When the book of my life is returned, well thumbed and poorly fingered, it will have recorded that the beginning of my eventual downfall, arrest and public foxtrot occured precisely six seconds after I joined facebook.

Like Harry Potter, religious intolerance and golf putters made of optimism, I had resisted the masses and other Christian ceremonies that told me to join earlier. "Are you on facebook yet?" they would cry, handing me a baguette. "Did you join facebook yet?", they demanded, regrouting my bathroom. "Have you done it yet?", they said, hitting me in the face with a book. Eventually I crumbled, sodden and understated, desperately trying to order my interests in such a way as to imply I am interesting and fun and not in any way, shape or form a rubber fetishist.

I was thrown by the stark statement that told me I had no friends on Oxford, sent by email to all my family, so I set out to make friends the only way I knew how: clicking a grey button. I added friends all over the place, jumping with joy everytime each demand was met with a "Yes, we are friends now." I realised that my new friends had friends, and that I was connected to by my first round of companionship. Wouldn't it be wonderful, I thought, if I could befriend all the people I was connected to. So I did, only to discover the amount of people I was connected to had increased tenfold. I consider the gauntlet to be thrown down.

Trouble struck early when I was asked to describe the nature of my relationship with Catherine Harding. I wrote, accurately that we were "practically married" and that as such, we "barely spoke to each other". I almost chose, for a joke, "I don't know this person", until I began having doubts. Did I know this person? I mean we talk, but really, have I properly ever considered what makes her go? My problems were nullified and immediated quadrupled when I accidentally clicked cancel this relationship. Just like that we were broke up, as Cath broke up with me first in person, and then asking for confirmation by an email that required me to follow a link to a animated GIF of her breaking all my crockery.

There is a moral to this story. You have to join this group to see it. Refresh. No new friends.

Craig

The news of Shell UK oil's £13 billion profits this morning was the first thing I heard. The second thing was a bunch of clips from Men Off The Street, saying it was outrageous that Shell earns so much when petrol is that expensive at the pumps. This confuses two things. Shell shouldn't earn so much, and I reckon a lump sum tax on profits of, oh, let's say, £13 billion to be earmarked as a reward for the first person to come up with a car running entirely on Men Off The Street would be entirely appropriate.

Meanwhile, cutting the price of petrol at the pumps means everyone will drive their cars more than ever, and we'll all be dead of drowning and cancer in 50 years rather than 100. I wish people would stop complaining about the price of petrol. Guess what? That's the price you pay for Earthocide. When the price of petrol is £5 a litre, maybe then I'll get down with the cause, if only because I'll probably stop getting lifts.