Those who know me, or have read my column for a while now, might be under the impression that I’m a bit of a whinger. They’re right, of course, but on occasion the whinging is justified. Just as the proof of the pudding is in the eating, the truth of any article is in the reading — not the writing. So here it is, dear reader: I place myself and my misanthropy, as ever, in your knowledgeable hands.
Over the past couple of weeks my stress levels have been relentlessly elevated courtesy of technology. Some causes were entirely predictable: moving house, starting a new (albeit temporary) job, and my Twitter account being hacked. All of them forced me well outside my comfort zone — new places, new people, new passwords.
Other causes, however, are harder to explain away. They may simply reflect my growing disconnection from the modern world. Let me give you the highlights — or, more accurately, the lowlights — of the last fortnight.
Coffee
It all started with the robotic coffee machine. I was on a long-distance drive, having just seen my daughters, when I stopped at a motorway service station for fuel. Fancying a hot drink, I made the rare decision to partake of a cup of the finest ‘hot water with brown grit in it’ (Blackadder fans will know exactly what I mean).
To be fair, my relationship with coffee has never been harmonious. I’m a tea man by nature, and I largely blame Friends for the Starbucksification of the West: a generation apparently convinced that the height of civilisation is queueing for ten quid’s worth of frothy piss, served by blue-haired hostile illiterates. But, like I say, I was thirsty.
After spending ten minutes trying to coax an order out of the machine (the robot smiled politely, but wasn’t much of a conversationalist), I stood watching in quiet awe as the automaton prepared my drink. I confess, it was quite impressive — although replacing a human with a humanoid had mysteriously failed to knock much off the price.
Once the coffee was ready, however, the real trouble began. To unlock the little door concealing my drink, I apparently needed to enter a PIN code. What fresh hell was this? The code, naturally, was printed on the receipt I had already cheerfully tossed into the bin.
What was the point of the security system? To stop someone else running off with my coffee? Fine — but why wouldn’t the would-be coffee mugger simply wait for me to open the door and then nick it? What happens if the receipt is lost, blown away by the wind, or otherwise destroyed? What recourse do I have then?
Like a good citizen, I suffered the ignominy of ferreting around in the bin and eventually retrieved my vanilla latte. Not bad, all things considered.
Only later did the perfect revenge occur to me: I should have ordered three more coffees, jammed every port, and sat back to watch the robot frantically try to dispense the fifth one before hurling it across the counter in mechanical rage. Let’s see who’s smiling then.
Driving
I used to love driving, but these days it’s essentially a chore simply to get anywhere. Last weekend I made the bold decision to play my first chess tournament in over a decade (this, by the way, is as racy as my life gets). The journey was certainly eventful. First off, I was driven into while waiting at traffic lights by a woman performing the simple manoeuvre of driving out of her driveway. There were no other cars within a 500-metre radius, which made the collision quite an achievement.
The crash necessitated a rental car, which arrived on time and in pristine condition — full credit there. The downside was that operating the bloody thing seemed to require a PhD in engineering. There appeared to be no handbrake (there was, of course — it was simply cunningly hidden), nor any obvious means to access the fuel cap release. Even the petrol pump attendant didn’t know how it worked.
I usually tell anyone who’ll listen that I can’t wait for AI to take over driving so I no longer have to endure other drivers’ idiosyncrasies. The last couple of weeks, however, have forced me to reconsider that optimistic position.
I’m sorry, but much as I like Elon Musk, I simply can’t bring myself to call it ‘X’. While I have a generally negative opinion of social media per se, I confess I’ve always enjoyed Twitter. The algorithm abandoned me years ago — my posts now attract interactions in the ones and twos instead of the old hundreds — but it remains the best place for raw news and current events.
Unfortunately, my account was recently hacked, and I was shocked by the level of incompetence (or outright indifference) from Twitter HQ. Despite my registered email having been changed to something as subtle as TwitterHackersAreUs.com, the automated system kept insisting it “could not verify” me. After all, it only had my name, phone number, original email address, photograph, and fifteen years’ worth of alleged hate speech to work with.
When I politely pointed this out, they suggested I simply “get another account”.
Mobile Phones
Yesterday’s customer service histrionics were courtesy of WiFi I hadn’t cancelled, but which mysteriously wasn’t working — while the billing remained determinedly tip-top. Here is a précis of my call with ‘Darren’, who may now require years of psychiatric treatment to recover:
Me: Can you tell me why you’ve cancelled my WiFi?
Darren: You don’t have WiFi with us.
Me: I know I don’t now, but you’re still charging me for it.
Darren: No we’re not.
Me: Yes you are.
Darren: Are you talking about home WiFi?
Me: What other kind could there be?
Darren: You need to speak to a different department.
Me: Do you mean the one which keeps transferring me back to you?
Darren: I’m sorry, I can’t hear you well. There seems to be a problem with your signal.
Me: Right. Who provides my phone coverage?
Darren: Yes, we do.
Me: Maybe have a word with yourself then?
Darren: Do you have another phone you could call us on?
Me: Why would I be using this phone if I had another one?
Darren: I thought you might have a second mobile phone?
Me: Why? I’m not a drug dealer?
Darren: I never said you were.
Me: I never said you said I was.
Darren: I know. I still can’t hear you.
Me: (shouting) Can you hear me now?
Darren: Sir, please don’t shout!
(This delightful exchange went on for two hours.)
Suffice it to say, this was another masterstroke by my ex-wife. We eventually got it sorted. I’ve since agreed to meet Darren for a reunion when he finally gets out of The Priory.
Miscellaneous
On top of all this, I’ve battled ticket machines that refuse both tickets and payment; car park barriers that don’t like the cut of your jib; fingerprint locks that reject the fingerprints they signed off only minutes before; self-checkouts that resolutely refuse to check out; chess clocks that grant increment only when they feel like it; and the undisputed champion — the supermarket “1+1” deal: fifteen nicker for one bottle of olive oil. Presumably the second one was ‘free’?
At the till:
Me: Sorry, I think you’ve overcharged me for the olive oil — it’s coming up as £30?
Cashier: Yeah, it’s 1+1.
Me: Yes, I thought so – but the price is 15 quid for one, and you’ve charged me 30?
Cashier: (exasperated) Well obviously, if you buy two it costs twice as much!
Me: That’s not really 1+1 then, is it?
Cashier: What d’you mean?
Me: If it’s just the normal price, what’s the point of the sign?
Cashier: What’s your problem?
Me: How long have you got?!
The exponential dehumanisation of life puts even someone as misanthropic as me in a real quandary. Naturally, I’m not interested in learning to code, scanning my own items at the checkout or generally talking to machines — Christ, people are bad enough! But at least people can, on occasion, be reasoned with, argued against, bribed, or, if all else fails, punched in the face. What exactly is one supposed to do when the machines have got it in for you, or have simply concluded that you are persona non grata in this brave new world?
Much as I may hate it, I’m not nearly independently wealthy enough — nor yet suicidal enough — to write off involvement with the future entirely. What then is the answer?
The machines are taking over, and this is increasingly going to be the case — unless we end up in the Mad Max dystopia, in which case I don’t much fancy my chances either. And while it was always going to be the case that my generation (and certainly the likes of me) would get left behind, it does seem there is an indecent haste ushering it in.
Am I the only one finding this?
Frank Haviland is the author of Banalysis: The Lie Destroying the West and The Frank Report, which you should probably subscribe to.
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(Photograph: Nick-D, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)
You are not the only one! How long will it be before a dystopian tribe of assorted oldies/techophobes and eccentrics roam the streets in rags unable to access anything? BTW these won’t include the Greens, JSO ‘warriors’ and Vegans who happily embrace things without worrying about what’s in them.
A very entertaining article – the dialogues were priceless. And I found myself agreeing wholeheartedly with the following sentiment:
“The exponential dehumanisation of life puts even someone as misanthropic as me in a real quandary. Naturally, I’m not interested in learning to code, scanning my own items at the checkout or generally talking to machines — [Muhammed], people are bad enough!”
Totally agree – it’s difficult enough, at times, to get through to people, never mind a robot! Yet, this, it seems, is the future, so we’re going to have to get used to it. Nobody in any position of any power, seems to think like Joe and Josephine Bloggs on the street. They could happily apply the lyrics of the old Seekers’ song: “A world of our own” to their (insert adjective) selves, fervently and mean every word!