One For The Road: Down with devices

Usually, when I am snapped out of a mindless phone-warp, I wipe the drool off my screen, curse the device in my hand, and scorn myself for having let those rotten tech-moguls suck me in yet again.

I hate mobiles.

I hate the precious time they steal, the rubbish they make me watch, and the ease with which they transform me from autonomous agent into enslaved scroller.

When I see a child looking for his ma’s phone, my heart sinks.

When somebody tells me that they are broke because they spent a grand on the new iPhone 360, I pity them.

And when I see a man nearly get run over by a car because he was busy checking his Instagram, I breathe a sigh of relief, then call him names, then take back my sigh and wish he had not got so lucky.

See, truth be told, I am a luddite by nature.

I like retro stuff and fetishise the way things used to be.

I like old bands. I like old jeans. I even like hairdos of the past, that time has already decided are objectively wile-looking.

As such, I hate phones.

But there is more to it than just resenting the evolution of man and technological development.

I mean, the dirt that the algorithm relentlessly encourages you to watch is definitely bad for the brain – and I need to protect the brain. It’s in bad enough shape as it is.

Like a muddy river, the cyberstream pours forth ceaselessly, carrying you from pointless video to pointless video, dirty dopamine hit to dirty dopamine hit, until, before you know it, you’ve been caught in its current for hours.

Recently, I watched a video of man walking around asking people to rate his appearance out of ten.

Had I seen this same boy at this same carry on down the town, I would have thrown up in my mouth, neither swallowed nor spat, sneaked up on him from behind, and boked down his collar.

Before the video concluded I realised what I was watching, threw my phone to the side and let out a groan, as if a humiliating memory of some long-buried drunken act had just suddenly floated up from my subconscious.

Thankfully, though, I am not as imprisoned by the piece of glass in my pocket as some people are by theirs.

In fact, when I was a cub, I tried my best to partially reject phones.

I’ll explain.

When I was coming of age and starting to go to concerts, I took a real pick on the sheer volume of photographs people were taking.

I felt it was vain, pointless, absurd and embarrassing. Which, I know, is how teenagers feel about more or less everything.

Anyway, in response to the epidemic I perceived, I decided that I would take a principled position and refuse to take any photographs at all.

I was convinced in my view that all my peers were missing the moment because they were lost in their lenses.

“What’s the point having memories of a moment you missed?” I would baulk, annoyingly, no doubt.

And today, what do I have to show for my conscientious objection? Very few cherished photographs, that’s what.

Yes, despite being a child of the most snapped generation of all time, hindsight seems to show that the one undeniable consequence of my boycott is that, while my friends all have countless pictures of birthdays and big nights out, I hardly have any.

Right enough, do you really want pictures of sloppy teenage nights out?

Ha, turns out I was right whatever way you look at it.