Had a delightful evening in the company of atheist heavyweights R Dawkins (on great form) and AC Grayling (I hadn’t met him before but love his work: he is particularly delightful in the flesh), as well as David Baddiel, who is always such a bright, switched-on pleasure. For anyone who came along to the Foyles event, I hope you enjoyed it, and apologies for rambling on too long about magic structure when I got asked a question.

Dinner after the event yielded the fact that a new atheist bus campaign is being kicked off. Araine, an organiser of the Foyles evening, a Guardian columist and the editor/driving force behind the Atheists’s Guide to Christmas (on our reading list of course), is behind the bus campaign too. Quite a claim to fame, and the sweetest, least imposing lady you could meet. The campaign focusses one unpleasant aspect of proselytising to children: the resultant labelling of tiny kids as ‘Christian’, ‘Muslim’ etc, in a way that we would never do with, say, political affiliations (labelling a small child ‘Conservative’, for example, seems very wrong). ‘Atheist’ is of course also included as an equally regrettable label to be attached to a child: the message is, to allow children to choose for themselves when they are old enough to decide.

Her column on the campaign is here.

The BBC story on the subject is here.

DBx

Yes, I know. It doesn’t exactly fit the ‘brand’. But once a year for ten weeks or so I plug in the TV in the bedroom and follow this extraordinary show with an exhausting mixture of anger and delight. I cannot watch the auditions, as few things disturb me more about modern TV than people being humiliated and misled for our entertainment, but once the live shows are up and running I can’t wait for Saturday night. I’m still disturbed by it: something in me worries at the idea of a show offering a very narrow vision of success to a group of talented and vulnerable individuals and groups, eleven of whom we have to see dramatically lose in order for one to grasp this dubious prize. I’m niggled by the voting structure, and whether the public vote is a huge exercise in misdirection. And above all I hate watching people lose. I hate the booing and the vile press frenzy; I loathe myself for moments when I want someone kicked off the show, or for sharing in an ounce of that hostility.

Then last night, in one whirly, girly evening, I got to see the show and meet everyone.

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Yesterday, first-hand, I saw Twitter achieve two apparent results for civility. In the morning, I posted a tweet drawing attention to an online report of a tube official seemingly humiliating an elderly passenger who had his arm caught in a door. A little while later I RTd (‘re-tweeted’: passed on) Charlie Broker’s strongly-worded thoughts on Jan Moir’s unpleasant article of dailymailia. The latter was then picked up by Stephen Fry, and by the end of the day it had gained such widespread awareness that both stories had made the evening news. The tube official was investigated under pressure from Boris Johnson and received a suspension, and Moir issued a statement saying she was a victim of an orchestrated campaign.

Moir’s interpretation was wrong, and betrays a misguided notion about the nature of Twitter and similar forms of networking. There is no orchestration – just the rapid spread of information. Tweets (posts) are passed on, word gets around, and when a Twitter giant like Stephen Fry mentions it, a million people hear and many pass it on themselves. The response to Moir’s article came from areas much further than the Twittersphere, and although the accusation made was one of homophobia, her critics were not defined by sexuality. Ads were withdrawn from her online article, a strong critical voice was heard, and the Daily Mail became mortal for half a day. If the Mail exists to motivate the small-minded complaining communities of outraged middle England, for once it had a clear voice of outrage hurled back at it.

I hope that the tube official was fairly investigated and deserves his suspension. And that the complaints lodged against Moir have a worthwhile effect. As vast numbers shun print and turn to the net for their news, yesterday sounded an interesting note: an infamous newspaper held to account by a sharp, informed, conscientious public. It may even be a first. I did not know Gately, but there was time when he feared the press ‘outing’ him. If his passing has caused this familiar form of mawkish, snide journalism to be held to account, then perhaps we could see that as a tribute to him. And to the astonishing impact of Twitter, and the shared decency of its users.

DBx

Yes indeedy. You heard it here first. Unless you read Broadcast.

Can you honestly imagine anything – anything – more anus-invertingly unpalatable than this? I hate myself for drawing attention to it.

“The shows were ordered by Sky 1 HD commissioning editor Clare Hollywood, who will also executive produce. Steve Regan and Melanie Leach exec produce for Twofour.”

And we salute them for it.

So proud to be in telly.

DBx

I was very reticent to get onto Twitter. Why on earth would it be of any interest to anyone how I was conducting my days, and why on earth would I care how they went about theirs? It took much proselytising and a ready stream of drinks to have me reluctantly, whiningly, well-alright-I’ll-try-it-for a while-ly agree to pop my head round that particular door and see if it looked like a party I’d enjoy.

I twitter (I believe one twitters a tweet, but some seem to use ‘tweet’ as the verb, so I’m a little unsure) sporadically, with no particular agenda, mainly to pass on things that amuse. As this blog passes to the Twittersphere through the same feed, I figured less serious, personal tweets from me might balance out the grander posts from Mother Blog. Having said this, the number of my ‘followers’ (I prefer ‘disciples’, it’s just nattier) has grown to such proportions that I am, during quiet moments, wondering how I might go about embracing so many people to try something rather more nefarious. Bear with me, I’ll find something.

I try to scan at least my recent ‘mentions’ and replies as much as I can without endangering my career, getting run over or irritating my real-life companions to the point of violence. I’m aware that quite a proportion of these tweets boil down to people requesting I reply to them; a sadly insurmountable task given the numbers, were I to comply. So forgive me: I do read most tweets, and tend to DM a response to things I find interesting, but the numbers are huge and time is oftentimes sadly lacking.

I follow very few people, as I like to have only a manageable number of tweets pop up for worthwhile reading when I open up Twittelator, or Tweetie 2, or twatever. This is perhaps because I am a novice in this strange new world, and maybe I should throw myself in and follow anyone and everyone. For now, I have turned down requests to follow a good number of real-life friends for this reason, which shames me a little, and a million or so requests from friendly twitterers to do the same. As it is, I follow @stephenfry, because you get him free when you join Twitter; my co-conspirator and fluffer @andynyman, our own @lordcoopy and a small handful of other chums including the brilliant @serafinowicz.

As a performer with a public profile, Twitter puts me horribly close to real feedback, which is a mixed blessing. Very quickly one learns not to read reviews in order to remain sane (I don’t even read interviews or articles about myself any more), as one can skim past a hundred glowing comments and get to a single nasty dig which then eats away at one for days. And the internet has a habit of bringing out witless vitriol in people in a way that other fora tend not to. Politeness and decency are quickly abandoned by most when they are not face to face with those they criticise, and probably don’t even imagine that their comments might be read by the person in question. That one in a hundred comment, through some infuriating glitch in ones sensitivity, has a vastly disproportionate effect to the many positive ones which remain largely ignored. The lovely thing about Twitter is that, unlike reading blogs or online discussions, eighty percent of the comments are from people who are amiably disposed, and it warms the ego a little to delve into such kind thoughts, albeit sixty three times a day. The trick is to peripherally anticipate the occasional ‘@derrenbrown is a prick’ tweet, and jump past it still smiling, as it scrolls down into vision.

For those who find the thought of Twitter ridiculous, I do not presume to argue. Vapid and ludicrous, of course. I read a tweet from a tearful lady who had just received a hug from a person she didn’t know in the street and had decided on the spot to withdraw from Twitter (which had presumably taken up much of her time), implying that it was an empty place that bore no comparison to real-life relationships. Indeed it is, and should be no substitute for them. It is, most of the time, footling and featherbrained: luckily, we can enjoy plenty of things in life which are pretty inconsequential, and appreciate the wit and colour they add to our days. I can’t honestly think of a reason for the stuffed giraffe which is looking at me from my hallway other than I like it being there and it’s a fun place to hang scarves. But occasionally, with Twitter’s capacity to spread important ideas within moments, it can also be utterly majestic and invaluable. Though it has to be said you might not find that so much on my feed.

Right, I haven’t checked my mentions for almost twelve minutes now, so off you pop.

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