The rise of the machines.

My place, yesterday.

Yesterday I had to go out and buy a new mobile phone, as my previous phone had met with an unfortunate accident. We won't go into the whys and wherefores, and there's very little point in apportioning blame. In a world as cold and unfeeling as this injustices can and do occur and scapegoating individuals, while it may feel good at the time, provides scant comfort in the long term. These things happen. We need to learn acceptance, be more Zen.

All right, fine; I dropped it in the fish tank. While it was plugged into the charger, no less, so I just count myself lucky that Little Dan wasn't flash-fried into the bargain, poor misfortunate bastard that he is. That would have been unfortunate, although at least the little sod wouldn't be able to ruin another night's sleep with his barking. Barking and predicting the future.

Anyway. I went out and bought a new one, as the old one was irretrievably waterlogged and generally fucked. Here it is:

Satan's own handset.

And here's a review where it gets a handsome slagging at the hands of someone who knows what they're on about ; I, on the other hand, have not the faintest clue what I'm on about when it comes to mobile phones, a fact that I forgot in my lust for digital cameras and very small joysticks. My old phone was the telecommunications equivalent of a yoghurt pot on a bit of string. It was simple to use and easy to understand. It had Snake on it. I liked Snake, so what madness descended to make me choose this fiddly piece of shit?

I can't get it do anything. It's got the internet, but I'm never going to use it. It's got an mp3 player, but I can't find it. I tried sending a text message today and it took me the best part of half an hour. I've spent the last day staring at it like, well, like a chimpanzee that's been given an overly complicated mobile phone, scratching my arse and grunting in puzzled bewilderment. Whilst eating a banana.

It's especially pointless as nobody ever calls me, because I have (wait for it)... no social life! There are Buddhist hermits up Tibetan mountains who have more interesting Friday nights than me. It was the bloke in the shop, that's what it was. I was taken in by his sharp suit and matey patter. I got burned. I want out.

And, as if that wasn't enough, I now have this bastard to deal with:

You will not best me, doctor.

Yes folks, it's Dr Kawashima of Dr Kawashima's Brain Training, the DS phenomenon that can apparently improve your mental agility by a factor of whatever. The idea is that you perform his little mental exercises, jump through his hoops for ten minutes every day, and you will magically become smarter. Glyn came home with it yesterday and now I've been sucked in. When you start the game works out your 'brain age', which is basically a tool for the good doctor to tell you that you're stupid so you'll continue playing, lest your brain turn to mush in your skull. Last night my brain age was 46; today it's 64. If I carry on at this rate I'll have trouble retaining bladder control by Christmas.

So you do the exercises and fare really badly at them, feeling like a complete fucking idiot, and all the while the disembodied bastard offers words of patronising 'encouragement'. He let slip that he doesn't like coriander, and that if you say the word 'coriander' into the DS he'll pull a face. Which he does, so Glyn and I have taken to saying 'coriander' repeatedly and at length in an effort to gain some small measure of revenge as we watch his polygonal face screw up in distaste, over and over again. But it's a tiny victory, especially when you consider that the real Dr Kawashima is in his Japanese mansion, swimming about in his money like Scrooge McFuckingDuck and probably paying people to eat coriander for him. We, meanwhile, are spending our weekends arguing with a disembodied head on a hand-held games console, our brains becoming older and more decrepit with every minute that slips through our fingers. There's a real winner here, and I'm guessing it's not us.