Intrinsically, I have no great issue with iPhones or the array of copycat models from competitor brands. But I have with their owners.
For example, there are few sights more absurd than a 60-year-old plonker showing off an iPhone – I use the brand-name iPhone as a generic, much the same as Hoover has come to mean vacuum cleaner – and his collection of ‘apps’.
And I’ve grown (and groaned) to harbour a passionate loathing for two particular ‘apps’, which are incessantly brought to my attention: a) a GPS ‘app’ they tell me has led them to the very same party I’ve reached by listening to the verbal directions of the host; and b) the ‘app’ of a puerile pussycat that purrs when you tickle the screen. Both are beyond naff.
It’s invariably men – and quite often of a greyish, wrinkled vintage – who boast of which ‘apps’ they’ve downloaded in what has evolved into a battle of one-upmanship between competing iIdiots.
I am also sick to the gills of walking into restaurants and other places of conversational intercourse only to be met by a bevvy of lone morons consumed with checking the annual rainfall in Kathmandu, despite the fact they live in Effingham and have no intention of ever visiting Nepal
It therefore makes iPhones a menace to society. They are conversation-killers, insults to a wife/husband/partner/mate/acquaintance, when, for no valid reason most sane folk can comprehend, a user is overcome by a whim to flash his telephonic toy and play with his ‘apps’.
These ‘apps addicts’ may think they are imbued with a sense of cutting-edge cool, but they’re wrong…the devices they wield so proudly make them appear to possess the mental acumen of a myopic armadillo.Undoubtedly iPhones have their uses – professional, business applications, which are intended for sound, practical purposes and not for twits to bore the wits out of innocent bystanders, who have absolutely zero interest in the so-called ‘fun’ the iPhone owner is inflicting upon them.
And quite why anyone other than a Saudi arms-dealer would want to read their emails during the tarte tartin in a convivial eatery is a conundrum to me. I’m impressed not one iota. In fact, when such gimmicky gizmos are casually produced and uselessly used in my presence I take it as a gross affront to my companionship and what remains of my ebbing dignity.
In general, I applaud restaurants which demand clients hand over their cellphones when they enter, since their incessant trilling tends to mar the enjoyment of other diners, who rightly reach the reasonable conclusion such objects are the playthings of attention-seeking pillocks. Unless it is a dire, life-or-death emergency, they should not be returned until the wilful culprit is exiting the establishment.
In common with most of the adult – and, I regret to say – pre-pubescent and juvenile population, I, too, have a mobile phone. I usually dread it ringing, since the person at the other end has either bad news or a demand for me to work; so in company, I regard my immediate comradeship as above the need to answer the bloody thing and leave it turned off.
To summarise: iPhones addicts are anti-social, selfish, churlish and worse than people who insist on examining the contents of their nose before an invited audience.
Like self-abuse, iPhones brandished in company should be banned and most definitely not be sold to users, unless they’ve taken holy vows to keep them and their ‘apps’ strictly to themselves.