I whisper back, ‘He actually chooses one of our feeds?’
‘Oh, for sure! That’s why the box office asks for your social media details. A set-up would spoil it. Half the fun of coming to this show is waiting to see if he chooses you as his victim.’
He must have a raft of people to select from. Who hasn’t made a fool of themselves online? And professional influencers posting regularly to feed the algorithms are much more likely to be caught up in a compromising situation than the rest of the population. I do try to be mindful of this when I post my videos, but TikTok is all about making yourself stand out from the other marketers. My reels do better when I start them with grabby hooks or big statements. And, of course, I chat all manner of crazy on Twitter. Who doesn’t?
Enjoying the empty armrest to my left, I forgive Strident for pulling out. I did consider offering Joe the ticket but baulked in case he thought I was asking him out on a date.
Vince clasps his hands together and ups his volume. ‘Sense the mood in the room?’
Annoyingly, the woman next to me doesn’t. ‘My last video was the “scream theleaves off the trees challenge”,’ she whispers. ‘I bollocked a cactus for its spiky attitude. It’d be too humiliating …’
‘I know! I run a daily #BeHappy hashtag with seven different themes on how to live life better. Some of my videos are certifiably daft, so if he’s going to call out anyone for a dodgy tweet then I’m in the firing line.’
Vince grabs back my attention. ‘People are ready for a global roasting. Could it be your turn to be the turkey? Ooh is that a clue?’ My blood freezes in my veins as he changes tack. ‘Meet Lyle everyone– an everyday gamer in an everyday bedroom in Nebraska who is about to sniff out a truffle without knowing its worth.’ The audience laughs as Vince physically becomes a teenager. His body bananas, his pelvis tucked neatly into grey combat pants as he smashes his thumbs on an imaginary games console. Then, raising a fist in the air, he shouts, ‘Winner. Winner!’ Navigating the steps to the auditorium two at a time, he is completely in command of his audience. ‘Lyle is about to thoughtlessly send a post around the universe with a well-timed retweet,’ he states, holding up the phone as he prowls the aisle. ‘But the person I’m about to pick? You play your part. In fact, you are the protagonist in this story. Let’s pause this moment, shall we, as it’s so delicious? My favourite part of the show by far.’ Crouching, he captures the bulk of the audience in a group selfie before continuing. ‘So, who will it be?’
He pauses beside the sixth row before tracking back to ours. I fear for the cactus whisperer as he looms over her and feel grateful I didn’t book the aisle seat. My anxiety is borne out when he raises his device to her face. But I’m close enough to see the screen and, horror of horrors, the account he’s called up belongs to me.
In a flash, he switches his attention. ‘Daisy Blane? Happiness guru? Fifty thousand followers all liking little old you?’ I nod blindly, even though I want to violently shake my head. ‘How wonderful. But then, let’s see if you still have any supporters in the audience by the end of our little chat. Will you please come with me so we can all live vicariously for the next hour?’ It isn’t really a question and I have little option for declining as when you buy one of the tickets for the show, you have to agree you’re willing to participate if selected. I happily provided the online booking system with my social media handles, never believing it would be me.
He leads me towards the stage, and I climb the steps in a blur. It’s smaller than it looked from my seat, while beyond us the audience seems to have expanded. The lights are bright, and I squint, wondering what to do with my hands before shoving them into my pockets. My face burns up like the sun on steroids. When he taps on his phone, my Twitter feed flashes up onto three giant screens behind us and I start to realise how slick and well researched this show is. Aware sweat is beading under my arms, I step away from him. But he’s not about to let me escape. Instead, he lifts my hand out of my pocket and wraps my fingers around a microphone, a small smile playing on his lips. He taps on his phone again and Tony the Turkey pops up on the screens. OMG. Did that really have to be the last video I posted? People snicker as he triggers the footage.
My encounter with the turkey was for my #CuddleACutie weekly hashtag where I post footage of myself hugging the pets of friends and neighbours. In the early days of the hashtag, which has been going for two years now, my videos and photos mostly involved kittens, puppies and an audience with next door’s chinchilla. But I quickly ran out of fluffy candidates. When I noticed videos of goat yoga were still racking up views for YouTubers, years after the trend began, I hotfooted it down to a farm in Surrey at a ridiculous hour. The farmer’s son, a follower, turned out to be Ridley Scott with a phone and after a quick hug with a goat, he suggested I went on to cuddle a cow and a horse. This suited me fine as I like to stockpile content and three cuddlesome creatures are better than one. But as I pushed the horse away after our nuzzle, he came up with the idea of the turkey. With his dad looking on in amusement, he filmed Tony charging towards me, paddling on my thighs and slapping my nose with his droopy snood, while I grabbed him to my chest and tried to hug him. I remember the scent of my fear as Christmas Dinner Future suddenly opened its wings and thrashed at my head.
Editing the video in the cab, I captioned it ‘Don’t try this at home’, and momentarily wondered about encouraging people to hug animals that could do them damage. But my Twitter followers loved it and left tons of comments so I re-shared versions of it on Instagram and TikTok. Sadly, the video is not coming across so well on a stage.
A smile tugs at the side of Vince’s mouth and quickly spreads into a grin. ‘Do you make a habit of harassing animals, Daisy Blane? It’s a rhetorical question by the way as I’ve spent today going through your feed and your exploits could be accused of affection bordering on obsession. Are you some kind of animal stalker?’
Bamboozled, I stutter out a reply. ‘It’s a positive thing! All my hashtags are. I have a different one for every day of the week. Sunday is #CuddleACutie day. I encourage people to connect with an animal and share the footage. People have a real empathy with their pets …’
He sneers. ‘Your fondness for animals is perfectly apparent to anyone watching your video. But in the hands of someone lessempatheticthose hugs could easily be misconstrued.’
At end of the clip, Tony gets his revenge by emptying his bowels on my lilac chinos. The farmer’s son thought it was hilarious and begged me not to edit it out. Vince isn’t finding it quite so funny. ‘Oh, poor you, did the turkey fight back from your “cuddle”?’ he mocks. ‘I have to say I’m not entirely shocked. While it looked juiced to be with you rather than a hundred other turkeys in the shed, it wasn’t exactly asking you to bring on the strokes was it? Other more principled influencers are campaigning against battery farming or using their channels to promote veganism. But you are using yours to poke fun at harmless creatures who can’t answer back.’ He turns to the audience. ‘Daisy Blane, how about you return to your seat while we watch Lyle and eleven others send your tweet spinning around the planet. And at the end of the night, we’ll decide between us whether you should be pardoned or condemned.’
He squeezes my hand before guiding me down the steps. Eyes down, cheeks aflame, I hurry back up the aisle. Seeing the main doors in front of me, I wonder if I should make a run for it. But it would mark me out as a bad sport in front of all these people and possibly wreck his play. I glance back to the stage and find him standing, hands on hips, watching me. He thinks I’ll bolt? Well, Vince Marino, happiness coaches are made of stronger stuff. The internet made me, and no single tweet will ever break me, even if it’s used for entertainment.
I sit down to watch the action unfold with my tweet kicking off the fictional journey we travel through over the course of the play. With different mannerisms and accents, he acts out a drama about the speed in which social media can change someone’s life. In minutes, he switches from a troll who re-shares it for kicks into my boss, deciding the indiscretion is a sackable offence. He then moves on to the impact on my fictional family and friends. I find myself caught up in the tension as we follow the trending hashtag on the screens, and he picks out some of the more amusing or cruel responses. It’s impossible not to admire this tour de force, even when you’re the reluctant victim.
It’s well over an hour before he winds up back at my tweet, which flashes up on the screens again, along with figures on how many times it has allegedly been retweeted. The mood in the room? I can guess from the furtive looks and glances it’s not going to go well for me. He turns to the audience once more. ‘As I said earlier, it’s your job tonight to condone or condemn the tweeter and the tweet. So, hands in the air now if you want to offer pardon.’ He makes a quick show of counting hands. ‘And punishment?’
He jumps down from the stage and pulls me out into the aisle, piercing me with his gaze. ‘You know the name of the show, right?’
I nod, swallow and whisper, ‘Cancelled.’
‘Then you know what you are?’
I nod again, but can’t repeat the word, triggered into a state I recognise. The misery must show on my face as his eyes momentarily flicker with compassion. But the show must go on. Projecting to the masses, he cuts me loose. ‘You. Are. Cancelled.’
He deletes the tweet. And then he appears to wipe out my whole account, before striding off into the wings.
I Usain Bolt from the auditorium, desperate for a signal. As I’m rushing through the foyer shop, I’m already zipping up my pale yellow puffa jacket and trying to wake my phone. It’s an age before the familiar white apple flashes up. I click onto Twitter, almost sick with relief to find I am still an active member.
Logically I knew my account would still be there. You can’t go around cancelling members of the public without their permission and the deletion was all part of the show. But while my head understands this, my stomach is still in knots. Clearing raindrops from my screen, I scroll through a couple of tweets from people praising the play and tagging both me and Vince. Retweeting, and adding a smiley face, I allow myself a giggle at how I overreacted.
I quickly click over to Instagram, the platform that launched me five years ago when I stumbled across an audience gagging for happiness hacks. My hourly prompts and challenges proved to be little dopamine hits for my growing band of followers and when I’d built up an audience there I moved over to Twitter. Nowadays, I round up the best of both into my weekly email newsletter along with my views on the latest thinking in positive psychology. I think of it as a golden circle of happiness.
I take a selfie in front of the theatre and several of my superfans immediately like it. When I examine my image with a critical eye I find the pastels in my hair need retouching, and my trademark candyfloss lip gloss looks tired.
A couple of women dressed in matching metallic jackets sweep past and turn down a side road. I watch them join a queue for the stage door where a man in ripped jeans and a Metallica T-shirt exits, causing excitement which quickly fades as Vince fails to appear. Two more backstage staff follow, prompting another surge. A woman in front of me carries her pen like a weapon and most people are holding programmes, opened out to a glossy picture of Vince’s face. I don’t need an autograph as a souvenir– this night will be imprinted on my mind forever, but I’d like to tell the star of the show how amazing he is. While he put me through ninety-nine shades of hell, it was an accomplished performance.
