Tag Yourself and the Aesthetics of Empathy

This article first appeared in The Oxford Student on 2 June 2017. It was my last ever piece for the paper, and I hope I managed to end on a high note.

It has been said that memes are inherently communist. Anarchic, decentralised, and divorced from the profit motive, the argument goes that they are therefore inherently suited to left-wing viewpoints. But this argument, while tempting, is not entirely satisfactory. Aside from the fact that plenty of memes have been commercially appropriated, the prominence of memes as an alt-right aesthetic cannot be simply ignored. It’s hard to call anything ‘communist’ when white supremacists are tossing it around alongside the word ‘magic’, but the equal prominence of avowedly socialist memes suggests a certain ideological flexibility. How, then, are we to understand the apparent political confusion of memes?

The tag yourself meme, first seen on Tumblr in 2016, may provide a clue to this political ambiguity. The format is simple enough: a collection of thumbnail images on a white background, each accompanied with a name (misspelled for comic effect), and three or four brief descriptive phrases denoted by dashes. This last point is crucial; the typography of tag yourself memes, in opting for a dash over the more traditional bullet point, centres on soft power, further reinforced by a preference for n-dashes over lengthier, and thus more impactful, m-dashes.

When one of these images is shared, with the accompanying phrase, ‘tag yourself, I’m ____’, the sharer creates an informal solidarity, a non-judgemental space in which the reader is able to choose an identity. Moreover, the format is flexible enough to allow identification with a wide variety of tropes, images, and figures. To tag oneself is to escape the self, to become more than human, or at least not only human. Personal favourites include the classic Dat Boi (I’m ‘it’s him’), and the equally classic Romanticism tag yourself (I’m William Blake). But whatever the specific theme, this à la carte empathy forms the aesthetic core of the tag yourself meme.

This memetic ideology is broadly encouraging. If we understand politics as driven by identity, tag yourself’s flexibility and accommodation of diverse types implies an acceptance, even a championing of, diversity. To gain likes and shares, the tag yourself meme must include different types of content, relatable to different types of people. This aesthetic of empathy, in which memers both conceptualise, and express themselves, as multiple bodies else, has obvious potential for progressivism.

The snag, however, is the word ‘memetic’. While the form ostensibly encourages diversity, the pithiness of the tag yourself meme can also serve to directly enact stereotypes. Language O’Clock’s world flags tag yourself, for example, describes Ireland as “very enthusiastic about potatoes”, while Great Britain is both “compulsive tea drinker” and “carries a pocketwatch”. This adds a reactionary sense of imperialist nostalgia, the opposite of social progress, yet an attitude actively encouraged by the tag yourself format.

The tag yourself meme, then, is a form which ostensibly encourages diversity, while practically enacting crass simplifications of individual identities. The other is vicariously experienced, but never in a state equal to the self. Tag Yourself: I’m Liberalism.

The Age of Dril

This article first appeared in The Oxford Student on 24 February 2017.

“fuck “jokes”. everything i tweet is real. raw insight without the horse shit. no, i will NOT follow trolls. twitter dot com. i live for this”

Such is the manifesto of the Twitter user known only as Dril (wint to his friends). An anonymous surrealist comedian, his first tweet was in 2008: the single word ‘no’. Since then he has provided an endless stream of memeable verbiage. Highlights include “the wise man bowed his head solemnly and spoke: “theres actually zero difference between good & bad things. you imbecile. you fucking moron”, and “who the fuck is scraeming “LOG OFF” at my house. show yourself, coward. i will never log off”.

They’re funny, weird, nonsensical, even a little unnerving – but they all represent some aspect of internet behaviour. We’ve all seen naive appeals to moderation, we’ve all seen desperate flame war posturing. Dril is the internet’s collective id, given form. He’s the online equivalent of the Beowulf-poet; we may never know who he really is, but we recognise when he is being channeled.

This helps explain the proliferation of accounts riffing on Dril – his tweets are not owned, but freely distributed, remixed, re-memed. The most interesting of these riff accounts is @EveryoneIsDril, a bot which retweets other users who happen to sound like Dril. One of its most memorable retweets is some bloke called @realDonaldTrump: “When someone attacks me, I always attack back…except 100x more. This has nothing to do with a tirade but rather, a way of life!”

Ah, yes. Politics. The increasingly nonsensical nature of political discourse has been fertile ground for Dril and his riffers. Another great riff account is @parliawint, which uses Dril tweets to caption photos of British politicians. Recent highlights include a picture of Theresa May at her Brexit speech, captioned “Downlioading 6 Terabytes of Info On Deal’s” and that infamous picture of Michael Gove doing the thumbs up with Trump, captioned “Louis? gosh, it’s been years. it’s me, Neal, from Law School. anyway, i got this big juicy onion here, was thinking me and you could fuck it”. There is a visceral glee to this kind of satire, reflecting the topsy-turvy aesthetic of modern politics in a way no traditional cartoon could.

Artefacts like these are perfect satirical expressions for this new age of reactionism. Gluts of nonsense are a political tool; it’s been remarked that the Trump administration seems to be trying to exhaust and befuddle the opposition through the sheer volume of bad policies and public scandals, and our political vocabulary is vulgarising at hyperspeed. It’s hard to think of a more Dril-like phrase than ‘The Bowling Green Massacre’, or indeed ‘Brexit Means Brexit’.

This, then, is the Age of Dril. A culture weaponised against us, an international discourse gone mad, the entire world a perverted Hieronymus Bosch painting, watched over by Pepe and Pixellated Fascists. In a world poisoned by nonsense, our only recourse is to be nonsensical ourselves. Evolve and become unrecognisable. Become multi-tentacled, pan-dimensional, and incorporeal strobe lights of blood and supernova. And even as the world gradually shrinks, slowly transforming into the shriveled corncob of neoreaction, scream into the howling void: “I’m not owned!”

Embrace your paradox. Refuse to be someone else’s.

Live for that.

The Homecoming: A Freudian Reading Is a Bit Too Obvious

This article first appeared on The Oxford Student website on 16 February 2017.

This is not a show to beat the fifth week blues. And frankly, thank god for that. Dark, cruel, and deeply sinister, this new production of the Harold Pinter classic is a delightfully absurdist tonic to our horribly absurd time. With its story of a family reunion gone terribly wrong, the play is unafraid to deal with class and gender politics, and as such it feels relevant today in ways it couldn’t have in its original performance in 1964. Do not go in expecting light entertainment, but do expect scenes of perverse fascination, and some of the best acting in Oxford right now.

The action takes place in a shabby old house on the cheaper side of London, inhabited by an old man and what passes for family; two sons, Lenny and Joey, and a despised younger brother, Sam. But when his third son Teddy returns unexpectedly from a six-year absence, with his mysterious new wife in tow, things take a turn for the bizarre. The new daughter-in-law, Ruth, exerts a strange influence on the men of this dilapidated house, and before long they’re actively fighting for her attention and favour. There’s a gradual slide from semi-affectionate banter to merciless infighting, and the whole thing plays out with the quiet illogic of a nightmare.

The set dressing is suitably run-down, with period details like a cheap gramophone and yellowing newspapers, and the shabby armchair (a kind of central throne for the action) looks liable to collapse at any moment, in a suitably obvious metaphor for this household’s patriarchal structure. Even the smell is appropriate; sweat and cigarette smoke permeates the house, and the confined space of the Michael Pilch works well to create the oppressive, claustrophobic atmosphere the play demands.

The acting is similarly in tune with the script. Adam Cameron Diaper plays Max, the family patriarch, and he does very well with a part clearly written for a much older actor. Rather than focusing on his character’s decrepitude, he plays up the spite and pettiness of the role, while also adding a dimension of pathos to his nostalgic ramblings. Adam Goodbody is obsequious yet oddly creepy as Max’s limousine-driving brother, and Alec McQuarrie plays dim-witted son Joey with well-honed comic timing. Rupert Stonehill is suitably pathetic as Teddy, projecting smug elitism and fragile insecurity with equal aplomb.

But the real standouts are Hugo McPherson as Lenny and Cat White as Ruth. McPherson plays a London gangster, his sharp suit instantly distinguishing him from the rest of the cast. He veers between pedantic arguing and soft-voiced threats, rising to a shout at moments of tension. It’s a forceful, menacing performance, matched by White as the play’s domineering interloper. Initially curious, and eventually actively manipulative, there’s something hypnotic about her presence on stage. The other characters fall silent as soon as she speaks, her voice and eye movements subtly asserting control over the situation. The chemistry between these two is electrifying, and their slow dance/ kiss in the second half is what really sends the play into overdrive.

This isn’t a production for everyone; it’s over two hours with an interval, and the sensation of being trapped in a bizarre situation with people you don’t understand is far from a pleasant one. But for its top-drawer acting, its sinister atmosphere, and its overriding commitment to its aesthetic, this is absolutely a play worth seeing. Just don’t invite the parents.

The Oxford Revue and Friends – A review

This article first appeared on The Oxford Student website on 12 June 2016.

People who say Oxford is no laughing matter are very much not the target audience of The Oxford Revue and Friends, Saturday night’s showcase for the city’s hottest up-and-coming comics. Also featuring appearances from the Leeds Tealights and the Cambridge Footlights, as well as hot new stand-up Phil Wang, the evening felt like a promise of things to come – we were watching live what would likely end up on ‘best of’ compilation videos thirty years later. Fresh, witty, and raucously entertaining, this was a demonstration of the best UK student comedy had to offer, even if, at two hours, it perhaps needed a bit of a trim.

Phil Wang made an excellent host, cracking jokes about his own career (“it’s been six years, and I’ve just moved further up the bill”) and making easy banter with the audience. A rather mild introduction eventually gave way to some whip-smart jokes about racism (“it isn’t always black and white – there are shades of yellow too. I think I’ve just written a haiku”), and his affable stage presence helped to smooth the transitions between each act. The show’s first hour was split into two halves, with the Leeds Tealights and Cambridge Footlights respectively, before handing over to Oxford’s own after the interval.

The first half was overwhelmingly solid. The Leeds lot opened strong with a wonderfully grim bit about a girlfriend tied to the train tracks, followed by half an hour of similarly imaginative sketches. The highlight was a sketch involving a dude’s girlfriend catching him listening to Coldplay, (“It’s Arctic Monkeys!” “I would have preferred porn!). It perfectly captured the ludicrous yet pervasive power of music snobbery, and the performers delivered it with aplomb. The Varisty crowd were similarly good, with cleverly-written observational sketches about table football and improv comedy, although they were at their best when indulging their weird streak. Their best sketch was a slightly nightmarish dialogue about work experience in a chicken factory, delivered in an unnerving deadpan. Of the two acts, Leeds had the superior performers, while Cambridge had more refined and subtle sketch writers, which added up to an excellent showing overall.

The second half was a mixed bag. There was some seriously weak material towards the beginning, as some of the Revue’s newest recruits struggled with an overlong parody of student open mic nights, which had several good gags but lacked structural coherence. But once the old guard took the stage it was clear sailing right to the end, with clever scene after clever scene, including a genius riff on E4’s Skins and a Star Wars sketch worthy of Mitchell and Webb.

At two hours there were places where the show felt overlong – perhaps a ninety minute performance would have trimmed some of the fat – but this was a witty, subversive and thoroughly enjoyable evening. Well acted, creatively staged, and brimming with clever ideas, The Oxford Revue and Friends remains a highlight of the student comedy calendar.

Confessions of a student journalist

Photo: David Barker

This article first appeared in The Oxford Student on 10 June 2016. I was asked for a short article about how to get into student journalism, and it just ran away with me. This may be the single most self-indulgent thing I’ve ever written, but I hope it’s helpful and/or amusing to someone.

I didn’t choose the hack life. The hack life chose me, because it had a deadline that week and I was the only one available. I’ve been a student journalist for almost as long as I’ve been a student – you may remember me from such articles as the one about Christmas adverts, the one about dank memes, or the one from last October where I predicted the inevitable downfall of Donald Trump (lol). I have, in CV-speak, ‘been around the block’ – I’ve written for every section of this humble student rag, and I’ve spent over a year editing it. But now, with the herpes-like persistence of dissertation prep and the grim prospect of Finals Year looming on the horizon, it’s looking like I won’t be writing at the rate I currently am (about two or three articles a week) for much longer. It is at this point that you should imagine me as a fist-shaking supervillain: you haven’t heard the last of me! But you are, at least, less likely to hear quite so much from me in the near future. So as the fat lady winds down into the slower-tempo tunes, and the waiter begins eyeing half-empty dessert plates, I thought it might be nice to take a look back on my two years in the business, and offer advice to any potential future hacks while I’m at it. Because this torch needs passing to someone, and I did mention there was a deadline this week, didn’t I?

The first thing I learned as a student journalist, and the first lesson I offer to any trainee Oxford hack, is that nobody cares. At halfway hall this year there was an award for best student journalist. There were four options on the ballot, one of which was me, two of which were other venerable college hacks, and finally there was the joke option ‘I don’t care about student journalism’. This option won. By a considerable margin. I came second. Not that it matters. None of this matters. The vital lesson to impress upon padawan hacks is that no-one will read what they produce. The OxStu and Cherwell clog up JCR bins, the Tab is itself a giant bin, and no-one but the mad or utterly starving will go rooting through them for nourishment. The student papers are a training ground; they’re a place where aspiring writers, free from the burden of readership, can experiment, test themselves, and ultimately, with a bit of luck and a lot of hard graft, improve their abilities. No-one reads the articles we produce. And thank god for that. To assume a readership is to misunderstand the student press’s purpose; it is a place to develop a style that might earn one a readership, not a place where you are automatically given one.

The other thing a writer needs is a work ethic. You need to work for those stories that nobody will read. That means hitting deadlines, ideally several days ahead of time. Editors like people like that – it’s how they reproduce. The sort of person who will be given a Friday deadline and submit the Monday before is exactly the kind of ruthlessly efficient anal-retentive hack who is guaranteed a long and successful career in editorship. On that subject, or at least close enough for the digression not to matter too much, please stick to your word counts. When I first became an editor, literally the first article I ever commissioned came in over length. We had asked for 500 words. We were given 1,500 words, complete with a five hundred word introduction describing the precise motions involved in rolling a home-made cigarette. It was supposed to be an article about student accommodation. So it would be nice if you could stay on topic and know your limits, as it’s a nice way of not making your editors utterly hate you (he said, looking worriedly over the last six hundred and sixty-seven words). It’s also not a good idea to get overly precious about your articles – things get cut, and what gets cut is always the editor’s call. You are not being censored. You are being edited. If you don’t like it, start a blog of your own and realise all of your embarrassing mistakes forty-eight hours after the damn thing has already been uploaded for all the world to see. You have entered into this writer-editor relationship consensually, and this one of the criteria for doing so. Think the editor as a dominatrix for your articles – there’s a reason they call them ‘submissions’, after all.

On a related subject: editing. Should you ever find yourself editing a section, or, god forbid, an entire newspaper, there are two things you need to know. The first is that Adobe InDesign is the invention of the devil, sent to torture all journalists after a scandal in the 1980s where multiple tabloids accused him of being really, really, into Dungeons and Dragons. It will be the bane of your life for as long as you bear the name ‘editor’. Just accept it. The second thing is that content can be remarkably difficult to come by  – many people simply don’t have time to bash out 350 words about the new roundabout, let alone a rambling semi-coherent essay by way of industry advice. My recommended solution is simply to throw shit at the wall, and eventually a week’s worth of content will stick. Always commission more articles than you need for a given week, and be prepared to chop and change on the fly, as a certain amount of articles will inevitably be delayed or outright dropped. The shit-throwing approach also works well for getting interviews – most A-listers are too busy for the likes of you, so start plumbing the depths of United Agents. Anyone who looks even remotely interesting is probably worth a go, and in my experience the struggling authors selling through Amazon are usually a lot more interesting to talk to than the vapid million-selling thriller writer, even if his car is slightly nicer. No-one should get into student journalism for the glamour, or for the vain hope of meeting celebrities – any who do will be very disappointed very quickly, though if you buy me a drink I will tell you about the time I met Nick Jonas and accidentally told him to fuck off.

Oh god, I’ve barely started. I’ve not even mentioned the crewdates, or the office playlists, or the time I used sigil magic on a particularly difficult article. Suffice it to say that there’s a certain amount of hacking you need to learn on to job. But there’s one thing I do need to talk about before I go, and that’s the importance of networking. (No, I’m not talking about OUSU’s poor WiFi). I have met some extraordinary people on my hacking odyssey, from the editors who believed in me back in first year to my comrades in the dep ed trenches to the new hacks coming up behind me (at least some of whom are editing this very article). Know ye this, aspiring hack: you are only as good as the team that surrounds you, and I was lucky enough to consistently be surrounded by champions. It has been an absolute privilege to know and work with all of them, and I’m glad to call many of them friends. So if this article is for anyone (other than the dear readers who have made it this far), then it’s for you, my Comrades InDesign. Splendid folks, the lot of you. You were the reason I kept coming back, and you are what I’m going to miss most when I finally, at long last, bid my reluctant farewell to student journalism.

Although I should point out that I will still be coming to all your events. Especially the ones with free drinks.

Oxford’s Final Frontier: a chat with Oxford TrekSoc

This article first appeared in The Oxford Student on 3 June 2016.

They say Oxford is another world, but for many students that simply isn’t enough. Some want to seek out new friends, new experiences, to boldly split infinitives that no man (or indeed woman) has ever split before. Hence the existence of the Oxford Star Trek Society, a group of Trekkies who meet every Monday to watch the show, discuss its nearly fifty years of history, and generally appreciate what lies beyond the final frontier. Heading them up is the newly-elected Captain Rose Atkinson, who was kind enough to meet with me to discuss Star Trek, ropey special effects and the social life of the society.

We started by discussing her role within the society. “I’m the Captain of the Star Trek Society, so I’m responsible for organisation the weekly meetings, arranging the themes of the episodes we pick, keeping the society finances in order, and organising events. There are four of us on the society committee – we’ve got the First Officer, who assists me and helps out with food, that kind of thing. Then there’s the Morale Officer, who also does events, and the Technical Officer, who’s responsible for showing the episodes we watch during the meetings.”

So what does a typical meeting involve? “Usually beforehand we have a poll on the Facebook page, so everyone can pick some episodes that they want to see. Then we turn up, watch a couple of episodes of Star Trek, maybe share some fun Star Trek-related information, but all in a very light-hearted sort of way. Then we go to the pub, usually. It’s quite a nice, easygoing time.”

Star Trek fandom often involves a high level of commitment. How did Rose get involved in the society, and how did she first get into the show generally? “Well, being a lifelong (almost) Trekkie, I went looking for them at the freshers’ fair, because I had heard about them on the offer group, and signed up from there. In terms of how I first got into the show, I think my mum showed me it when I was about ten, or something. I’m a big fan of the original series, and I liked its outlook. It’s a very hopeful show, a very forward-looking show, and also one with a lot of fun in it. The whole Star Trek community is one that enjoys the flaws of the show as well as its selling points, I think. And it has some very good stories, as well.”

What’s the social dynamic of the society like, and what sort of crowd does it draw week to week? “Well, there’s about fourteen or fifteen regular members, so we’re quite a small and close-knit bunch. But to be honest, it’s quite a wide selection: we have grad students, undergrads, all sorts of sciences and humanities. It’s not a stereotypically “nerd” society, really. There’s a lot of different types of people within the group.”

What are the challenges of running a society like this in Oxford specifically? “I think that does have a dint on numbers, because I’m always meeting people who say they are interested in Star Trek, or they signed up at freshers’ fair and they’re still getting emails, but they just don’t have time. And I think maybe it’s perceived as more of a fun society, one that’s not going to look good on your CV, like for instance being a committee member of the Oxford Union or whatever. So it’s perceived as being a sort of frivolous society. I mean it is frivolous and fun, but I think it’s a good way to relax from the Oxford lifestyle. It’s a show that doesn’t take itself too seriously for the most part. I mean we all very much love it, but we can appreciate the silly side of Star Trek, the terrible low budget, the silly costumes and so on. I think it’s a show that lends itself to good-natured fun, really, and the small size of the society means that we all know each other. I mean, we had a contested election this year but it was never in the slightest bit aggressive, or a “hacking” election – there’s nothing to hack for, really, which is why it’s so much fun.”

Having been made Captain this term, does Rose have any grand plans for the society? “Well at the moment I hear this year’s batch of freshers has been bigger than previous years. In previous years the society has been down to about five people, I believe. So we would like to increase from the fourteen, fifteen members. We’re probably going to the fiftieth anniversary convention later this year, and organising a few more social events, because it is very much a society for friends with a similar interest, and getting along with each other. So we’d like a few more social activities to cater that. We’re hopefully going to have a crewdate with another nerdy society. We’d like to get in touch with maybe the Harry Potter society or something later in the year, and we’d like to try and go for a Star Trek picnic, and try and make some of the food that they have on the show. Off the top of my mind I think I’ve seen some recipes for Klingon worm dishes which I’d like to try. Though not using any actual worms, I hope.”

What are Rose’s favourite bits from the half-century of the Star Trek franchise? “I’m an original series Trekkie. My First Officer is more of a Next Generation fan – we tend to watch a lot of the Next Generation in the society, but I think we get quite a good balance of all the series’. It’s always the same people who suggest the episodes of a particular season. We’ve got some people who are very keen on one series and not on the others, so there’s a bit of a split there, but it’s entirely amicable.”

In that spirit, where does Rose stand on that great Trekkie debate, Kirk or Picard? “Well, personally, I don’t think my Captainhood is much like Captain Kirk’s [William Shatner], but he will always be my favourite captain, because he’s just a lot more fun than Picard [Patrick Stewart]. Picard is rather more realistic, but he’s not half as bombastic.”

Finally, how would Rose try persuade someone to come along to the society? “We’re not a society for “hardcore fans”. Some of us really love the original series, know all the different battleships, all the different cruiser classes, or whatever, and some of us have watched them once or twice, and think they’d like to get into it more. It’s a very welcoming society, there’s not a certain level of knowledge you need about Star Trek in order to get in. You can just turn up and give it a go, even if you’ve never seen it before. It is, after all, a cultural icon, turning fifty this year. It’s such a popular culture reference point that it’s worth coming just to understand the influence it’s had – if you look for it, you start seeing Star Trek everywhere.”


O shit waddup: a critical analysis of Dat Boi

This article first appeared in The Oxford Student on 3 June 2016.

The internet loves frogs. We have observed this fact in various memes, from the safe and reliable Kermit to the occasionally nightmarish Pepe. The most recent addition to these noble ranks is Dat Boi, who has been making the rounds on the Oxford Dank Memes Society and various other hubs of intellectual discussion. You’ve probably seen him by now (in fact he will probably be Old Memes by the time this article sees print). He’s a crudely rendered frog on a poorly compressed unicycle, generally captioned with some variation on “Here come dat boi/ o shit waddup”. On the surface he’s just another daft internet fad, but scratch that surface and you find… well, you find a daft internet fad, but one with interesting things to say about online culture and the re-appropriation of corporate art. Dat Boi is, in his own way, a tool of rebellion.

Dat Boi is, objectively speaking, total garbage. This is, in fact, the point. He is a prime example of a Dank Meme, an aesthetic defined by its self-referential lameness. To quote Ada Pospiszyl, head of the Oxford Dank Memes Society, with such a meme “repetition makes it funny. It’s like a second level of funniness… It just sort of comes from nowhere. The secret is just accepting that it’s basically quite lame, and laughing at yourself”. Dat Boi is an empty signifier, funny because he represents a wider calling card for internet communities. He is funny because meme-makers and meme-consumers, consciously or not, have designated him a symbol of humour. In that way he’s the perfect expression of post-modern comedy. Humour is defined by the unexpected, but Dat Boi is predictable, the comedy emerging from his over-signification. The core of the joke is ‘oh, not him again’, hence the weary existentialism of the phrase ‘o shit waddup’. Dat Boi is an anti-joke, funny because of his mutually agreed-upon unfunniness.

But beyond that, in his peculiarly lame way he represents a strike against the crass commercialism of so much art, especially in the internet age. The image of the frog on a unicycle was originally produced by Animation Factory, a company created during the infamous dotcom bubble of the late 1990s, as part of the Animation Factory Essential Collection 3. A classic example of faux-zany corporate humour, he was created for a collection of self-evidently ugly, self-evidently useless graphics, bearing all the cringeworthy hallmarks of late 90s graphic design. The useless creation of a useless company, the image embodies corporate culture in the information age; not art for art’s sake, but economic activity for the sake of economic activity, serving no purpose other than to give people fleeting, unfulfilling employment doing something, even if it is something stupid.

This garbage graphic only became Dat Boi once the internet got hold of him. The meme originated on Fresh Memes about the Mojave Desert and Other Delectable Cuisines, a meme-focused Facebook page. Since then he has spread like wildfire through the decentralised, chaotic networks of internet communities. Liberated from his corporate origins, Dat Boi can go from being a useless nothing of a product to a joyful symbol of humour and community. In that regard he is a positive sign of where internet culture is heading, and a welcome blow against the corporate establishment. Animation Factory supplied the image, but has long since lost control of it; the people have seized the memes of production.