How famous does Facebook think you are?

Facebook starts charging users to contact celebrities like Tom Daley.

Facebook has just launched a trial scheme to charge UK users between 71p and £11 to send messages to people they don't know, including celebrities. The prices vary depending on who you're trying to contact. According to the Guardian:

Facebook said the charging fee structure varied according to a number of factors including the number of followers and a secret "fame" algorithm.

But just what is the algorithm? Tom Daley is at £10.68, but Robert Peston only fetches 71p. Salman Rushdie's at 10.08, but then so is Snoop Lion. Here's my best shot at cracking it with the information so far available:

1. £10.68: Tom Daley, Olympic diver; Ed Sheeran, singer-songwriter; Michael Rosen, former children's laureate.

Secret algorithm: Producer of or target demographic for children's poetry

2. £10.08: Salman Rushdie, Booker prize-winning author; Snoop Lion, US rapper.

Secret algorithm: Name sounds like or is a type of animal

3. 71p: Jeremy Hunt, health secretary, Robert Peston, journalist; Cressida Bonas, Prince Harry's girlfriend; Louis Theroux, broadcaster; Miranda Hart, comedian; anyone you don't know already.

Secret algorithm: Dances the zouk-lambada/might have danced the zouk-lambada/might have watched someone dance the zouk-lambada/you can't rule it out completely

4. £61: Mark Zuckerberg (in January, idea now abandoned)

Secret algorithm: In charge of secret algorithm

The scheme is, of course, a form of spam-control - but it's also a strange sort of return to Facebook's roots. Starting as a network only available to Harvard students, the site originally marked itself out from the crowd because it was elitist - and therefore worth trying to be a part of, at least according to Marx (Groucho, not the other one). As it expanded via the Ivy League, Oxbridge, other universities, the world and from thence their parents, it lost a certain amount of status. It's interesting that it has found a money-making scheme that tallies with these early principles.

 

 
 
 
Tom Daley can be messaged on Facebook for £10.68. Photograph: Getty Images

Martha Gill writes the weekly Irrational Animals column. You can follow her on Twitter here: @Martha_Gill.

Qusai Al Shidi/Flickr
Show Hide image

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