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When I was in London in the early nineties the temp agency I was working for accidently sent me to a job at the top end of Merrill Lynch, the last bastion of upper class debs and old Etonians. It was interesting enough, in an anthropological way, and while they were all very nice to me they did tend to regard me as some kind of bizarre zoo exhibit. Colonial? Unilingual? Only 4 cousins? Staying in London on the weekends? Merciful heavens!

Anyway, while I was working there, one of the debs got invited to some schmoozy party for some Famous Person who was launching a new album/movie/tv show and her date cancelled at the last minute.

Being 4:30 on a Thursday, everyone else had already left the office, and in desperation, she asked me to go with her. Not as I discovered later, because she particularly liked me, but to avoid the social shame of arriving solo. She took me back to her Sloane Square flat and stuffed me into one of her silk dresses (she was about the same size as me, but at least 5 inches shorter and a couple of galaxies up on the stylish scale) and we skipped off to the party.

As soon as I had escorted her in the door she disappeared in search of less awkward people to talk to while I concentrated on being the most awkward person in the room.

I stood against a wall for a while, trying in vain to pull my dress down below my shameful Marks & Spencer undies, drinking the wrong things and watching the stylish people party. The Famous Person who was launching the whatever, and was therefore the nominal host of the party, stood in a corner ignoring everyone or occasionally rolling his eyes at the few people who wanted to talk to him about his fabulous new whatever. Every now and then another Famous Person arrived and immediately joined him in the ignoring-and-eye-rolling corner.

Floating around the edge of the Famous Person Corner were the almost-a-Famous-Person people whose sole raison d'être appeared to be discovering how few clothes one could wear without being, strictly speaking, entirely naked.

Most of the party action was happening with the industry Movers&Shakers. Folk who don’t actually do anything themselves, but who know all the people who do and specialise in commentary/marketing/networking. A few of the more inexperienced ones approached me (odd looking person standing by themselves – unidentified Famous Person or knobbly-kneed twit who shouldn’t really be here?) but it only took a few seconds to realise their mistake and shear off in horror.

The Movers&Shakers were everywhere, the upper echelons gathering crowds around them to laugh loudly at their latest bon mot and nod wisely as they dispensed titbits of information about the next Big Thing that was already boring them. The lower echelon Movers&Shakers hovered anxiously on the outer, quipping loudly and offering up their own little titbits in hope of being noticed.

Rippling around them was the herd of flunkies, PAs, wannabes and record company receptionists who had no idea what they were there for, but figured that there must be something good going on if all those Famous People and Movers&Shakers were there.

Later in the night, as I was swaying gently in front of the open bar, Someone jostled my arm and then murmured something cool and English that probably wasn’t an apology. I shouted something back very Australian and uncool, but the accent garnered a brief flicker of interest and the Someone asked if I was having a good time. “Not really” I said, making a huge effort to be friendly and interestingly self-deprecating, “all this standing about makes you feel like a bit of a dickhead, doesn’t it?” The Someone raised an eyebrow at me to remind me that I am ridiculously tall and have way too many elbows, said, “Actually, no, I don’t think I am a dickhead” and then turned his head away to indicate that my audience was over. A junior Movesr&Shaker turned shocked eyes towards me and said “I don’t think you should have called him a dickhead, he’s a Famous Person you know”. Which was when I remembered that I have never been good at friendly and interesting, and that it was probably time to leave.

So, to the point of this story. Twitter, which after years of scorning I have recently fallen in love with, always reminds me of this party. I watch the Famous People rolling their eyes at all the poor patheticers trying desperately to catch their attention (if you don’t want weirdos you’ve never met trying to talk to you why the fuck are you dancing about saying follow me!! follow me!! Not Ashton Kutcher, follow MEEEE!!!!) and all the Movers&Shakers skilfully weaving their way around the internets, making it all look so easy and the herd of followers washing around in their wake. Then there’s me. Too many elbows, awkwardly wearing someone else’s cool outfit and inadvertently calling people dickheads when I am trying to impress them.

Still, despite my perennial maladroitness, Twitter remains a fabulous party to be at; and the best part is that most of the time I get to attend in my tracksuit pants - and not even the special going out ones either!

 

 

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