us en masse. We can get what we want direct from the people and things that we are interested in. Stephen Fry, speaking at the Twitter conference, spoke about no longer having the need to pay for PR machine to get a message out about new book, TV show or film. He posts that news on Twitter then numerous followers disseminate that information.

I no longer want to buy a hard copy issue or online version of a newspaper I am not going to read all of. It’s a waste of my money and the old way, a waste of paper. I stopped buying the Guardian on Saturdays, because all I really wanted to read was Charlie Brooker and throw the rest in the bin. Surely it will not be long until Charlie will have his own site where a Google ad program will ensure that he gets all the advertising revenue direct to him, rather than it going through Guardian Newspapers who pay him a salary. I can’t see why he has not done it already; maybe he’s a lazy fucker.

Stories now come straight from people who it is happening to, who just want to tell the story and have no political, social or business agenda or motivation. I would like to think that having seen the sort of shit that Fox News pumps out, people will be sensible enough not to part with their hard earned cash to Murdoch. He is just whining because his business model of many years is looking obsolete in a medium that is moving so fast he can’t catch up. Oh and why would you pay for the Times Online or The Sun website? They’re shit. Slow, badly laid out and still thinks it’s newspaper trying to be a website rather than the other way round.

I find that more and more I don’t look for the big media channels for my news or reviews of stuff. Look at Trip Advisor as a great example of user generated content, I want to know from a person who went and paid for somewhere, what they thought of the accommodation and facilities. Not from a journo who got the whole thing for free, got paid for going and then has to bow to the ad revenue from the hotelier. The Internet is ours to stop that sort of bullshit, so let’s use it.

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Oh my good God! Once could have been a mistake, then second was annoying, but the third time is going to make me completely stop going to a clothes shop to get a garment for a lady friend. You see, I asked for full details of a specific item to be written down, she didn’t want to initially, but I insisted because I am right. And now you have all you need, because you’ve prepared this like an SAS strike. This is so there will be no uncomfortable moments of being in a women’s department or shop, looking like an undie sniffer. Confidently, you walk up to the shop assistant with all the relevant details in your text, email or printed-out web page with a picture of the fucking thing on it. You ask her:

“Can I have the so-and-so in this size? Look there, I have even brought along the specific stock code to make sure that this is exactly what she wants.”

She looks at you, smiles and says:

“Yes of course, we have it in stock. But …”

What do you mean “But”? I did everything I could; I have the picture and everything!

“Which colour would you like it in?”

Oh fuck! And the assistant then presents you with every single colour of the spectrum, some of the hues only visible to women. You can’t tell the difference. And don’t even bother to try making the decision because you can visualise the disappointment in her face when you present her with it – as if to say how could you possibly think that this would be my colour, you don’t know me at all!

But all is not lost: thanks to the genius of modern technology you can call and find out what she wants. No fucking hope. It gets worse now. I call and ask her through gritted teeth.

“Hi, I’m here in the shop. What colour did you want that top in?”

“Ooh I don’t know, what have they got and what do you think?”

Fuck, fuck, fuckety, fucking motherfucker! On one occasion this conversation happened to me while I was on the other side of the Atlantic with about ten minutes to get to the airport. Tactfully, but in fact clumsily, you try and get a decision out of her.

“Hon, this really isn’t the time. Which one do you want?”

Well done son. Now you’ve fucked it.

“Look if it’s that much trouble, I’ll go and get it myself on Saturday.”

Arrrrrrggggggggghhhhhhhhhh!

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