Reading Andrew Ramadge punching on in The Punch today reminded me that the pond shouldn't stop for a wretched horse race, and that maintaining nerd credentials was an incessant business. Hence the xkcd update above on the lands of the intertubes.
Society has gone to the dogs because of technology, Ramadge explains, providing some tasty examples of how the telephone ruined civilised society.
It reminded me immediately of the chattering classes, and of course of Miranda the Devine, and her deep anxiety about the impact of modern technology, perhaps arising from too many 45 rmp singles and telephone usage in her youth.
Sadly, it seems having a Playstation in the home, becoming a tabloid blogger, and twittering her tweets has quite reduced the Devine.
Here's her latest posting Germs unsheathed in its entirety:
Germaine Greer writes meanly about Pamela Stephenson and her “exquisite knees”. So much for supporting the sisterhood.Miaow.
Wowie zowie, as Suzy Creamcheese used to say. Beam me up Scotty, that's so totally excellent and witty and aye caramba ... so miaow.
Sure there's a link. To that red socialist rag The Guardian.
Does this mean the Devine has sunk lower than Tim Blair, which takes some doing, and in such quick time, and in such abject form, that it's breathtaking?
Surely technology's to blame, since reading the new incarnation of the Devine is as funny as being hit over the head with a fish in a bizarre fish dance. Miaow! It's twitteresque. Miaow!
There are alternatives, thanks to the way the world is going online. Project Gutenberg, for example, features the wits of Punch or the London Charivari, a complete collection of Victorian wits going ... miaow!
Of course when the original Punch was setting out its purpose, they tried to reach above the Miaow level:
As we hope, gentle public, to pass many happy hours in your society, we think it right that you should know something of our character and intentions. Our title, at a first glance, may have misled you into a belief that we have no other intention than the amusement of a thoughtless crowd, and the collection of pence. We have a higher object. Few of the admirers of our prototype, merry Master PUNCH, have looked upon his vagaries but as the practical outpourings of a rude and boisterous mirth. We have considered him as a teacher of no mean pretensions, and have, therefore, adopted him as the sponsor for our weekly sheet of pleasant instruction. When we have seen him parading in the glories of his motley, flourishing his baton (like our friend Jullien at Drury-lane) in time with his own unrivalled discord, by which he seeks to win the attention and admiration of the crowd, what visions of graver puppetry have passed before our eyes! Golden circlets, with their adornments of coloured and lustrous gems, have bound the brow of infamy as well as that of honour—a mockery to both; as though virtue required a reward beyond the fulfilment of its own high purposes, or that infamy could be cheated into the forgetfulness of its vileness by the weight around its temples! Gilded coaches have glided before us, in which sat men who thought the buzz and shouts of crowds a guerdon for the toils, the anxieties, and, too often, the peculations of a life. Our ears have rung with the noisy frothiness of those who have bought their fellow-men as beasts in the market-place, and found their reward in the sycophancy of a degraded constituency, or the patronage of a venal ministry—no matter of what creed, for party must destroy patriotism.
The noble in his robes and coronet—the beadle in his gaudy livery of scarlet, and purple, and gold—the dignitary in the fulness of his pomp—the demagogue in the triumph of his hollowness—these and other visual and oral cheats by which mankind are cajoled, have passed in review before us, conjured up by the magic wand of PUNCH.
How we envy his philosophy, when SHALLA-BA-LA, that demon with the bell, besets him at every turn, almost teasing the sap out of him! The moment that his tormentor quits the scene, PUNCH seems to forget the existence of his annoyance, and, carolling the mellifluous numbers of Jim Crow, or some other strain of equal beauty, makes the most of the present, regardless of the past or future; and when SHALLA-BA-LA renews his persecutions, PUNCH boldly faces his enemy, and ultimately becomes the victor. All have a SHALLA-BA-LA in some shape or other; but few, how few, the philosophy of PUNCH!
The noble in his robes and coronet—the beadle in his gaudy livery of scarlet, and purple, and gold—the dignitary in the fulness of his pomp—the demagogue in the triumph of his hollowness—these and other visual and oral cheats by which mankind are cajoled, have passed in review before us, conjured up by the magic wand of PUNCH.
How we envy his philosophy, when SHALLA-BA-LA, that demon with the bell, besets him at every turn, almost teasing the sap out of him! The moment that his tormentor quits the scene, PUNCH seems to forget the existence of his annoyance, and, carolling the mellifluous numbers of Jim Crow, or some other strain of equal beauty, makes the most of the present, regardless of the past or future; and when SHALLA-BA-LA renews his persecutions, PUNCH boldly faces his enemy, and ultimately becomes the victor. All have a SHALLA-BA-LA in some shape or other; but few, how few, the philosophy of PUNCH!
To which all we can say is ... Miaow!
And so on with our campaign to be nerdish. Miaow, and check out the Doogie Horner below.
(Below: and now since we're back to the future with the telephone, the Victorian age and Miranda the Devine, here's an attempt, in graphic form, to explain the internet to an urchin. You'll need to click to enlarge, or head off to Flowchart: Understanding the Web, for Fans of Charles Dickens.
But wherever you go remember the new catchphrase. Miaow!
Hogan! Miaow!)
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