I can’t get on with Instagram and the word ‘Influencer’ makes me cringe

Since the whole ‘surprise surprise, Instagram influencer turns out to be a massive dickhead’ thing hit mainstream media, I’ve had lots of messages from friends asking if I knew Clemmie ‘Mother of Daughters’ Hooper*, because obviously like all gay people know each other, all bloggers surely do.

I don’t know her. I’ve never met her, I don’t follow her – and until the news broke I had never really heard of her. I move in very different circles to the Instagram ‘influencer’ crowd, evidently.

The talk of ignoring each other at parties and glamorous events is a world away from the events I attend, where I’m usually too busy trying to get my kids to behave to even notice who else might be there.

I’ve never considered myself to be an influencer and, honestly, the word makes me cringe.

It’s a word that seems to dismiss all the hard work (and it really can be hard work) that goes into being a blogger – the writing, the photography, the negotiation, the cringeworthy self-promotion, and all the bloody admin – summarising it instead as ‘someone (usually with nice clothes, nice hair and a tidy instagrammable home or at least a nice wall to stand in front of) trying to use their influence sell you stuff’.

I definitely don’t fit into this narrative. My house will never be pretty, my hair is frizzy. I don’t really give a shit about floor tiles, I don’t buy peonies and you’ll probably never catch me in Boden (although never say never, hit me up my dudes). I don’t look good enough in clothes to attempt to sell them to you and I’m not great at the whole selling thing anyway.

As a blogger I am happy to review things (toys mainly, generally nothing too glamorous) and then leave my opinions there on the internet for interested parties to find easily; sometimes they do and sometimes they click my links and I make money from that. I’m happy to take on sponsored posts and sell my soul now and again for cold hard cash and own that decision because, as I have said before, I quite like being able to pay for stuff.

It’s all good, but we’re talking a few quid or some Amazon vouchers here and there, not £5k for a single picture on an Instagram grid.

It’s a different kind of thing. Shame, really.

‘Influencer’ tends to be synonymous with ‘Instagram’ which is where all the cool kids hang out these days.

Instagram has always been my least favourite social platform; it was the only one of the ‘big three’ (fuck off Snapchat, I’m too old for you) I never used prior to blogging and the one I resisted for the longest. Not because I don’t take nice photos – I can, I think, although it barely seems worth it these days – but because (quite aside from whatever is going on in the higher echelons of mummy blogger world) there is so much bullshit and fakery on there that it’s hard to get any kind of purchase no matter how many disinterested bloggers, random Indian men and compers one amasses as followers over the years.

I’ve been through phases; the filters, the curated grid, the trying hard to post every day, but ultimately it’s pretty depressing when someone’s blurry photo of a sandwich is getting 250-odd likes and your own mum isn’t even seeing your pictures gracing their feed, and she only follows six people. More often than not, nowadays, I’m at the ‘nothing to post‘ phase.

For me, Facebook has always been where I feel most comfortable.

I like that you can have conversations, laugh with like-minded people and share things I enjoy. I’d be surprised if even a tenth of the people who follow me on Facebook are even aware that I, as a person, exist. They (hopefully) enjoy the content and that’s fine by me. They don’t give a toss what I had for breakfast or what my dining room looks like.

I like that you can do it on a laptop, with a proper keyboard, rather than on my crappy old phone.

I like the fact that you can ask people to click a link rather than pointing in your blog’s general direction in an unrelated-to-the-image caption that no one will read anyway. And when they click a link and come to my blog, I make a tiny amount of advertising revenue without my having to sell anyone anything and get a little warm glow that somewhere, someone might care a little about what I have to say.

Or not, whatever.

Instagram, however, is where all the brands want to be.

Young people these days aren’t even on Facebook** and you can’t really be considered an ‘influencer’ without Instagram. However for me it’s just never really clicked properly. I’m not really cool enough for Instagram; I try, sometimes I try harder than at other times, but deep down I guess my heart just isn’t in it.

I just don’t care enough.

Given the chance to be an Instagram fabulous influencer with half a million followers and brand deals cramming my inbox full, I’d probably go for it. The sound of exclusive parties and expensive goody bags containing things other than toys sounds pretty exciting.

But I probably won’t, not because I have buttloads of integrity, but because I’m a bit chubby, have an awkward smile and no fashion sense to speak of, my husband hates taking photos, and leaving the house in the evening more than say, twice a week, sounds pretty exhausting actually. And because I’m not sure I could ever bring myself to introduce myself as an influencer without dying of cringe.

If I can influence you to do anything, I suggest opening a nice bottle of Oyster Bay Sauvignon Blanc and watching or re-watching the first series of Marvellous Mrs Maisel on Amazon Prime. Oh, and be a grown up about stuff and don’t be a dick, definitely don’t anonymously troll people on the internet and try and retain your sense of humour. That’s all, really.

* I don’t even know enough about her or what’s happening to have an opinion I’m afraid, so if that’s what you came for, I’m sorry.

**I have no idea how those people manage their social lives because I don’t even have some of my best friend’s phone numbers, we speak exclusively over Facebook messenger. I probably need to sort that out as it’s a pain when you accidentally miss a train even though you’re right there on the platform and can’t let them know because they’re driving on their way to collect you and you can’t call and yes that happened to me because I’m an idiot.