Top 10 ways to increase traffic to your blog

This topic has actually been sitting in the ‘draft’ section of my WordPress account since around May – an idle idea waiting for something to turn it into a few paragraphs and a few attempts at making you laugh. Lo and behold. some things happened recently that have had me thinking about how to increase blog traffic, so it seems now is about the right time to get cracking with this list.

We all know writing blogs is piss easy, especially when you do it once a day. I could do this shit in my sleep, I’ve never missed any and every single word I write feels like God Himself just kissed you lightly on the brain when you read it. Essentially, I’m perfect. But you lot aren’t. You lot need help. You lot need the power of a list, specificially designed to help you get masses of traffic to your blog or website, just like I do.

1.      Write lists. Nothing says “I am a good writer” more than a list of things, usually about how you’re a good writer. Some people decry them as an easy way to fill up space with a number of items (preferably ten) that have little relation to each other. I say: who fucking made you Mayor of Twatsville, twat? Yeeeeah.

2.      State opinions, claim them as fact. It’s a simple fact that opinions are the most annoying things in the world, as well as being the most respected. Hence, they are the most important things in the world. Fact.

3.      Write another list about opinions (which are facts).

4.      Include more sex, especially if it is sexy sex things like opinion (fact) based lists, followed up by further opinion-fact-based lists.

5.      Claim all liberals are “loony” and say things about guns being well ace, like.

6.      Claim all right-wingers are “Nazis” and say things about guns being well ace, like (because guns are well ace).

7.      More nudie ladies.

8.      Ian Chaddock.

9.      State opinions (which are facts) based around the popular sport of “football”, insulting well-known commentators like Clive Tyldesley or Peter Drury. Also include lists and nudie ladies.

10.  Write some of the least-funny, most middle-of-the-road nonsense this side of The Times’ business section. People like the middle, apparently.

Seriously – take this advice to heart and you too could be enjoying the kinds of traffic I hit here. Case in point: yesterday I had more than 42 visitors! I know you want a piece of the action, so don’t hold back.

Stockholm Syndrome + Clive Tyldesley = oh god no

I’m glad this World Cup thing is going to end soon. I’m not going to go into any kind of rant here about the quality of football (or lack thereof), the terrible refereeing decisions, the blatant cheating or anything so negative. No, I’m happy it’s going to end soon as I’m coming down with Stockholm Syndrome.

I have made no bones about my disdain for commentators and pundits, whining and complaining about them a few times on here and many, many times everywhere else. But this consistent contact I’m having with this bunch of reprobates is making me… not hate them so much.

I smirked a few times just now during the BBCs post-match coverage of the second semi-final. I chuckled when Gary Lineker said “Hollish”. I even thought Alan Shearer showed a bit of character when he was talking about Pedro’s chance. I’ve clearly gone crazy. But this is nothing – nothing- compared to yesterday.

See, yesterday ITV co-commentator Jim Beglin was unable to carry out his banal chatting duties during the first semi-final. As a result of this, and as a result of ITV’s inability to provide more than one member of staff for any given role, main commentator Clive Tyldesley was left to carry out the job on his own. At any other time I would laugh at his stupid voice and fat, red face. But because of my constant exposure to all of these morons I’ve been left in such a state that I actually felt a little bit sorry for the man.

I felt sorry for Clive Tyldesley. I felt sympathy for the man. I didn’t over-analyse every comment he made in the match, and in fact went so far as to not mind some comments. I… have succumbed to Stockholm Syndrome. The worst of all the syndromes. The worst.

This is why the end of the World Cup on Sunday can’t come fast enough for me. Then I can go back to some old fashioned Dransfield hate.

I really, genuinely hate Clive Tyldesley, Peter Drury and Mark Lawrenson

As I’m in the land of Sky Sports – that is, my girlfriend’s place – I am in a strange and wonderful land. A land of Andy Gray, Martin Tyler, Geoff Stelling, Jamie Redknapp, some of the other ones who aren’t that bad and Paul Merson. It is, frankly, a wonderful place. It isn’t wonderful because of the most incisive, cutting and downright smart commentary – no, Tyler seems to be getting worse in his old age and Redknapp went from being the Great White Hope of punditry into just being a dim goit who advertises holidays with his ageless beauty of a wife.

You had so much potential, Jamie. You argued with Andy. Why have you gone boring again?

Anyway, this world of football pundits, commentators and all the other ones inbetween isn’t special because of their quality – it’s special because of their lack of lack of quality. It wouldn’t be this way were it not for the fact that Clive Tyldesley, Peter Drury and Mark Lawrenson exist. No, really – they do. Look it up. They’re even backed up by Graeme Le Saux, David Pleat and that bloke who used to do F1 and who still looks out of place. If these piles of human-shaped excrement didn’t exist then the Sky lot wouldn’t be that special. They’d be poor-to-adequate at best. Bar Gray, who despite the doubters is still one of the best pundits and commentators on tellyvee.

But no, ITV exists and brings with it Tyldesley and his awful, awful, awful twat-speak. That nasal whine. The constant references to anything Man Utd have ever done and his seeming inability to stop supporting both them and Liverpool. The fact that he once said “dare he?” in reference to Thierry Henry running with the ball back in his Arsenal days. The man isn’t even a stain on society, because at least you could get rid of that with some industrial-strength chemicals and a bit of effort. This scrotal wound, it would seem, cannot be eradicated. We are all poorer as a race for his continuing existence. Though this lightens my day, every day.

He’s the worst though, at least. The others are shit bastards, but none can even come close to Tyldesley. Not even professional Tyldesley impersonator Peter Drury, who sounds like an autistic with a speech impediment trying (and failing) to do an impression of Clive the Shit. I mean, there’s Mark Lawrenson over on BBC who did remark that Alan Smith’s leg had been broken in the FA Cup semi final a few years ago “by the power of the shot”. Yes Mark. Of course that was it. We all know John Arne Riise could kick a ball really hard. That was his only talent, god rest his soul*. But he couldn’t kick it hard enough to break your leg. I’m not sure, but I would guess it’s near-impossible to do that without using some form of machinery. Or bursting the ball. You utter, utter fool.

Pleat? Fuck me. Pleat. Written down, this man comes across as reasonably intelligent. Knowledgable, even. But he should not be allowed to speak on anything that broadcasts his voice to the nation as a whole. Any man who forgets a player’s name (Petter Rudi) then, when being reminded of it, goes on to say “PetterRudiRudiPetter” on real-life television should not be allowed to be on real-life television. That’s not forgetting the time he claimed to be responsible for a Spurs goal, as he had signed both the players involved in it (Paul Robinson and Jermain Defoe). Or his frankly incomprehensible outburst about Tomas Rosicky. Or the fact he’s a kerb-crawler. I know he’s not even on ITV anymore, but it still hurts that he ever was.

Anyway, this could go on for another year or so, such is my hatred for so many football pundits. I could do a better job, and I’m shit on camera. Sack everyone and start again. Don’t just hire people because they used to be players. That can go wrong. Consider yourselves told.

*He’s not dead, he’s just shit.