7 Reasons

Tag: worst

  • 7 Reasons That This Is The Worst Present Ever

    7 Reasons That This Is The Worst Present Ever

    Okay, 7 Reasons readers.  It’s September, so there’s only one thing we can possibly write about today.  That’s right, Christmas.  Because – strange as it may seem – there are people out there that are actually planning their Christmas and buying presents right now.  I, of course, will be leaving my shopping until the last possible moment, as usual, but I feel I should issue a cautionary tale to those of you that may be contemplating buying presents.  For, if it prevents anyone else having an experience quite like this one, I feel I will have done the world a great service.  This may make me appear to be an ungrateful man and a bad brother but that’s okay, because I’m an ungrateful man and a bad brother.  So, present-buyers: Don’t buy this!  Here are seven reasons that it’s the worst present ever.  I have obscured the name of the sender to protect her identity.

    This is not the actual gift. This is a far more tastefully coloured version of it.

    1.  It Created Expectation.  It was Christmas morning.  My wife and I had finished the croissants and were sipping our second glasses of bucks fizz while, in the background, Frank Sinatra gently exhorted us to have ourselves a merry little Christmas.  It was time to open the presents.  My wife pulled the many gifts out from under the tree and divided them into four piles: presents for her; presents for me; presents for us and presents for the cat (the largest pile).  We took it in turns to unwrap them (and to help the cat) and fairly soon the floor was a gaudy collage of discarded paper.  Then it was my turn again.  It was a small, rectangular present.  It was tastefully wrapped and surprisingly weighty.  A glance at the tag revealed that it was a gift from my s*ster.  “Who’s it from?” my wife asked.  “It’s from my only s*ster.”  I replied.  Expectantly, I tore the paper away, to reveal a narrow blue gift box about six inches long.  Wow!  This looks great, I thought as I unwrapped the box.  Then I opened it.

    2.  My Eyes!  My life prior to opening the box had been a poor preparation for that moment.  My life had been one of carefully and tastefully matched colours and textures.  Of aesthetical sobriety and decorousness.  I was fundamentally ill-equipped for the spectre that cruelly and aggressively assaulted my retinas.  What greeted me was the sight of a glass object consisting of a conical frosted glass stem tapering up toward a rounded top that was made up of most of the colours in the world – minus all of the nice ones and the ones that go together – encased in glass that was partially frosted and liberally spattered with gold leaf.  It was the single most hideous thing that I have ever seen.  And I’ve seen the Lidl in Scunthorpe.

    3.  It Caused Bafflement.  What is it?  What is this glassy-horror?  Why has my s*ster sent me this?  Why is it covered in gold leaf?  Is the glass frosted to obscure the thing, like a toilet window?  Why does it have a stem? Why does it have a bulb?  Why does it have a rim?  What the buggery-bollocks is this thing?!  “What is it, darling?” My wife enquired.

    4.  It Caused Speculation.  Putting all aesthetic squeamishness aside, I coolly regarded the gaudy object in as objective a manner as I could.  It had a tapering stem.  It had a bulb at the end.  It was simultaneously shiny and frosted.  It was a myriad of lurid colours and was festooned with gold leaf.  “It’s…it’s…(got it!)…Liberace’s butt-plug!”

    5.  It Caused…The Pause.  “Don’t be silly,” my wife said, snatching Liberace’s butt-plug from me to regard it more closely.  “It’s…(there then followed a long pause.  A pregnant pause so long it seemed that an elephant could have been brought from conception to gestation during it.  In fact, it was merely a pause of several minutes)…a wine-stopper!”  “A what?” I enquired.  “It’s a wine-stopper.  It stops wine.”

    6.  It Caused Incredulity.  It does what?!  Of all the things one could conceivably want to stop why in the hell would anyone pick wine?!  I like wine.  Why not send a gift that stops something more objectionable, like fascism or tennis?  Wine is fun!  Sending something that stops it is like giving the gift of abstinence.  For Christmas!

    7.  It Caused Me To Lie On The Telephone.  “Thanks for the…um…thing.”

    “We got it in South Africa.”

    “It’s…come a long way.”

    “It took us ages to choose that one.”

    “Really?”

    “Yes.  There were so many different coloured ones.  Have you used it yet?”

    “No, but I will.”

    And that was a lie.  Until now!  Because now – five years later – I’ve finally found a use for it, even if it is as a cautionary tale.  A gentle reminder for 7 Reasons readers to choose their Christmas presents carefully.  And, even if you don’t, you could at least get it in a colour that matches the recipient’s loft because that’s where it is.  Or rather, where it was, because earlier today when I went up there to relive the horror and to photograph it in all its sickening hideousness for you, the reader, I discovered that it had disappeared.  My investigations have revealed that it may have been placed in a charity bag by my w*fe during some sort of cull-of-the-horrid.  With some irony, it may well have been a bag from the RNIB.  I can only offer our apologies to them.

    *For fans of gifts like this, this is the place to find them.

  • Guest Post: 7 Reasons Why Facebook Is The Worst Thing To Happen To You

    Guest Post: 7 Reasons Why Facebook Is The Worst Thing To Happen To You

    Today’s 7 Reasons guest post is brought to you by Jon Potter who works for Anicca Solutions, an online marketing agency. There are, according to Facebook, over 500 million people in the world with a Facebook account. That’s rather a lot. So many, in fact, you’d struggle to fit them in…anywhere. Even a Death Star or Tardis may have to admit defeat to that kind of number. So, you might say, a stupidly large number of people use Facebook, it must be pretty good, right? Wrong. Here are seven reasons why Facebook is the worst thing to ever happen to 500 million people.

    7 Reasons Why Facebook Is The Worst Thing To Happen To You

    1.  Facebook Means Everyone Can See You. In A Creepy Way. Remember that weirdo you went on one date with and then never saw again? The one who kept a bottle of chloroform in their car and you assumed went to prison? Well, unless you’ve trawled through the complicated privacy settings on your Facebook account, they’re probably stalking you right now from their prison cell. Not a pleasant thought. But wait, it gets worse. Not only can they stalk you, but they can probably stalk your friends too. And your family. Yes folks, Facebook makes horror movies look more like documentary footage. Sure, everyone thinks they’re the plucky one who survives the entire film, but with 500 million other contenders out there, you’re almost certainly that nameless extra who dies at the beginning before the titles.

    2.  Facebook Sells Your Data. This has been said before and it might be a bit of a cheap shot. But, when it boils down to it, Facebook only exists in order to sell advertising based on the data you put in. They tell users ‘Facebook helps you connect and share with the people in your life.’ But you can detect a bit of sarcasm in that when you read their message to advertisers: ‘People treat Facebook as an authentic part of their lives, so you can be sure you are connecting with real people with real interest in your products.’

    3.  Facebook Does Not Obey The King. In 1968, the wise shaman of popular music, Elvis Presley, issued a stirring call for ‘a little less conversation, a little more action please’. The people ignored his call (though they dug his funky music) and he issued it again, from beyond the grave, in 2001. Facebook would do well to listen. By providing a stream of news items, wall posts, status updates and comments, Facebook gives users conversations in a way never seen before. Facebook demands conversation above all else. Facebook does not want you going outside, it does not want you going to see your friends, it does not want you talking to them on the phone. Facebook wants you at home, alone, ‘chatting’ over its instant messaging service, commenting on your friends’ updates, writing on their walls. This way lies idle madness. Listen to the King, go out and see your friends. Add some action to your conversation and talk over a game of soccer or a trip to the cinema.* Go forth and be social in a way which Facebook cannot comprehend. Stick it to the machine.

    4.  Facebook Is Like A Horrible Drug Addiction That Steals Your Face. No, not because it sucks up your time (which it does), or because you can’t stop checking your newsfeed (which you can’t), or because you find yourself still logging on at 3 in the morning the night before your big job interview (which you do). No, Facebook is like a horrible drug addiction because, no matter how hard you try, you can never leave. You may think you have left Facebook. You may not have gone near the site in years. But somewhere, deep within the Facebook system, there is your face. And next to your face is your name. And next to that, are all the thousands of other details you put on your profile in the first place. Y’see, like Hotel California, you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave. Facebook will horde your details and won’t let you delete them. Even if you ask really nicely. No, really. You’re in there forever, baby.

    5.  Facebook Takes The Fun Out Of Having Friends. Imagine you didn’t know every microscopic detail of your friends’ lives. Imagine you didn’t know, for example, that Kevin ate noodles for lunch, Sandra watched the entire Godfather trilogy back to back last night, and Michael thinks Woody Allen is the best director since Edison built the first film studio. Imagine that you then go out for dinner with Kevin, Sandra, and Michael and you say ‘hey, what have you guys been up to?’ Imagine the surprise and delight you experience when you hear about their lives and you don’t know it already. This is the surprise and delight that Facebook is stealing from you. Shame on you, Facebook, shame on you.

    6.  Facebook Is Going To Lose Your Identity. Earlier this year, the Sony Playstation Network was hacked and lots of customers’ details stolen. Facebook is, to hackers after personal information, the mother ship. How much do you trust Facebook’s security? More or less than you trusted Sony’s? Yeah, thought so.

    7.  Facebook Causes Anxiety. Yes, it’s true. A recent report from psychologists at Edinburgh Napier University found that ‘there is a significant minority of users who experience considerable Facebook-related anxiety, with only very modest or tenuous rewards.’ Pressure stems from deleting unwanted contacts, pressure to be entertaining and inventive, or fears over using the correct etiquette for different ‘friends’. The question is, though, can you leave the site? Not only do Facebook keep your details, but according to the study, ‘Like gambling, Facebook keeps users in a neurotic limbo, not knowing whether they should hang on in there just in case they miss out on something good.’

    *Don’t talk over the film. No one likes that.

  • 7 Reasons That This Is The Worst Song Ever

    7 Reasons That This Is The Worst Song Ever

    Incredible news, 7 Reasons readers:  I’ve discovered the worst song of all time.  Surprisingly it’s not Mull of Kintyre, We Didn’t Start The Fire or that turgid Whitney Houston one that I first heard in 1993 and for all I know is still playing in the room I ran screaming from.  It’s a song called Don’t Have Any More Mrs Moore that was made famous by Lily Morris in the 1920s.  I didn’t mean to discover it.  It snuck up and pounced on me while I was watching a documentary about Pathe News.  It’s embedded below.  I recommend that you don’t listen to it.  Here are seven reasons that it’s the worst song ever.

    1.  It’s…Aarrgghhhh!  Okay, you may have ignored my recommendation and if you did, that’s probably something approximating the noise you made on listening to it.  I know that my initial reaction to hearing the jaunty and rather creaking string introduction followed by the first few bars of Lily Morris warbling about Mrs Moore was to shriek obstreperously and try to jam a dining table, a map of Scotland and half finished packet of Foxes Glacier Fruits into my ears.  Sadly, they did not completely muffle the ear-grating, fingernails-down-a-blackboard, mating-sounds-of-a-half-strangled-cat-in-a-biscuit-tin, out-of-tune-soprano-with-her-on-fire-hair-caught-in-a-blender sheer unremitting screeching bloody cacophony that is this song.  Listening to it is the aural equivalent of putting your penis on a desk and having it repeatedly struck with a hammer by an addled and vengeful dandruff-specked minicab driver with halitosis and grey shoes; something that every right-minded person would choose to spend an entire Saturday doing when given the choice between that or hearing a fraction of a nanosecond of a bar of this song again.  It may well have been the first recorded instance of a father waking his baby up by screaming in the middle of the night.  It is popularly said of ugly celebrities that, “…he/she has a face for radio”.  Similarly, Lily Morris has a voice for cinema.  Silent cinema.  A silent cinema buried deep under the ground.  Under Peru.  In fact, under a very noisy thing in Peru.  Under a man having his penis repeatedly struck with a hammer by an addled and vengeful dandruff-specked minicab driver with halitosis and grey shoes in Peru.  Between the airport and the pneumatic drill testing centre.

    2.  It Fails The Test Of Time.  Cole Porter; George and Ira Gershwin; Ivor Novello; Hoagy Carmichael; Kurt Weil; Irving Berlin:  Just a few of the talented songwriters working in the 1920s that had absolutely cock-all to do with this song.  Sadly, while their work has aged well, this song has not.  It is the Mickey Rourke of popular song.  It clearly had some sort of popular appeal in its day because Lily Morris sang it many times and I can find no written accounts of pandemonium as masses of horrified music-lovers stampeded from music-halls.   But there’s another possible explanation.  Perhaps those that witnessed this horror were simply too traumatised to write about it;  I wish I was.  Perhaps people back then – who were able to vividly recount the sheer bloody horror of mechanised war and mass genocide – were far too disturbed by the ordeal of hearkening to this interminable and harrowing din to leave their descendants a warning from history.  That seems eminently possible.

    3.  It’s Strange.  In the song, Lily Morris is singing as a character, rather than as herself, addressing Mrs Moore.  Not content with singing in her own character’s voice (and who would be content with that) for the whole of the song, Lily Morris inexplicably sings a verse of it as a Dutch vicar.  From Namibia.  I have no idea why she sings it as a Dutch vicar from Namibia, but I suppose if you’re going to pretend to be a vicar, you have to come from somewhere, even if it is Namibia.  And you are Dutch.

    4.  It’s Ironic.  The central theme of the song is a woman using drunkenness as a euphemism for wantonness or wantonness as a euphemism for drunkenness (I thought of checking, but I decided I’d rather have rusty razor blades stapled to my forehead instead) and cautioning another woman (Mrs Moore) against one or the other (or both).  The irony is, however, that this is a song that positively no one could ever bear sober.  This is a song that no sane person could experience (even partially) without having imbibed so much strong alcohol in one sitting that their liver would have a half-life of several millennia and would smell pungently of juniper berries for at least four and a half eternities.*  The only way that anyone could possibly listen to this song without alcohol is if they were dead, and even then they would have to have been dead for at least a century and would need to have their wrists bound and the remains of their chest pinned to the floor by an anvil with Eamonn Holmes and the cast of Gandhi seated upon it, to ensure that they did not rise up and scamper from the room squealing in terror and urinating uncontrollably on the carpet.

    5.  It’s Historic.  The discovery of this song has created a wholly astonishing and  unforeseen development of historical proportions.  A transpiration so unexpected that no one will ever have conceived of reading the words I’m about to write together in the same sentence.  So momentous is this situation that, if I were to tell Nostradamus, Zephania, Philip the Evangelist and Derren Brown what I’m about to tell you, their reaction would be “Blimey!  I didn’t see that one coming”.  This song would be improved if covered by Jedward.

    6.  It’s Immortal.  Once heard, this song cannot be killed.  It’s an ear-worm that refuses to leave.  Once it gets into your head (even if you only hear it once) this song becomes that bloody glittery vampire – the one that all sane people wish would just go away and die – that never goes away and dies.  Of all the songs that you could ever get stuck in your head, this is the stickiest and most recalcitrant.  It literally seems to bond itself to the inside of your brain somewhere between thoughts about tiramisu and thoughts about ducks.  It is said that men think about sex every seven seconds.  That is not true of men that have heard this song.  Men that have heard this song think of this song every seven seconds (even when they’re asleep or flying an aeroplane).  This song is no mere musical entertainment, it is a frightening disease of the mind.

    7.  It’s…Aaaaaarrrrrgghhh!!!  Don’t Read This Reason!   If you think about this song long enough – every seven seconds since last Friday night, for example – it spawns the song of Satan.  Because sooner or later (in a variant of infinite monkey theorem known as infinite poor suffering bastard that heard Don’t Have Any More Mrs Moore once and is now hearing it internally and infinitely for infinity theorem) the song will mutate.  As you think of – or hear – another song this song will begin to segue into it.  And then, with a creeping sense of trepidation and mounting dread, you will one day hear something so abominable and ghastly that it might well prove to be one of the signs of the apocalypse.  You will hear the chorus of this song segue into that of another.  You will hear:

    Don’t have any more Mrs Moore      

    When there’s room on my horse for two

    And with that perfectly seamless transition you’ll discover that you have, in your head, a mutant Lily Morris/Rolf Harris hybrid creature (Rily Marris?) singing a mash-up of Don’t Have Any Moore Mrs Moore and Two Little Boys at you every seven seconds for the rest of time.  See, I told you not to read it.

    *And why the hell does the word eternity have a plural?!

  • 7 Reasons That This is the Worst Survey of All Time

    7 Reasons That This is the Worst Survey of All Time

    Readers of 7 Reasons, I’m breathless with excitement.  I’ve discovered something amazing.  While reading this fine article to research something else, I found, in four short paragraphs in the middle, an account of an astonishingly inept survey.

    The survey was conducted in the 1930s by the Mass Observation organisation and set out to quantify how many people were having sex on Blackpool beach during the month of August.  They conducted their research – in a rather hapless manner – by hanging about on the beach at night looking for people having sex.  During the research they managed to spectacularly and hilariously cock up their own figures.  Here are seven reasons that it’s the worst survey of all time.

    1.  The Premise.  You can call me suspicious (I won’t answer to it though) but isn’t the premise a bit fishy?  I smell a rat; which is a rodent that smells of fish.  It’s like someone at the Mass Observation unit suddenly said – possibly during a meeting at a pub – “I’ve got a great idea chaps, let’s all go to Blackpool and observe people having sex on the beach.”  And everyone drunkenly agreed to it as a terrific idea and an utterly laudable use of their time and resources.  What no one seems to have said is “But wait.  Isn’t that dogging?”  Because that’s what watching people having sex in a public place is.  This makes their observation lack credibility.  This makes it look less like a serious study and more like an excursion for perverts.

    2.  The Results.  The results are also a little suspicious.  During their study into how many people were having sex on the beach during August in Blackpool, they recorded a mere four couples having sex on the beach.  Now, perhaps times have changed and things are a little more liberal in Blackpool these days but there are bus stops in Blackpool where more people are having sex than that in the middle of the afternoon.  And on the beach at any given time, there are usually at least nine people attempting to have sex with a donkey.  The results seem not to accurately reflect the environment that was being surveyed.

    3.  The Personnel.  The credibility of this survey was further undermined because – and this makes it officially one of my favourite surveys ever – one of the people that the Mass Observation researchers observed having sex on the beach was another Mass Observation researcher.  This brilliant incident of the hunter becoming the hunted; the ogler becoming the ogled and the peeper becoming the peepee has catapulted what was already the second least credible survey of all time (after my important research into how much tiramisu you can fit into a 6’2” man with an M in his name in a Yorkshire kitchen in December*) into first place in a race of its own.

    4.  The Results Are Skewed.  The discovery of the researcher having sex means that, according to the Mass Observation survey, 12.5% of all people having sex on Blackpool beach during the month of August are Mass Observation researchers.  Now I don’t wish to appear cynical, but if I was say…let me see…in charge of a rather unglamorous unit that generated statistics on everyday life and I was having a recruitment drive to swell the ranks of nerds that I needed to count things, what better way to glamourise it?  Move over rock stars (whatever they are); move over Errol Flynn and Clark Gable; Mass Observation researchers are unabashed rampant sex beasts and brazen cocksmen and not the stammering bespectacled tweed-wearers that you previously supposed them to be.  If you want to have relations with ladies in hats, join the Mass Observation unit and become a statistician.  I’d imagine that brilliantined brown shoe wearers would be queuing round the block to join.  On bicycles, probably.

    5.  The Results Are Confusing.  But Wait!  What if he was having sex alone?  After all, if he’s the voyeuristic chap that suggested going to Blackpool in the first place, that’s entirely probable.  That would make him 14% of all people having sex on Blackpool beach during the month of August!  That would really be something to boast about.  But that raises further questions.  If you’re having sex alone while watching someone else are you having sex alone?  Do you have to count the other person or people?  What if he has some sort of weird fetish and is having sex alone while watching a tram or looking at a picture of Stanley Baldwin?  Would that mean that former Conservative Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin was 12.5% of all people having sex on Blackpool beach in August?  Should you count all of the passengers on the tram?  The computations are mind-boggling.

    6.  It Might Be Illegal.  By and large, Mass Observation researchers were amateur volunteers (and deviants apparently), but the Mass Observation organisation accepted donations and funds from book advances, so it’s not beyond  the realms of possibility that the researchers were being paid to do this and it’s highly likely that they were receiving money for expenses.  This raises another question.  What do you call someone that gets paid when having sex?  That’s right, a prostitute.  So, not only has this researcher royally messed up the statistics (and given me a headache) he’s committed an act of prostitution while he was working at the beach.

    7.  It Gets Worse.  The Mass Observation organisation have – in the act of giving money to a prostitute – become a kerb crawler.    That’s the sort of label that makes the organisation that have produced the least credible survey of all time look – incredibly – less credible than they already seemed (which was not at all).  This survey looks like an excuse for voyeurism, depicts Blackpool in unbelievable terms, skews its own findings by engaging in a sexual act on a beach, raises statistical questions that caused me to consider sex with a tram and the organisation that made it might have sullied their reputation by giving money to a hooker.  If there has been a less credible survey ever made I’d love to see it.

    *The survey’s finding:  Bloody loads.

  • Russian Roulette Sunday: The Worst 7 Reasons Ever

    Russian Roulette Sunday: The Worst 7 Reasons Ever

    Russian Roulette Sunday: The Worst 7 Reasons Ever

    Each week we get a lot of guest post submissions. I suspect we actually get more submissions than we do readers. Of the submissions we receive, we use about one in every ten. Three of the other nine are usable, but don’t quite meet the high standards you so desire and the remaining six are, well, rubbish. Never though did I think I would ever receive something quite like this:

    7 Reasons My Mom Should By Me A Dog by Tom.

    1.  Jarod has one.

    2.  If she don’t I’m gonna runaway with Jarod.

    3.  I only get $5 pocket money a week and Jarod gets $20.

    4.  Mom promised me an X-box but never got me one.

    5.  I have to go to church on Sunday and it sucks.

    6.  I got grades better than Mom expected.

    7.  Jarod says his dog attacked his Pop and mom don’t like Pop.

    You may think I am being slightly harsh given Thursday’s piece, but do bear in mind that this has been heavily edited to include capital letters and full-stops. If you think you can write a worse 7 Reasons piece please send it to [email protected]. I would be astounded.

  • 7 Reasons to Follow @MongolianNavy on Twitter

    7 Reasons to Follow @MongolianNavy on Twitter

    In February we discovered that Benicio Del Toro was on Twitter and brought you the news in 7 Reasons to follow @BenicioDToro on Twitter.  We weren’t sure whether it was him or not, but we thought the Twitter account was interesting anyway, and we had a big reaction to the post.  Firstly, many unhinged people descended on our comments section and began calling each other names (we eventually had to referee this) and secondly, someone stole the piece and reposted it elsewhere without our consent until – after we’d threatened legal action more than once and they’d removed it and re-posted it a few times – their web hosts intervened and shut them down.  In all, it was a whole lot of irritation and hassle. So let’s do it again.

    Great news, 7 Reasons readers!  The Mongolian Navy are on Twitter!  Here are seven reasons to follow them.

    The naval fleet of Mongolia in port
    Swim for your lives! It’s the entire Mongolian Navy! Really.

    1.  They Won’t Swamp Your Twitter-Feed.  I mean, how much news can a navy with one boat, seven sailors (only one of whom can swim) and no sea generate?

    2.  Comparison. Have you ever felt really down?  Have you ever felt pangs of existential angst?  Have you ever questioned what you’re doing with your life?  Have you ever felt that you’re getting nowhere and that you’re just going round in circles?  Well the Mongolian Navy are stuck on the landlocked Lake Hovsgal so they actually are going round in circles.  All day, every day.  Who doesn’t feel better about themselves now?

    3.  War Is Hell.  I watched the Dreamworks mini-series The Pacific recently and a brilliant, absorbing, and appropriately reverential bit of television it was too.  But it was a highly confusing in places because there were many, many characters and they were all dressed identically.  The Mongolian Navy has only seven sailors though, so there should be little of that sort of confusion in their Twitter feed.  In time, you’ll probably get to know and love the entire Mongolian Navy, which is a lot less time than in would take you to get to know and love a larger navy.

    4.  Learn About Mongolia.  How much do you really know about Mongolia?  That’s a question I’ve asked myself on several occasions recently, and in my case, the answer is very little.  I imagine that by following the Mongolian Navy on Twitter I’m going to learn a great deal more about Mongolia.  After all, they’re landlocked, so it’s not like they’re going to be tweeting about anywhere else.

    5.  Because You Love An Underdog.  Yes you do!  You can’t help it.  And surely, in naval terms, a navy with only one vessel (a tug) is the biggest underdog of them all.  Or the littlest underdog, perhaps.  After all, it’s hard to feel any sort of empathy with large modern navies with their state-of-the-art destroyers deploying smart torpedoes and missiles against enemies that don’t stand a hope-in-hell’s chance.  But the Mongolian Navy’s epic quest to tow other boats around and keep their lake free from better navies* is something we can all appreciate and get behind.

    6.  Because They’ll Follow You Back.  I’ve looked at their Twitter page and it seems that they’re following the people who are following them back.  And who wouldn’t want to be followed by the Mongolian Navy (if you’re going to be followed by a navy, the Mongolian one seems like the best option)?  It seems that the Mongolian Navy are as curious about us as we are about them.   Let’s tell them what things are like where we live.  Near the sea.  Or tweet swimming tips, I think they’d like that.

    7.  Show Your Support.  Because no one in Mongolia loves them.  As we pointed in out March, Mongolia has a National Men and Soldiers Day, but not a National Men and Sailors Day.  This seems deeply unfair.  Let’s show them that people out there do care about them.  Let’s show our support for by following @MongolianNavy on Twitter.**

     

    *Which is all navies.  Even Birmingham has a better navy than Mongolia.

    **As this doesn’t seem like too much of a commitment.