Tuesday, 5 October 2010


I recently relocated to Brighton, my leaving gift from my housemate being a lovingly crafted scrapbook of photos from 8 years in Canterbury, which now lies buried at the bottom of a box as I’m fearful of its inherent power to make me blub like a two year old. But the knowledge of the hard work that went into its creation, and the fact I know it’s there if I need it is comfort enough; I don’t feel the need to display it.

The same cannot be said, however, of the obtrusive ‘Photo Memories’ and ‘Recommended Photos’ on Facebook. ‘Recommended’? As though displayed on the blood-stained menu of some sadistic chef wielding a knife specifically designed to cut into the most fragile pieces of your tender heart! *emo tear*


Good morning! Here’s a picture of your formerly straight ex marrying their lesbian life partner at a lavishly decadent Magic Carpet Ride themed wedding, and isn’t that your mother gnawing a vol-au-vent shaped suspiciously like the toe of a camel in the background? She always did seem to prefer her to you, crying over the break-up for months longer than you did. Or how about that sexy cat girl who got too close to licking your boyfriend’s cream one Halloween. Check her out. Remember the New Year where your fiancée got carried away after one too many champagne cocktails and revealed more (both figuratively and literally) during a raucous game of ‘I Have Never' in ten unforgettable minutes than you elicited in five years of courtship? Blimey, and check out you with that haircut, so 2006, what were you thinking.

The Photo Memories feature has an uncanny knack of highlighting the images you’ve probably spent the most time glaring at in rage or confusion, and then surprise you with a reminder of that night where you and a mate found £20 in the Tesco self checkouts which you promptly embezzled in cheap rosé wine at the same establishment before being tipped off about a VIP underground club night where you knew all the DJs and most of the guests and they played all your requests and you finally pulled that hottie from the tatto parlour and made love to her all night and in the morning saw a double rainbow and a rabbit with poor time-keeping. You will never have that much fun again. Ever.

Thanks for that.

I can only imagine that this seemingly sweetly nostalgic gimmick was tested on people with only pleasant memories. Or goldfish. Or Alzheimers Anonymous. They can be the equivalent of being force-fed your auntie’s holiday pics, but whereas with your auntie you can hide behind the sofa, claim you’ve overdosed on doilies or escape to the kitchen breaking the record for longest time spent making a brew, there’s no handy ‘hide’ function for this latest torturous feature save logging off Facebook. And the curiosity will always get you in the end. Like it did with Alice and that rabbit.

From the late 40s/early 50s, Dad at Butlins with his parents. Some photo memories I can honestly 'like'.

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