As long distance a relationship as my geography can barely imagine,
our bookmarked world clock pages tell us what time it is for the other.

Between toast, kettle and shower routines, you tell me of your day,
the pint you’ve just enjoyed and the early night now imminent.

Yawned accounts of tiredness and even earlier starts are my daily tales.
Groans about morning meetings and cold, dark weather take course.

Much missed snores and days of procedure play out between calls,
the second digital dial tone of each day spinning accounts full circle.

Searching and usually not finding fresh detail to report,
you hear of projects you don’t quite get and evening runs to stretch them out.

You’re always mid ironing routine, heading on out to the training field
to gear up for another brave session addressing a life long dream.

I’m usually keeping an eye on the curry filling the kitchen with spiced mist,
flicking through television channels at two laps of the guide a sitting.

Weeks are manageable. Office regulation controls your absence’s sting.
The two days in-between slab out a stage for theatrical memories that ache.

For all the Saturday morning hangovers and huge Sunday runs
cold pillows and a half load of overdue washing up reminds me you’re away.

Everyone does their best or what they think is the most apt way to note
the script we work hard to read, one line at a time.

Enquiries into how you’re doing can feel like my effort’s on mute.
Other times I know it’s the only way they find to acknowledge the score.

Somehow the long slog is almost complete. Twenty-eight weeks down.
Nineteen sleeps to cross off the wall chart – half a soppy joke, two halves not.

My calendar is building a full season’s worth of celebration.
No belt has enough holes for all of the dinners and drinks I have planned.

Inevitable ‘Will everything be as lovely as before?’ thoughts crop up
but less frequently than the smiles of memories past and to be made.

A leafy lunch at The Approach, beer passed Sovereign House,
and a feast at Prescot Street’s hidden gem are closer than in months.

Forced but kind reassurances of friends on hearing of your big trip
will soon be history, cozy alongside dull evening meals for one.

People have told me that they could never have done it,
like at any point we had or defined a choice. It was roles we just had to take.

See you at Paddington when your express train arrives.
I’ll be the one calling ‘action’ on the scene I’ve re-written 198 times.

Wait until they need to use the toilets.
Their posh accents will lardy dar about that.
Oh, to be an uppity, slumming it, commuter
is to sound like a total and utter prat.

We can drink in all the places
our heroes wrote their songs
and eat lots of strange foods,
pretending that we belong.

At home we can look back,
talk of it like Bowie in Berlin.
I’ll get out my drunken lyrics
we’ll never attempt to sing.

Let us get a train to Paris,
for two days of lunacy not love,
drinking glasses of gin for breakfast,
seeing faces in clouds above.

I stacked shelves in a supermarket all the way through my A Levels. It was the first time I ever had money and the last time I didn’t have to pay rent and bills. Purchasing things, anything, made me happy. The 307 bus stopped outside my school and drove 45 minutes to Enfield’s HMV. In lunch breaks and instead of bunked lessons, bargain buckets and 3 for 2 deals became my crack.

Too often, users simply create updates on their profiles to try and align themselves with a product or personality, be it a £200 designer belt or a guy who’s released an album of music made by tapping spoons on his breakfast table that he recorded through a toilet roll inner. Whether it’s a check in at a renowned restaurant or a photo upload of a concert crowd, the ego driven intentions remain.

And everyone’s guilty of it, whether it’s the five tweets a breath addict or the person behind a blog post like this one, transparently trying to disassociate himself with such vanity! Egotism is what separates man from cattle and is as inevitable and incredible as sunshine, but we do have numerous grades of sun block to deter burning. And cattle need nudging into the right fields.

When self absorbed social noise is digested, the author’s (assumed) aims are increasingly missed, by me at least for now, having been away from a computer screen for three weeks on holiday. A break like that violently emphasises the triviality of most noise I’d been consuming.

I haven’t been finishing reading people’s thought yawns and thinking ‘wow, this guy has style’ or ‘now that’s what you call being on the pulse of contemporary music.’ I’ve been internalising a loud ‘fucking try hard!’ scream at my laptop, getting jealous of the author’s clear abundance of spare time and moving on to more informative, stimulating content.

Attempts of identity through association is one aspect of social media becoming increasingly apparent as it continues to penetrate the mainstream. Since Twitter has grown from its humble (and more useful, enjoyable) days when it was largely used by news agencies and commentators, new users have subtly slipped into a mind state of self appointed stardom where they unknowingly start considering themselves a celebrity/brand/product themselves that – surely! – the whole world wants to read the every finger nail biting, arse scratching, fart passing tweet of. Of course, social media usage aside, this is reflective of wider changes in the nation’s ‘Living the dream’ X Factor imprisoned identity.

A day in to my three weeks of digital detox, on a long walk between beaches and bays on a coastline, I found myself thinking in tweets. I’d been using my social media accounts on such a close, regular basis that when I’d walked 14 kilometres away from my hostel only for a thunder storm to surprisingly leave me stranded, I didn’t at first think about finding a bus or taxi to safety. I thought to myself the ‘Oh dear. Stranded in a storm. Should have packed my umbrella, ha!’ words I would have tweeted if I’d not turned off my data roaming. For someone with a fond love of elegant, thoughtful phrases of language, thinking in short and choppy snippets like that is obviously a little alarming – and mental.

Several further days isolated, freed, from the constant brain flood of ego tickles by the people I’d been following and those of my own, I started feeling a sense of liberation. I’d be exploring a park, museum or dining with friends and not feel tied to my handheld device to keep up with ‘buzz’ that now seems to hold less merit than my kitchen fridge’s hum. Previously, it had been ‘God forbid if I don’t find out what so and so is eating for breakfast’. It became ‘Who gives a flying fuck?’.

Forgive the cringeworthy self help terminology, but I’d somewhat become ‘awakened’ or at least reminded as to who I was and what I thought or felt beneath the distracting fuzz of empty detail. Disconnected from the penetrative onslaught of nothingness, I had more space to make reflections, form solid opinions and relax, or if you liked the self help shit, ‘just be’. For an introvert who sometimes struggles socially, switching off helped me to switch on and exercise a personality so much harder to feel, develop or sustain when plugged in to a virtual one that runs at a higher, less pure voltage.

The most charismatic, inspiring people I’m friends with spend little, if any time, building up a digital persona. My favourite musicians, film stars and writers are so because they aren’t on chat shows every afternoon or in my inbox or news feeds fifty times a day. Their output is less frequent and richer for it because there’s more intrigue.

To the 30 odd real life friends I’ve recently unsubscribed from, it’s not that I don’t care about you. It’s because I do. Communication in person shouldn’t be a repetition of something I already know because you published it in an intangible arena. What’s the point in talking to someone when you know what they’ve got to say already?

Working at a digital marketing agency as a Social Media Manager and having ‘anti social media’ thoughts like these sets up a stage for conflict, but the disdain is towards how social media is used by certain people, not social media itself. My respect and love for social media remains.

I’m in a long distance relationship that began on a dating site and would be much more difficult without Facebook, Skype and the like. Keeping up with the niche underground hiphop music I adore would seem impossible. Sharing holiday photos with relatives would become a more long winded and expensive process. Keeping abreast of current affairs and sports results would only be possible in one hour television news broadcasts at the end of the day. I’d find it harder to discover new, highly regarded places to eat, drink and travel. *Insert the many other benefits of technology here*.

I just wish for the impossible, that people, if they really must consider themselves as a brand, do what brands do and run content through ‘usefulness/entertainment factor’ filters before sounding off. Then, just occasionally, Twitter’s top trends might be reflective of what’s going on in the world again, not how much better Harry from One Direction’s new haircut might be.

In terms of brands, the abundance of triviality in many people’s inboxes, news feeds and palms of hands emphasises the ever present and not nearly exhausted enough point; content is king. It’s everything and always has been. Brands and agencies have the time and resources that average Joe doesn’t to create incredible content. Create a solid identity positioned around a focused point of shared interest and serve useful, entertaining content around that. Your desired audience will come and will stay.

Orchestrated persona in this article:

I’m really cool and worldly, having walked bays, beaches an’ all.
I’m really dedicated to my other half.
I’m totally settling back into day to day life following my holiday.

My newly cleansed Twitter channel includes:

@ComicBookGuy – My favourite character from The Simpsons who regularly gives me a chuckle.
@WappingLondon – Cute updates about an area local to me.
@kanyewest – A rapper I’m a fan of who regularly entertains and talks about his creative process.
@MarsCuriosity – Who doesn’t want tweets from space?
@Prefixmag – Humble, informative music news site.

Break (Typer investigates why Jessie J is trending)

Finding smoke breaks now more refreshing
the not so free world craves for its info gasps
intervening shrinking blocks of contentment
ever uncomfortable without the conjured
interruptions of biscuit crumb detail.

Break (Typer’s friend who’s working abroad appears in a box to say ‘hello’)

Society’s psyche
blasé through repetitive routine
shrugs exhalations of expectance
as a name or face or lamp post of flowers
gets its thirty seconds of red LED lights
ones and zeros.

Break (Typer un-mutes the TV’s sport report)

Rarely does the undercurrent of sedate suffering
over fill the land’s un-thresh-old
bursting overt feeling for once across faces
all in it together but mightily alone
positioning place names in another’s tragedy.

Break (Typer checks a train timetable to see when he needs to get showered)

The dead racist reality TV star
horny babysitter turned royal beauty
mauled school trip stranger
text book pop star implosion
have all exited stage left.

Break (Typer searches for reassurance that ‘psyche’ is an appropriate word)

Alarm clocks tally up looping races
coffee mornings stir competition
hunters stake claim.

Break (Typer uses a translation tool to e-mail a friend happy ramadan before he forgets)

‘I walked her dogs’
‘She lived in my cousin’s friend’s flat’
‘He bagged my neighbour’s shopping’
‘The reporters blocked my road and I was late for work’
‘A helicopter kept circling my neighbourhood. It was probably looking for the killer’
‘I knew all the words to that main song. It’s well sad.’
‘My hot water was off this morning. I knew it was going to be a bad day.’

Break (Typer does a replace all on ‘poet’ with ‘writer’ and then another, settling for less pretence, though walks straight into the ego strut he wanted to sidestep by referencing his edits at all)

An occasional city break
globe trotting backpack adventure
technical error
house move
bed stricken fever
might wean someone off the penetrative
onslaught of persistent mind buckling.

Break (Typer taps in apologies to a friend that he’s running late)

However peaceful an escape
surrounded by pixels of noise
the nakedness of calm re-hooks.

Break (Typer washes and shuts down for a weekend of drink)

Biting at the virtual fishing rod line

Break (Typer reconnects computer to see how he looked at the rave)

A BIORhythm special on Busta introduced me to his live guest spot on Tribe’s Scenario and from then on I was hooked. Dangerous hit the top of the UK charts and was soon followed by a series of creative, high budget videos for inventive, gripping songs.

Busta Rhymes albums captured the imaginations of my friends and I for their running themes of conspiracy theory and comedy interlude. There was always lots of filler but without fail, a good handful of really strong singles showcasing Busta’s incredible flows atop unconventional production that stood out from much else. It’s never mattered that the lyrics aren’t always of a strong theme or story because they’re executed in such a way that distracts, in a good way, from any point they might be trying to make.

When Disaster Strikes was a seamless step forward from his initial solo album The Coming. That first outing followed his many years in the group Leaders Of The New School and somewhat mirrored his collective’s old school, underground sound. Extinction Level Event showcased Busta at his most energetic on the breathless Gimme Some More and relentless Iz They Wildin With Us? As the mid 90s era reigns of Puff Daddy, DMX, Jay Z etc grew to quieter phases, Busta Rhymes released the enjoyable Anarchy and whilst all albums since have included brilliant singles and even more supreme remixes of those, the artist’s relevance and critical acclaim has somewhat declined.

A short lived stint on Dr. Dre’s Aftermath label saw the once incredibly entertaining, light hearted and animated artist take a far more serious turn, rapping the narrative of cocaine deals and hood violence, themes Dr. Dre seems to insist his roster rarely strays from. The colourful videos of multicoloured dream coats were quickly replaced by fast cars, naked women and frowns. Things felt a lot less entertaining, sincere and far more contrived.

2007 saw a quick departure from Aftermath to Universal Motown where Back on My B.S. was released, albeit after many delays and a lot of badly planned marketing activity. Promotional interviews showed glimpses of a reinvigorated Busta speaking of a desire to return hiphop to what it once was. Whilst the sentiment was great, the collection of songs didn’t make a lasting impression on charts or commentators.

Whilst the likes of Puff Daddy have now retired from chart success to enjoy huge Twitter followings and reality TV show stints, Busta has continued to keep one toe dipped in the mainstream. Such is his back catalogue and presence, he’s never ceased to be invited by younger artists to appear on their albums and remixes. Every time he’s accepted the offer, he’s shown he’s not to be messed with, contributing efforts that significantly overshadow any other personality involved.

Back catalogue and jaw dropping guest appearances aside, Busta’s continued to hold relevance and respect because of his close friendships and associations. In recent years he’s worked on several tracks with his close friend, the highly regarded Q-Tip. He’s maintained an interest in up and coming artists such as Papoose who he coached to a $1.5 million debut record deal. Whilst it’s far removed from his once envelope pushing early efforts, he works with big club and charting producers such as David Ghetta and Tiesto.

As with many artists so many albums into their recording careers, it’s unlikely that we’ll hear a Busta Rhymes album with the same impact as his earlier projects. We’re now well exposed to his once original, unheard of style and antics. But you can safely expect, whether he jumps on the latest minimalist drums / auto-tune / arab sample etc trend, that for the forceable future he’ll remain some distance ahead of his peers when it comes to being reliable for a effortlessly delivered range of tongue twisting outings.

Here’s a Spotify playlist of big album highlights and guest appearances void of interludes.