'LOL I rly wanna win that IPAD! #competition'
Y'okay. So, over there on my wine blog, I've been running a little Tweet For Wine competition.
The idea? Well, since I was writing all these digressive and profanity-strewn wine reviews, I kind of wanted some people to read 'em. Because I'm a shameless attention seeker, me.
Unfortunately, I hadn't bargained on exactly the type of attention my Twitter Competition would bring.
For I had hitherto been blissfully unaware of the existence of an online breed known (in their own words, I tell you!) as 'Compers'.
'What is a Comper, O Hooligan?' I hear you cry.
(Or at least, so I think I hear you cry. But maybe that's just the distant whining of your total indifference.)
A Comper, it seems, is one whose sole online purpose is to enter mindless competitions such as my own.
The first clue that you are dealing with a Comper is often in the username. It will either be as bland and characterless as angel delight, or else will exhibit a toe-curling, cutesy infantilism that'll have you reaching for your 35-hour box-set of 'The World At War' in a desperate bid to remind yourself that pain and suffering do in fact exist.
Browse the Comper's Twitter stream and you will find it strewn with more hash signs than your phone display at the end of a support-centre call to BT, as the Comper sporadically fires off messages to enter every single competition in the world. You will also notice that, 90% of the time, the Comper will illustrate her profile (alas, there is a heavily female gender bias amongst Compers) not with an image of herself, but with either (a) a photograph of a very young child or (b) a photograph of a domestic animal.
Which results in the cognitive-dissonance-inducing spectacle of a 3-year-old toddler apparently proclaiming, 'I'm entering a #competition to win free wine! Amazing Comp! LUV WINE!' — or a sad-eyed basset-hound declaring: 'Amazing #comp to win iPad!!! Rly hope I win LOL.'
You want me to tell you what it is?
I'll tell you what it is.
It is approximately as depressing as holding your 21st birthday in a gulag.
(What's that? A birthday cake? Made entirely from the ground-up remnants of former inmates? Really, you shouldn't have.)
Unfortunately, right now, the Compers are winning. Absolutely turdloads of 'em have entered my competition — to a degree which, I'm sure, far outweighs non-Compers.
This makes me sad.
And so I beg you, O reader, O non-Comper — while there's still time (closing date's tomorrow!) — get across to my wine blog and start comping.
Comp the good comp with all thy (um) romp?
Let's take this one back from the clones.