The first "text to telly" fluffer on the continent.
During the first tonic-clonic baby steps of "interactive" telly the boss of a local station was in a bit of a kerfuffle. After he opposed airing Big Brother (this is ridiculous, no one will bother watching) and generally kept his boozy, sweary, cynical showman mates in their 80s miasma.. there was this new keen thing from the US of A - sending texts to telly. And this was the future, one for the hip kids, like AOL or boybands. We would be the first in Yurop to spread this cheese. I was getting high and shagging his daughter in the meantime, doing the odd household chore to top up my booze piggy (not her, well, differently) at the parents' place. At other times even having a talk with the patriarch on media and arts, which was my budding profession and/or pretense to nick posh vino from his lair on the veranda. Yes sir, very interesting indeed (cough cough) ah yes those computers, good stuff, them, oh what was that, money? Sweet. Let's do it.

The heart of flashness draws me in. Busy underlings pace through many-doored corridors, dragging soma for us, the millions about. The Man casually gossips with creatives and presenter types. His station is 10 years further down from my demography, still the buzz rubs off. Some even direct a few words of general acceptance to the bebaggypanted lynx smelling yoof I was. Then I am in the inner sanctum, settling in for the night with a platter of buns and soft drinks fit for a space age serf. They brief me that there is as of yet no interface from text to screen, That will be me. Oh my. And off we go.

The show rolls off, something folk music and has-beens doing fun sports and live audience (yes, indeed, live everything) doing their spiel with the pomaded smiler. Then! he anounces us. On flicks my grid. Up surge dozens of pages of random LOLFIRST messages from the last week. Technician winks and kicks the lot out of the queue. Then the first hamfisted cries of the public come farting in. We copy every dozenth or so, flush the racism and scorn and bump the greetings. The bands even hear from some of what we splurt out there from some other monkey sending comments the presenter is plugged into. They keep mentioning it across the commercial breaks and in the ticker under the screen where our texts go. As the sun goes down and we reach stable workflow techie dude leaves me alone.

And there goes the prankster. Despite the crude UNIXy surface there was a step where you could edit stuff, we used it to throw last names and numbers out. So you want to propose to the fat slag next to you on the couch? Let's add a cheesy remark about how bovinely she snogs. Something from a county I don't like? Let me just casually funk up the grammar so everyone knows how daft your lot is. And a shout-out for my mates, beavisly butt-heading their way through this guff. Smiley here, useless one word tourette filler there. Whatever a teenage mind burps hither.

Yeah, I was the first text-to-screen pipeline guy in Europe. Remember remember.
(funktrash soul = combustion engine, Fri 21 Sep 2012, 16:08, 3 replies)

tl; dr
but i hated it anyway.
( janet aylia y'all motherfuckers need jesus, Fri 21 Sep 2012, 16:35, closed)

Are you a special needs, or just thick?
That was fucking painful to read, and I still have no idea what it was about.
( BraynDedd Natasha Kaplinsky's labia majora, Fri 21 Sep 2012, 20:29, closed)

Both a foreigner, drunk and busy while writing. It doesn't get better otherwise either. But hey, fuck you too.
(funktrash soul = combustion engine, Sun 23 Sep 2012, 13:36, closed)