ON ANON ANON

Very few people take the time to actually read this nonsense. Most actually end up here due to some kind of mistake having been pointed in this direction by a search engine trying (bless) to be helpful but misunderstanding completely what it is they are looking for, and so the hapless bewildered tourist will swiftly depart just as soon as the stunned disbelief has had time to register upon their synapses, hoping never to darken our doorstep again (although “darken” might yet prove to be an impossibility when things are already as pitch black as they usually are). I tend to think of those visitors as being very similar to those people who turned up on the doorstep of 1313 Mockingbird Lane back in the 1960s and came face-to-face with lovable old Herman Munster and, misunderstanding his basic harmlessness, ran for the hills.

Some of you are more daring and read the whole content of my unravelling madnesses before possibly thinking “thank you very much” and departing. A more determined few actually come back occasionally, and there are one or two of you who are actually regular visitors to this forgotten and rather fetid corner of the universe, and some of you have even been known to write regular comments to me, just to say “hi”. You know who you are, and with a little persistence, anyone who doesn’t can find out pretty quickly by checking back a few days and reading what you thought. It’s always rather pleasing to have the opportunity to engage with further thoughts that sprang from someone reading this stuff, not least because sometimes I wonder whether I’m so very out of tune with the times that all I am doing is scratching away at the surface of my onion skin to reveal even more layers of ignorance beneath.

Occasionally though, like a mysterious figure in a cowboy film, a passing stranger will leave their mark (or remark) upon our peaceful, humble, quiet little town. Generally this won’t mean four more six-foot holes being dug up at Boot Hill, but sometimes, even as their silhouette disappears off towards the horizon and the heat haze devours them, I am left quite bewildered at the sometimes devastating effect their fleeting presence has had upon our little community. More often than not, these visits will be memorialised by a simple distinguishing mark that reminds us all that this visitor passed by, not the flashing “Z” of a rapier blade, or some other familiar calling card like the white glove of “The Phantom” or Simon Templar’s stick man, but another, altogether more sinister signature:

“Anonymous said…”

I often wonder to myself who “Anonymous” might be. After all, the entire point is that they could be anyone at all. Perhaps they are an old friend who doesn’t wish to reveal themselves, or a former colleague who really didn’t like me all that much, or doesn’t want anyone else to know that they are reading this drivvle. I might be well known to them, or have never met them in my entire life. We may have fallen out years ago, or just lost touch. Basically, “Anonymous” could be any of the above, or all of the above. They could, basically, be anybody at all, but I tend to connect the thought to a face, and my reactions are tempered accordingly. I am, of course, assuming that there are several anonymouses, but putting a mental face to the comment helps me to approach my replies with a slightly calmer air, so that when I picture just who it is that I might be about to offend, I tend to draw back and think better of it, and, as it is unusual for me to take a moment and pause for thought under such circumstances, I suppose that it’s not really the worst thing in the world.

Obviously, however, this has its downside. I may very well be convinced that I’m addressing A from B when actually I’m really writing to C from D, and, even though it helps me to get my thoughts into a straight line, it may very well lead to some confusion, especially if I happen to run into A from B later on and start discussing matters of which he or she turns out to be oblivious.

For example if “Anonymous” turned out to be my doctor when I thought it was my mum, well, you tend to talk to these people in a decidedly different manner and it shapes the way my mind processes the comments that have been left. What if my doctor was saying that? What if my mother was?

Shudder…

You see, sometimes “Anonymous” turns out to be someone I know, sometimes it’s someone I think I know and sometimes it’s someone I am actually related to (probably… unless they are hacking into my history very, very well…). There are ways and means, but usually it’s pretty obvious from what they are saying, and their anonymity is based purely on technical reasons than anything more sinister. Sometimes I think, from the style of the actual message and the clues contained within it, that I know who precisely who it is only for it to turn out not to be, and, as I said earlier, if I do decide I think I know who it is I will reply very differently in style to how I might have done when I thought it was a complete stranger whom I was addressing. Mind you that can even happen when person A from B is also claiming to be person C from D, and that is where things can start to get really complicated, but interpersonal relationships, and the real world convergence of all of what I thought were my regular readers into just one actual person with many facets is not really what I’m thinking about today.

Meanwhile, sometimes one of my anonymous guests will write something that irritates me so much that will I start to compose an indignant reply (or consider just jacking it all in at last… which may very well have been their purpose in saying it…) only for me to think again when I consider just who it might actually be, and then I think yet again. You see, despite what you might think, I am capable of much thought. Not about anything of any consequence, I’ll grant you, but much thought nevertheless. After all, I know that there are many and varied reasons for wishing to remain anonymous, and most of them are fairly benign, but sometimes the mask of unknowability is used to do things that are far more hurtful, say things that you never would if you had to look the person you are saying them too right in the eyes as you did, because, alongside the obvious advantages, anonymity also brings with it a certain amount of freedom. Freedom to be mean or spiteful, sarcastic and rude…

On occasion, “Anonymous” has offered a supposedly factual correction to something I’ve written that they then turned out to be quite wrong about, which makes me suspect that they lacked the courage of their convictions in the first place. What’s the matter with these people? Do they not know me and my meticulous ways, especially when it comes to matters of telly? Oh, yeah… They don’t (unless, of course, they do…). They’ve just read something which they think I’ve got wrong and decided to butt in and tell me so. I do wonder whether they ever mosey their way on back to these here parts to check up on what I thought of their offering, but I suspect that seldom happens. They just drift away, so certain in their mistaken views and with a certain smug satisfaction that it’s them that is right and everyone else who is wrong.

Or is that just me…?