A year in tweets

The best spoof accounts on Twitter share their thoughts on the events of 2010.

Some of the tweets quoted below contain strong language.

January

7 January @DrSamuelJohnson Flop-hair'd Foulmouth Mister Jonathan ROSS has fled the BBC, afear'd of a publick Hanging from the Tory MOB.

20 January @reelmolesworth amey WINEHOUSE giulty of asault at pantomime O NO SHE ISENT cri defence counsel – pehaps not the best legal strateggy hem hem

February

7 February @MTuckerNo10 For fuck's sake. Dinner with Miliband tonight. Can't remember which one. Does it matter?

March

27 March @thefuckingpope Chocolate eucharist has arrived! It's delicious!

April

28 April @TheDearLeader So Hugo Chavez is on Twitter. Big deal. Tell him to call me when he commands a million-man army. (Seriously, Hugo: Call me. I've got plans.)

May

8 May Queen_UK #ge2010 awful dream. Woke up convinced that one was heading for a con-lib government and visions of Cam-Clegg audiences. What? Real? Fuck!

15 May @theashcloud My head is saying earn their trust back . . . but my heart is saying disrupt the flights . . . what's a cloud to do?

June

1 June @BPGlobalPR The oil leak was caused by a natural gas explosion, or sea fart, which is now having silent but deadly consequences. #bpseafart

11 June @FacebookPR Facebook Fun Fact: Every 9 seconds, we end a marriage. #didyouknow

18 June @DrSamuelJohnson The colonial Congress endeavours to block the Oil-Well by heaving Brick-Bats at hapless Fuel-Drudge Mister Tony HAYWARD

July

11 July @the_vuvuzela Goal kick. BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. Slide tackle. BZZZZ BZZZZZZZZZ. Routine pass. BZZZZZ BZZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.

15 July @BPGlobalPR Well, that wasn't so hard.

August

5 August @FEMINISTHULK HULK NEED EVEN BIGGER CAPS TO EXPRESS HULK JOY AT PROP 8 DECISION!

September

14 September @DrSamuelJohnson Bedlamite Harlequin Lady GAGA goes about clad in raw Meat, doubtless to delight her derang'd carnivorous Molly Disciples.

28 September @Queen_UK Text from David Miliband: "Your Majesty, should I stay or should I go now? If I go there will be trouble. If I stay it will be double"

October

1 October @FacebookPR Don't believe everything you see in "The Social Network", it's only like 99% true

6 October @chilean_miner I don't care if it is one of my five a day. I'm not having another one of Ernesto's moss smoothies

November

29 November @lord_voldemort7 Wikileaks has made me glad that my preferred method of secret communication is a mark burnt into my co-communicator's flesh.

30 November @Julian_Ass On the bus, old man in front of me was playing "got yer nose" with his grandson. "IT'S HIS THUMB!" I screamed. The truth must be told.

December

11 December @CherylKerl Dorty woak backstage. Matt's telt One Direction Santa's nut real. Thor distraught man. Snot an teeaz evereewhor pet

14 December @BigSocietyNews Source bone marrow yourself for your upcoming transplant and get £1.00 off the price of a hospital phone card.

20 December @FakeAPStylebook "Now I Have a Machine Gun: Ho Ho Ho" is not an acceptable headline for the drunken mall Santa rampage story

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I can’t follow Marie Kondo's advice – even an empty Wotsits packet “sparks joy” in me

I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

I have been brooding lately on the Japanese tidying freak Marie Kondo. (I forgot her name so I typed “Japanese tidying freak” into Google, and it was a great help.) The “Japanese” bit is excusable in this context, and explains a bit, as I gather Japan is more on the case with the whole “being tidy” thing than Britain, but still.

Apart from telling us that we need to take an enormous amount of care, to the point where we perform origami when we fold our underpants, which is pretty much where she lost me, she advises us to throw away anything that does not, when you hold it, “spark joy”. Perhaps I have too much joy in my life. I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

After a while I gave up on this because I was getting a bit too happy with all the memories, so then I thought to myself, about her: “This is someone who isn’t getting laid enough,” and then I decided that was a crude and ungallant thought, and besides, who am I to wag the finger? At least if she invites someone to her bedroom no one is going to run screaming from it, as they would if I invited anyone to my boudoir. (Etym: from the French “bouder”, to sulk. How very apt in my case.) Marie Kondo – should bizarre circumstance ever conspire to bring her to the threshold – would run screaming from the Hovel before she’d even alighted the stairs from the front door.

I contemplate my bedroom. As I write, the cleaning lady is in it. To say that I have to spend half an hour cleaning out empty Wotsits packets, and indeed wotnot, before I let her in there should give you some idea of how shameful it has got. And even then I have to pay her to do so.

A girlfriend who used to be referred to often in these pages, though I think the term should be a rather less flippant one than “girlfriend”, managed to get round my natural messiness problem by inventing a game called “keep or chuck”.

She even made up a theme song for it, to the tune from the old Spiderman TV show. She would show me some object, which was not really rubbish, but usually a book (it may not surprise you to learn that it is the piles of books that cause most of the clutter here), and say, “Keep or chuck?” in the manner of a high-speed game show host. At one point I vacillated and so she then pointed at herself and said, “Keep or chuck?” I got the message.

These days the chances of a woman getting into the bedroom are remote. For one thing, you can’t just walk down the street and whistle for one much as one would hail a cab, although my daughter is often baffled by my ability to attract females, and suspects I have some kind of “mind ray”. Well, if I ever did it’s on the blink now, and not only that – right now, I’m not even particularly bothered that it’s on the blink. Because, for another thing, I would frankly not care to inflict myself upon anyone else at the moment.

It was all a bit of a giggle eight years ago, when I was wheeled out of the family home and left to my own devices. Of course, when I say “a bit of a giggle”, I mean “terrifying and miserable”, but I had rather fewer miles on the clock than I do now, and a man can, I think, get away with a little bit more scampish behaviour, and entertain a few more illusions about the future and his own plausibility as a character, when he is squarely in his mid-forties than when he is approaching, at speed, his middle fifties.

Death has rather a lot to do with it, I suppose. I had not actually seen, or touched, a dead body until I saw, and touched, my own father’s a few weeks ago. That’s what turns an abstract into a concrete reality. You finally put that to one side and gird up your loins – and then bloody David Bowie snuffs it, and you find yourself watching the videos for “Blackstar” and “Lazarus” over and over again, and reach the inescapable conclusion that death is not only incredibly unpleasant, it is also remorseless and very much nearer than you think.

And would you, dear reader, want to be involved with anyone who kept thinking along those lines? I mean, even if he learned how to fold his undercrackers into an upright cylinder, like a napkin at a fancy restaurant, before putting them in his drawer? When he doesn’t even have a drawer?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war