Twitterrhorrea is a condition common to fans of this absurdly popular ‘social messaging utility’, where people with bugger-all-to-say post cyber white noise. Will my life be the richer for knowing that big Shaquille O’Neal is ‘nervus’ to be in traffic court?; that Will Carling is ‘trying to resist a Kit-Kat’?; or that Alan Carr worries he’s caught ‘cystitus’ from wearing tights while cross dressing? The site has its uses, I suppose. Stranded, thirty-two floors up at members’ club Paramount the other night, waiting for a lift that refused to come, the date - seizing this hiatus as a chance to log on via her Blackberry - got the scoop: Incarcerated within that very elevator was prize (T)wit Stephen Fry tweeting live to the world about his plight. ‘C’mon, let’s hit the stairs!’
I am indebted to a mate who informs me Twitter is somewhere between your twat and your shitter. Quite!
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