A few weeks ago, while spending an evening with a couple of old geezers who pass as friends in these parts, the subject of our conversation arrived at a crossroads. Now, when I say old geezers, I have to admit that I am the more mature of the three in terms of age, and yet easily the youngest in terms of life experiences, which might explain why the other two look like gnarled tree trunks old enough to have seen the ark float into the distance, whereas I could pass for a mere sapling. Or so I like to think…answers on a postcard please.
Anyway, after we had dissected the financial situation in the EU and come to the conclusion that a flock of budgies, if left long enough, would do a better job that the half-wit bankers that seem to populate the continent, and discussed the relative merits of Californian and Australian wine, and how we could easily tell the difference in grape varieties if given long enough in a Napa Valley vineyard, (can you spend too long in a Napa Valley vineyard if you have the right company?), followed by recovery program by some aged oak casks in the antipodes, we moved onto the main business of the evening, watching a video.
Now, our host seems to be pretty much up to speed when it comes to TV related matters. He even has a beamer, (which I believe the doctor told him would go away in time if he stopped picking at it). The glasses were refilled, a bowl of unhealthy nibbles placed on the floor in front of us, and…nothing. You see, he couldn’t get the thing to work. After much muttering, a few screams of rage, and the occasional word I’d better not repeat here, we decided to call in the technical expert who lives on the premises, namely his teenage son.
Alas, even the presence of this whiz of the wires didn’t get us anywhere, despite his being directed to a ‘box of cables and stuff under the bed’. Nothing would coax the equipment into life, even the tried and tested method of giving the machine a good thump whilst issuing curses and oaths, and so we gave up, had another drink, and that’s when the discussion moved into undiscovered territory for me, and the depths of their depravity suddenly came to be known.
I am reasonably comfortable using a computer, as long as it has the word ‘Mac’ somewhere on the case. I can turn it on, connect to the internet, buy loads of useless ‘bargains’ from the likes of flea-bay, and even listen to jazz from every possible corner of the world if I feel the need. What I don’t do is involve myself in social networking sites, and it seems that the refusal to do this has become some sort of crime, and so my two ‘friends’ decided that I should be questioned about what they perceive as my anti-social leanings.
‘Are you now, or have you ever been a member of Facebook?’
‘No. Why? What is it anyway? A face can be read like a book perhaps. Some faces are far more interesting, take…’
‘Will you name others of your ilk who take part in this deeply un-American activity of non-social networking?’
‘I take…the…is it the fourth or the fifth? I can never remember…if you prick me, do I not plead?’
Ok, so it wasn’t quite that bad, but it wasn’t far away. They cajoled, begged, issued dire warnings of a life without personal contact if I continued to resist the strong human urge to join this online group, told me that I would become an outcast, and that it really was necessary to realise that…
‘Kieran wants to know why nobody loves him, but hold your answers while he stares at himself in the bathroom mirror for an hour or two…’
‘Benny has just had breakfast and is now contemplating his navel before plucking the hairs from his left nostril and commencing his latest rant against …’
‘Joan is very happy that she had strawberry jam available for the sex game she played with the guy she picked-up who works at the inland revenue office, and that he is still handcuffed to the bed with a croissant on his tax return. And soon she will be…’
Eventually, after they finally understood I had a deep rooted belief that Facebook was the work of the devil, and that those who worshipped at its alter should be stripped naked before being draped with sheets printed with their pointless messages and left to haunt the world like Dickensian ghosts, I was unshackled from the gurney, given my shoelaces back, and allowed to wend my weary way back home.
I may exaggerate just a little, but it seems to me that the time has come to call a halt to this desire people have to keep the waiting world informed of their doings. Take mobile phones…is the world a better place for the invention of these devices? How many more rail journeys will be ruined by businessmen droning into their Blackberries for endless hours at the top of their whining voices? What on earth do people have to talk about at seven in the morning that leads to a desperate need to share it with the rest of us on the bus? And my personal pet-hate: Why, why, why attempt to have a conversation involving numerous SMS messages when a single call will deal with the problem in seconds? It would appear that the use of these indispensable aids to a natural life leads to an inability to think rationally. I have no doubt that in the years to come, a survey will discover the beginnings of a new illness, Mobile Madness. The trouble is it might not be the user who suffers from this new insanity but the people around them struggling home after a long day at the office and yet forced to listen to inane tales of stone cladding or kitchen cleansers told by deranged travelling salesmen.
I also worry about the need some have to share their lives with the world at large. There was a time when we kept our problems at home, which whilst not always healthy, at least suggested we felt a degree of respect towards any others involved. We might ask for advice from close friends very occasionally, or even seek out experts when our lives were going pear shaped, but now there seems to be a feeling that it’s ok to ‘wash our dirty linen in public’, as we used to say in the old days, to tell the world about what we perceive as the failings of others in blogs, tweets and forums. I’m not sure I agree, but then I’m in the minority here, which I suppose is where I actually want to be.
And so the question is, will I ever become a tweeter who twits, a lonely wanderer in the blogosphere having conversations with myself , or a craven image on a social networking site? It might be that my refusal to countenance such a thing will cost me dear in the years to come, and that at some point I shall be forced at stylus point to add my signature to the list of the nameless in order to be readmitted to the new world order and so become socially acceptable once again. Time will tell, but for the moment I’ll keep one foot slightly in the past and watch with detached amusement as my ancient cronies connect with what ever electrical pathway opens in this computer controlled universe.
Let’s face it, I still use a coffee machine that requires beans and not pods, have a love of sixties British sports cars, and even collect and listen to LP’s, so there isn’t much hope for me anyway. Maybe I should look for sympathetic psychiatric advice, or might I simply make a search for my symptoms on the web? Life really is a conundrum…
