In Defence of the Sub-Tweet

An underrated tool for societal change

“I am no longer available for things that make me feel like sh*t!”

I read the words again to fully take in their meaning. I had been scrolling Pinterest for hours building a board as though it were a wall between me and reality. After a short moment of contemplation I realised, I am still available for them. Things that make me feel like sh*t, please get in touch, I’d love to hear from you.

I have always sub-tweeted (sub-twet?). Usually about stupid stuff like new ideas I found short sighted or some kind of cultural happening in comedy that I had a sharp take on. At least in my opinion. For me, sub-tweeting is a way of commenting on current cultural moments, big and small. When I am sub-tweeting I am Joan Didion. I am Susan Sontag. I think sub-tweeting is a tool for shaping culture, especially in creative industries. There is not one progressive change I can think of that wasn’t brought about by people talking openly. Writing about your thoughts and experiences online often means bringing to light things that we all thought we were individually suffering. I remember the first time I read a tweet about “promoters insisting on hugging you so they can kind of feel your boobs.” It connected us by taking something, that knowing that dwells in the pit of your stomach, and swinging it like a cat. The light public shaming also curbed the issue in our circles. Men solely concerned with their public image were slapped with a brisk “We Know What You Are Doing”.

I have crossed lines speaking my mind online, and on an extremely rare occasion apologised for it too. I also often forget that with being moderately outspoken, especially as a woman, comes ~The Fear~. Being seen as your true self is claggy and can sometimes sit in your stomach for days afterwards. It leaves a residue. The art of the sub-tweet is that it must either feel relatable, meaningful or funny. It must punch up as they say. To use the raw source material as either a writing prompt or a weapon for social justice, in your best judgement. Reading a pointless or mean, or pointlessly mean sub-tweet is like getting the arm of your cardy caught on a door handle. The world suddenly stops and you are left asking why.

I started performing comedy in what seems like a different world. The Manchester comedy scene was a lot more blokey, boozy and brutal when I had my first gigs. The only way to get performance spots was through a Yahoo type forum where men would hang about all day talking about how there should be a “cull of open spots” or posting videos of them harassing newsagents with their EDL buddies. There were rays of hope but it was rare to leave a gig without five middle aged men physically taking me to the side in an attempt to change everything about me and even rarer to be on the bill with another woman. When it was up on its feet, Twitter started to give people who didn’t have systemic power some kind of medium to illuminate our surroundings. We held candles over maps and in the dim light saw the words “BEWARE: this guys a wrong ‘un”.

I know some of you are wondering when I will be bringing up class. Friends, that time has come. The middle classness of any creative world means one thing; Don’t talk openly. Someone bullied you? Cry in your room. Been stolen from? Get over it! Had your house burned down in a feud with one of your peers? That’s life. The instinct to move on from unfair situations gracefully has never been instilled in me. The truth will out, but not in some distant, foggy future. Before some of you start campaigning to stop working class people in the arts, I always go through the prim and proper channels first. For me to speak about something personal publicly is always the end of a long road exploring options and solutions wearing a little cravat, a monocle perched in my eye socket.

I did acting as a child. It was one of those theatre groups that is reminiscent of the TV show Dance Moms. The CEO was a flamboyant character who was often furious and had a taste for my public humiliation. The bizarre punishments, tantrums and general ridicule plagued me and compounded the problem of my shyness. At exactly the same time, he would talk endlessly about professionalism. How the industry wouldn’t accept us if we didn’t take abuse because there would be hundreds who would. We were explicitly taught to be at the whim of directors and producers and back to the gutter if they got a whiff of insolence.

As the comedy industry has developed, lots of us are caught between two worlds. The old school fancies of the powerful and the newfound professionalism of the upper class. In this world, the sub-tweet has always broken through flimsy sensibilities that only act as shields for abusive behaviour.

Making something out of “the things that make you feel like sh*t” can become not only liberating for the individual but also the community. After being at the whim of predatory behaviour, behaviour that changes me from within and alters my brain chemistry forever, I will at the very least get a joke out of it.

Because what are you going to do, complain to HR?