Without Fry the end is nigh.
That tweet comes in at only 28 characters so I have 112 to spare. But what more is there to say? It is a fortnight since the Greatest Living English Tweeter announced that his passion was spent and when we read that news we all knew things could never be the same again.
Admittedly his renunciation did not last long. He had tweeted his retirement before boarding a plane to Los Angeles and by the time he landed he was tweeting again. But can you tell your loved one that it is all over and then, only hours later, tell her you’ve changed your mind and expect everything to be the same again? You cannot. This is a bitter blow to someone such as I who came late to the phenomenon but will miss it when it vanishes, as surely it will now that even Fry has had to confront a fact that had until now been unsayable.
It is boring. Deeply, mind-numbingly, soul-scarringly, eye-gougingly boring. And utterly pointless too. One has so few reasons in this world to feel superior but being able to boast, as I have done, that I never tweeted was one of them. And soon that boast will be meaningless. Soon no one will tweet except those few sad souls who cannot tell when a mildly diverting little fad has run its course. There are still people who play with a Rubik’s cube when they tire of their hula hoops.
One September morning on the Today programme I made a throwaway remark about how tweeting seemed a very silly thing to do. We had so much response that my editor thought it might be fun for me to actually write a tweet. He sent one out on my behalf: “Why shd everyone try everything? Some (like underwater ironing) too daft to try. Stop counting letters. Get a life instead.” The chastening responses kept coming, so later in the programme we brought on David Baddiel to defend what he described as the addictive, aphoristic, soundbite culture of Twitter.
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The next thing we knew, Baddiel and I had been enlisted to judge this competition, bravely launched by this newspaper and sponsored by Waterstone’s, to write a short story in one tweet, ie, 140 characters. It has uncovered great talent, and those who entered may hold their heads high. Some of the tweets showed real storytelling potential. That the most successful tended to peek into the darker corners of the soul may or may not be coincidental. There is indeed a black hole in the lives of those who seem truly to believe that they share an intimacy with the fabulously famous whose tweets they receive. Every marketing man must dream that we were all so naive.
But most tweeters saw through the joke long ago. Even before Fry’s fingers had completed that fatal tweet their agile minds were anticipating — perhaps even planning — the latest fad. And those whose creative juices were stirred by this competition will surely want to move on to the next stage of storytelling. Enough of this tweeting tyranny and its absurd 140 character prison, they will say. Next time let us think big!
THE WINNER
sundancep: Tenderly he slipped the ring on her finger, “Grow old with me, my love”. She agreed, not knowing he meant right away.
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RUNNERS-UP
dalcreations: Tried to write a story with 140 characters. I only had two. Pete and Antonio. It was a hell of a tale. Long story short, Pete did it.
edent: Once upon a time there was a beautiful Princess. Something morally relevant happened. Then Disney f***ed it up to sell toys. The End.
sephjnr: Divorce. Solitude. Emptiness. Picture. Memories. Lust. Tissues. Depravity. Loathing. Bath. Wine. Wrists. Oblivion. Happiness. Peace.
The winner receives a Waterstone’s voucher worth £140 (£1 per character); the runners-up each receive a voucher worth £20
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JUDGES’ FAVOURITES (FROM MORE THAN 2,000 ENTRIES)
catmachine: It was a bright cold day in April and the clocks were striking 13. Another busy day ahead, thought Winston Smith, the clock repair man.
Sandyy_: Shelly! I yell as she shuffles away. Why was she always in such a snappy mood? And why was I falling in love with a crab?
annleary: She hated him. He sometimes bought her flowers on his way home. On weekends they grilled — he flipped steaks, she sharpened knives.
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RomaDiaz: Her destiny was mapped out in the stars. What a pity she never looked up.
Skaski_: Drip drip drip, went the tap from high above, as the spider contemplated its inevitable demise.
OliveIsBlue: Mostly prison life was cold and bleak. Except the dating. It was nice to finally feel attractive.
cvh2009: Painfully making his way to the entrance of the cave, Jesus arched his back and pushed against the rock. It wouldn’t move.
dresdnhope: He had finally worn out the public’s goodwill. He would no longer be “Curious George”. He would now be “That asshole monkey”.
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dustandair: She asked why I lied. I blurted out “I’m a compulsive liar.” Great. Now I have to keep that charade going too.
Story_Tweets: He went to the past, but changed nothing. He went to the future, but missed it all. He came back to the present and gained everything.
voodoobeans: As he stormed the city and felt the pedestrians between his toes, he wondered — was this really what he had risen from the ocean for?
annleary: It was an arranged marriage. On their wedding night, she lay, trembling, awaiting his steps. He watched the Red Sox, then Conan.
itisjan: “Is that my phone?” the surgeon thought as he snipped the final stitch. Sweat broke on his brow. Beneath his hands a slight vibration.
daveweeden: “No, Mr Bond,” cackled Argento Silvertoe, “ you see, laser technology has greatly improved since the Sixties. This really is the end.”
stuarthoughton: For Sale: baby shoes, removed from homicidal baby by arresting officer.
chickyog: He was very sorry. Again. He said so with flowers, clothes and jewellery. Again. All three were cheap, gaudy and his mother’s. Again.
WickedAunt: She walked in beauty, waddled in pregnancy, wailed in childbirth, wept with weariness and wondered where he went.
Dav3Ston3: Home, window broken, apartment ransacked. Maybe he should have just let her have that damn ceramic chicken in the divorce after all.
John Humphrys’ Blue Skies and Black Olives: A Survivor’s Tale of Housebuilding and Peacock Chasing in Greece (written with his son Christopher Humphrys) is published by Hodder & Stoughton at £18.99. It is much, much longer than 140 characters. To buy it for £17.09, including p&p, call 0845 2712134 or visit timesonline.co.uk/booksfirst