I say ‘wrote’. There were no words, just four images. The first three were screenshots of the possession statistic during the 24th minute of the Scotland v England international match. The other was of Alex Salmond’s face.
The Process
It is, of course, a joke about the result of the Scottish referendum. I’d come up with the idea as I was preparing a chicken and chorizo jambalaya five minutes before kick-off.
I realised that, if it was to work, I would have to stare at the BBC Sport stats page until the numbers read how I wanted it. Also, I would have to do so from the game’s very first minute because the possession stat fluctuates a lot during the early periods.
The rice in my jambalaya hadn’t cooked yet.
I ate it anyway.
Initially, my chances of capturing the right numbers looked bleak. England’s early dominance meant that they had the overwhelming majority of the ball.
After twenty minutes, I could feel the numbers falling my way. The BBC’s statistic updated a few moments later and, finally, the share was 45%-55%. I hit print screen like it was a free bar.
Next, I searched ‘alex salmond’ on Google Images, but found too many pictures of him looking cheery and amiable.
So, instead, I tried ‘alex salmond resigns’, and found an image of him looking like he’d realised that the rest of his life would be a slow march towards death.
It was perfect.
By this point, the half-time whistle had been blown. I published the tweet and went to the kitchen, leaving my phone and laptop behind. I cleaned my plate, tidied up a little and all the while, I was looking forward to modest returns.
The Madness
I had been gone all of two minutes. It had been retweeted 100 times.
As more notifications rolled in, my phone began to sound like a heart monitor. For a few minutes, it pretty much was a heart monitor. If it had stopped beeping, I think I would’ve keeled over and started foaming at the mouth.
It was exciting. It was exhilarating. It was the kind of self-validation you don’t usually get when you’ve been wearing the same t-shirt for three days. By far the most entertaining aspect of the whole experience, however, was seeing the people who shared it.
Within fifteen minutes of putting it up, there were two people flirting in my mentions.
A Rangers and a Celtic supporter with two of the most violently sectarian bio’s I’ve ever seen retweeted it within seconds of each other.
It seemed to cause one lad to have an aneurysm.
However, as my disciples amassed, they became difficult to track. Soon enough, they didn’t really matter anymore. Each one was just another number.
I started to think that this must be how rich people feel. After all, what’s a second million dollars after you’ve made your first? Once you’ve passed one milestone, it becomes all about the next one.
With this in mind, I decided I would call it a night. I vowed to put my phone down once I hit a long-term target.
About two hours in and following a helpful push from my course mates, I found what I’d been looking for.
1,000 retweets.
I went to the corner shop and bought some cans. I drank to forget and then went to bed.
The Aftermath
My tweet is still, today, picking up favourites and retweets from secondary school kids with nothing better to do in Scotland.
Every variant of the cry-laugh emoji is in my mentions ten times over.
It has, at the time of writing, 1,879 retweets and 1,292 favourites, with 233,394 impressions and 50,722 engagements at a rate of 21.7%.
And yet, this is not enough. I need another hit. The dopamine receptors in my brain are now a nest of hatchlings demanding me to regurgitate shareable content down their throats.
Even though it was weirdly empty experience, even though every ‘well done’ I received only made me realise how ridiculous it all was, even though I woke up the next day with only regret and a mild hangover, I want to do it again. I want to experience that strange rush of seeing a big white number in a red box. It’s not going to be easy but I know what I need to do.
I need to write another tweet.