I hate mobile telephones.
I’m not a Luddite and I’m not one of those terrified babies clinging fearfully to a lump of 1998 tw@tplastic the size of a pint glass whilst being desperately pointless about longer battery time or bleating about better signal.
Nor I am one of those horrendous, technology-obsessed perverts who queue, fully erect, to buy the latest identical version of the same f*cking thing or masturbate furiously over YouTube videos of people opening boxes.
No, I just find mobile phones irritating almost all of the time.
It enrages me when other people talk into them near me and I find them irritating when they irrelevantly chirpbeep from the pockets of total strangers.
I find them annoying when they become the focus of attention for someone I have any need or inclination to speak to. And I hate them when they play music plus I hate them whenever they are held by teenagers. I hate them.
There’s something about the smug, smiling face mouth of a person talkshouting their entire tw@t of a conversation into a tiny phone as if they need to somehow perform it for us. It genuinely makes me want to repeatedly punch the front of their massive head’s face until it changes both colour and shape.
My phone is perpetually on silent AND I keep vibrate switched off. Some people look at me with a bizzare shocked gob of pathetic earnest when I tell them this, massively and bizarrely obsessing over the idea that I might miss a call.
I honestly don’t give a sh!tTING TIT if I miss a call, which is why I also don’t leave my home dramatically unraveling hundreds of yards of landline cable behind me, so I can take my house phone out with me every tw@tting day.
I keep my phone on a very short leash and I refuse to let it bully or pester me.
It’s there for ME… not for the benefit of other people in order that I am never, ever allowed a single moment of time offline or out of sight.
Occasionally I catch the mute button on my phone without realising, rendering it able to beepsqueak at me like a sh!tty kitten at an inopportune moment.
For extra protection, I set my phone to the most phonelike noise possible, to avoid appearing to be a horrendous sex pest whose phone plays a tune.
But my behaviour when suddenly confronted by my own ringing phone is exact:
First I look ‘puzzled’, then, a millisecond later my face shifts to ‘quite cross’. I remove the offending noisetw@t from my pocket and stare angrily at its glowing face to ascertain who the f*ck has done this to me.
Then I click the mute button back on, dramatically, whilst cancelling the call.
Before shaking my head solemly and returning the phone to my pocket.
I f*cking hate them.