Bemusement at Twitter can seem comical, but is less so when it comes to serious news stories, writes DONALD CLARKE
JUST THE other day, when serving as a judge in the district court, I encountered a defendant with a puzzling alibi. This alleged hooligan claimed evidence from Twitter proved he could not have been at the site of the ram raid under discussion.
At the precise moment a pale blue Toyota was reversing into the window of Sneaker World, KickingTunes478 issued a succinct tweet on the failure of one Kelly Rowland to sound adequately flu-ridden. “Kelly coffs one big lie. She so 2-faced. Toolisa rules. #xfactor,” the tweetering read.
“Could my client, even if he were, as the prosecution alleges, a master criminal, have found time to offer remote diagnosis on the unfortunate Ms Rowland?” the defending barrister asked rhetorically. The jury laughed knowingly. The client essayed a smug grimace. The judge found his brow furrowing.
This writer sits on the bench only occasionally. But I have been made aware that judges do have a reputation for being outside the pop-culture loop. Tabloids seethe with enthusiasm for evidence of judicial ignorance in relation to television soap operas or voguish “hip-hop” singers.
I still quiver with embarrassment when recalling my theatrical bafflement at a defendant’s parenthetical mention of something called “UK Grime”. The proffered explanation did little to dispel my confusion. “A form of British dance music, judge, that draws influence from other movements such as ‘ragga’ and ‘UK garage’,” an annoyingly young court official explained. Remembering that sorry incident, I nodded sagely when considering Ms Rowland and her alleged bogus infirmity. Nobody wants to be seen to have missed the boat.
It hardly needs to be said that the idiotic witterings above constitute an elaborate fantasy. But the proverbial plight of the fogeyish judge holds lessons for us all. As the years progress, and popular culture winds down ever more obscure pathways, the average citizen can, in an average week, find himself missing whole flotillas of prominent boats.
Who is Kim Kardashian? It seems only seconds ago that this odd name – attached to a model and socialite, apparently – began appearing on the front of economically titled magazines. While I was searching for my copy of Old Duffer’s Gazette, its Armenian rhythms were unavoidable beneath the lurid mastheads of Heat, Closer, Splat and Thud.
You know how these things go. You tell yourself that, before Kardashian gets any more famous, you will seek clarification from one of your younger, stupider friends. If none can oblige then Dr Wikipedia will surely provide a few clues. Time marches on. More important things (that’s to say almost all things) get in the way and suddenly you find yourself trapped in a conversation about the collapse of Kardashian’s marriage. What to do? Own up to your ignorance and you might come across as being hopelessly out of touch. Worse still, you run the risk of sounding like one of those berks who actively boasts – usually unconvincingly – of not knowing about the latest developments in mainstream affairs. “What exactly is a Lady Gaga and why should I be expected to care?” they say. They think it’s amusing to drop calculated misuses like “the Twitter” into disingenuous rants. Nobody wants to be that sort of idiot.
Missed Boat Syndrome requires serious scientific investigation. In particular, researchers need to determine how long the patient has got between initial infection and onset of the fully-fledged condition. When the missed boat sets off from a trivial embarkation point the syndrome can be dismissed as a minor inconvenience. You need not be too embarrassed if you didn’t know that singer Kelly Rowland, by calling in sick to the X Factor last week, sparked rumours she had fallen out with fellow judge Tulisa Contostavlos. Ignorance of Kardashian’s slippery fame should not condemn you to social banishment.
When it comes to more serious news stories, however, Missed Boat Syndrome can cause the sufferer very serious discomfort. Here are the questions that researchers need to answer: How long can a patient leave it before seeking clarification on such significant issues? When does it become necessary to nod the head sagely rather than own up to one’s appalling ignorance? Can the boffins fashion a device that will light up when the incubation period is nearing its end?
The time has come to make my confession. I’m still not entirely sure who Seán Gallagher is. When the diminutive presidential candidate first emerged it hardly seemed necessary to ask my advisers about his background. Somehow or other – osmosis, perhaps – I absorbed the knowledge that he’d been on some television programme. Dragons’ Den?
Is that the one where Donald Sugar-Cullen theatrically fires people who’ve failed to flog frozen yoghurt outside railway stations? No? Oh Lord, competing strains of Missed Boat Syndrome are clogging up my entire metabolism. The time has come to enter a sanatorium. Or become a High Court judge.