A Phone for the Worst Person You Know

15.09.26 — Madrid

Now for something a little different: an opinion piece. This is the first article on my brand new Substack. More information at the end, but do consider subscribing (it’s free) if you enjoy what I’ve got to say. I’ll be publishing much more like this over there.

There’s always that one person in the family who simply has to tell everyone about their latest gadget, demonstration and all. In my case it was my great uncle, who one day showed up with a new phone and proceeded to demonstrate how it flipped open to reveal a circular number pad, much like an old rotary phone. He was a great guy, but my raging teenage angst meant that my reaction wasn’t exactly one of awe. I have a phone too, I thought, and I don’t have to flip it open to use it.

Bear with me, though, as that’s not where I’m going here. I really do get the attraction of being able to carry a large screen around. But today I want to talk less about the design of these devices and more about what they represent.

Mobile phones have been a status symbol for as long as I can remember. From Blackberry Messenger to the latest iPhone model, people don’t want to feel left out. The Duo marks the biggest break from the design of the iPhone since the original set the industry standard of one big screen. This means that it’s easier than ever to distinguish: onlookers don’t have to know about the latest colour option or camera layout to see that you’ve got the latest device. This will have tech nerds, rich kids, and your friend who thinks they’re an influencer clambering like never before to get their hands on the thing. Not just to boast their wealth, which the price tag definitely facilitates, but as a tool to demonstrate that they are keeping up with what’s new and trending.

My frustration here comes from the fact that Apple, in looking to pander to such an audience, have become them. They are now that annoying uncle who has to prove that he’s also up-to-date. Look, they’re saying, we can also do foldables!

It’s ironic that this company, whose vocabulary is increasingly limited to buzzwords such as innovation and revolutionary, have shown up so quantifiably late to this particular party. These modern foldable phones have been around for a while, and there’s nothing about Apple’s offering which is particularly groundbreaking. The rather decaffeinated descriptor from their website calling it “the first foldable iPhone” seems to offer a glimpse of self awareness; a tacit admission that the most unique thing about the Duo is that, if it wasn’t for the Apple logo on the back, it’s just another foldable phone.

There’s nothing wrong with making “just another foldable phone”, of course. I’m sure it’ll be a good one. I’ll definitely be admiring its design, sleek animations, and quality materials. I’m not that bitter. But I am nostalgic —perhaps too much so— for the time when Apple used their delayed entry into a sector to meaningfully innovate on what had come before. I was hoping that their first foray into foldables would come with some memorable world-first. It hasn’t. And I think that if you’re going to show up this late to a party, you’d better have something to show for it. You know, some extra booze or whatever.

So then, in the great words of humorist Will Rogers, “never miss a good chance to shut up.” It’s one of my favourite quotes of all time, and one which I find applicable to most situations in our hyperconnected world. It ties in perfectly with my worldview that there is great joy to be found in deciding not to do something. I do wish Apple would have applied this here. At the risk of going on a nostalgia trip once again, a guy called Steve Jobs once asserted that “deciding what not to do is as important as deciding what to do.” It’s a nod to a laser-sharp focus that has slowly been lost.

That said, I know why they’ve done it. I know that shareholders demand constant new releases and increasingly rapid growth. I know that Apple needs to offer something new to iPhone customers before they defect to enemy camps, seduced by competitors’ novel foldable phones. But I also know that the company has the bright minds, technology, and financial oomph to create something that is really and truly new. The iPhone Duo isn’t it, though.

This is, at the end of the day, a trivial issue: simply another purchase that people will make with absolutely zero impact on me or my life. But I am here to have a good old whinge and a moan, and this is the issue that everyone’s talking about right now. That’s because, deep down, we’re all that annoying uncle in one way or another. We either subscribe to the fad, or we talk about how superior we are for not succumbing to it. Lately, I’ve been the latter. I’m becoming insufferable.

My response, then, will be to do the same thing I have after all of Apple’s latest releases: I’ll stick another piece of tape to the smashed glass of my iPhone 12 and continue to flick away the pestering software update notification. I’ll nurse this phone through its ailments, current and future, right to the bitter end.

In doing so, my battered and ancient phone will become just as much a virtue signal as a brand new iPhone Duo. It’ll indicate my feelings of superiority at not giving into what I perceive as societal pressure rather than true technological innovation.

Does that make me as much as a cunt as the next guy? Probably.

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Milan

21.06.26 — Milan

Milan

21.06.26 — Milan

“Spend all the evenings you can with the people who raised you” goes a line from “Stoned at the Nail Salon” by Lorde. I’ve always admired her lyrics, and this line has always stuck with me. It’s a call to action in an otherwise relaxed song, one rooted in the unease we all experience as we worry about spending our time well. There’s also a little memento mori thrown in there, with the word ‘can’ somehow adding urgency to the situation: neither we, nor the people we love the most, will be here forever.

So, how to spend this limited time? I have learned that I need to balance being alone with being surrounded by people. Sometimes I need the challenge of socialising with people who push me out of my comfort zone, but other times I want to be with people around whom I can relax. My family are some of those people. My parents and sister know me better than I know myself, with no pressure to be or act in any particular way around them.

Thirty years have also seen the family dynamic mature into one between four fully grown adults. My sister and I are no longer dependent children or rebellious teenagers; no more are we intent on putting as much distance between our parents and our newly formed personalities. Our rebelliousness has given way to an acceptance that we are much more like our parents than we once thought. We all just get along.

And it’s a good job we do get along, as we all recently assembled in Italy for three days of sightseeing, pizza, and nattering. The majestic streets of Milan were lovely, but they became more of a pretty backdrop for our chats, many of which began in the hotel lobby. Essentially a collection of five chairs around an espresso machine, this tiny coffee area became our personal living room, a space to organise the day and giggle at anecdotes, both old and new.

Of course, we also saw plenty of the city, from the impressive cathedral to the ostentatious shopping arcades. I made a stop at a design museum and talked my parents into visiting a cemetery full of monuments. We managed to squeeze in a trip to Como, where we enjoyed the lake, the ancient alleyways, and a rather chaotic lunch experience. The waiter’s mistakes and the translation mishaps could have left lesser families in a tizz, but we wound up simply giggling at the surreality of it all.

This was my first time in Italy, and it was fabulous. Not because we tried to wring every hour for all it was worth, but because we went around doing whatever we fancied, whenever we fancied. We spent time together and lived new experiences together. Lorde was right. This is what it’s all about.

Welcome to 30

12.05.26 — Madrid

Welcome to 30

12.05.26 — Madrid

Ailments. Wrinkles. Babies. Weddings. Every time one of my friends speaks to me, it seems to be about one of these issues. Increasingly so. And I love it. Not because any of these topics appeal to me, but rather because it’s a tangible reminder that we are all getting older, and I am genuinely enjoying this process. Here are three quick anecdotes.

Denial

I ran through the plan as I climbed the stairs: she’d open the door, we’d hug, and I’d distract her in order to slip a nondescript plastic bag into the spare bedroom. I felt like a secret agent, only the drop to be made here wasn’t sensitive information. It was a carrot cake.

Mission accomplished, Sara’s birthday party was going swimmingly. It was, that is, until she announced that we’d to leave for that most dreaded of places: the club. One year into my thirties, I now know that a club is no place for me. Not because of my age —I’m not suggesting that us old biddies can’t enjoy a night out—, but because turning thirty has allowed me to distinguish what I enjoy from what I don’t, and clubs definitely fall into the latter. But my love for Sara outweighs my distaste for partying, so into a taxi I climbed and onto the dance floor we strode.

Four hours later and the greasy Burger King table around which we had coalesced was bearing witness to some of the deepest philosophical discussions of our time. Although I don’t enjoy being jostled around for hours on end, there’s a lot of joy to be found in the conversations held in the smoking area or over a post-club burger. These late-night conversations with friends are magical, even when they eventually end with the greatest thinker the 21st century has to offer: some random taxi driver.

Acceptance

Locating Izzy in the middle of Madrid wasn’t going to be a tough one: she’s a shock of blonde in a sea of dark hair. Then there’s her dress code, which is limited to a palette of blacks and dark greys, the latter for when she’s feeling adventurous. This penchant for dark clothes hasn’t changed a bit since we both met at university.

But certain things have changed since then. Life has thrown a lot at us: we’ve seen pandemics, wars, reunions, and weddings. With all of these changes, and despite the unwavering love we share, there was a certain apprehension on my part as we sat down for a cocktail and our first proper conversation in years. I was worried that we might have fallen out of sync.

Over margaritas, anecdotes, and tapas, my fears soon dissipated. As we talked about the importance of disconnection and the benefits of spontaneity, we both realised that we’d matured together and in the same direction. It was wonderful. I saw that nothing about growing old and wise is better than getting to do it alongside your friends. And, funnily enough, one of the things we’d both realised is the need to just let change happen.

Defiance

It was certainly a change to see Heidi on her own. We met in a shared flat, formed a friendship group, and she’s now often accompanied by her partner and daughter. It’s not very often I have one-on-one time with Heidi, so it felt almost odd to have her arrive at my flat alone.

We then spent the next few days visiting our old haunts in the city that brought us together all those years ago. On the final evening of her visit, our feet tired from all the walking, I suggested we drive back to my flat. We hopped into a rental car, connected my Spotify to the stereo, and set off home.

Only we didn’t go home. With throwback tunes from the Vengaboys and Steps, a wave of nostalgia buoyed us out of the city and onto the motorway, where we belted out these karaoke classics without a care in the world. As day faded to night, we sang ourselves hoarse and laughed ourselves silly.

I think both Heidi and I needed that little moment of escapism. We needed to head in no particular direction, scream silly lyrics into the air, and forget about being adults for a while. We’re both perfectly content, but that doesn’t mean we don’t occasionally need to release some of that childlike energy.

So, in good company, we do. We laugh, we dance, and —even though we’re driving around in circles— we sing about going to Ibiza.

Julia & Javier

02.05.26 — Madrid

Julia & Javier

02.05.26 — Madrid

40 degrees. Flashbacks from the pandemic, when 40 degrees was the cutoff body temperature, any higher than which we were told to ring for an ambulance. I stared at the large four-zero on the thermometer whilst the backlight flashed red to signal the obvious: 40 degrees is too high. I wasn’t exactly shocked as I lay splayed out on my bed in my underwear, sweating profusely into my already sodden sheets: it didn’t take a genius to work out that I had a fever.

On any other day, I’d have taken it as my body’s way of telling me to slow down. I’d have drunk some rehydration solution, taken a cool shower, and wheeled my television into my bedroom to create the perfect brain rot delivery system. It would have been a welcome rest.

But not today, for I had things to do. I had plans, and not just a drink in the bar with some friends. It was one of those plans with a dress code, one to which you have to RSVP months in advance. It wasn’t just any Saturday: Julia was getting married. And 40 degrees said that I wasn’t going to be there.

As I wallowed in my self-pity, María’s voice came in from the living room, asking me how I was feeling. She’d come all the way down from Bilbao to join the celebrations, so the pressure to make it to the church felt even more acute. With the fever dulling my ability to soften my response, I answered pretty bluntly: like shit, thank you.

This kind of unfiltered honesty that María and I share is refreshing. More than a great impromptu nurse, she is also someone I can talk to about anything. On a normal day, I can walk myself through my thoughts, and she’ll help me put them in order. Today, her duties involved doling out paracetamol and putting up with my incoherent feverish babbling. I guess there’s nothing like a complete physical meltdown to further strengthen the bonds of friendship.

As the hours ticked by, though, something miraculous happened. My mood improved, the sweating ceased, and my fever lifted. I managed to get up, showered, and into a taxi. My body had found a hidden reserve of energy, reminding me of the surge of happy chemicals that flooded my brain after I broke my leg. I didn’t know I had this reserve supply of endorphins hidden away, but I certainly was glad I did. It would be nice if my brain would dole some out during everyday life, though…

Anyway, I made it to the church on time for a lovely service, and then even managed to catch the bus to the beautiful reception venue. Before I knew it, the last calls for the first of the buses back to Madrid were being made, but I was having way too much of a good time to leave. The party then went on until 4am, when I was still on my feet and dancing along — just about.

More than a medical miracle, this is a testament to how fabulous Julia and Javier’s wedding was. There was great company, great music, great food, and a great atmosphere. I loved every second of it, and was so happy that my body had pulled out all the stops to make sure I could be there. I’m pretty sure it beat watching conspiracy theories on YouTube.

Alas, nothing in this life comes for free: the next day I felt even worse than before. My body was shot and my brain was fried, but no amount of sweat and bile could detract from the marvellous memories from the night before.

40 degrees? Rookie numbers. Long live Julia and Javier.

Tarragona

12.04.26 — Tarragona

Tarragona

12.04.26 — Tarragona

Sometimes I can get pretty irritable. Then I struggle to work out why I’m so irate, which frustrates me. This frustration, in turn, makes me even more insufferable to be around. Those who know me are aware of how much of a pain in the arse I can be when I’m in the doldrums like this.

I guess sometimes the root of all this can be burnout: I might just be in need of a rest. But other times, it might be more complicated. I might need some time out to figure out what’s going on. And ‘time out’ sounds suspiciously similar to ‘a rest’. So, let’s be honest, what I always need is a good old bit of respite.

This realisation came to me just before Easter, and so I resolved to do something that I’d been toying with for years and check myself into a five-star spa hotel. I wasn’t bothered where I went, I just wanted the most pressing issues of my days to be the ratio of sweet to savoury at the breakfast buffet and whether I preferred warm or temperate water in my jacuzzi bath.

I realise as I write that I sound pretty insufferable. “Corporate worker takes luxury break due to burnout” isn’t the most original or relatable story, and I can certainly hear the voice of my past self scoffing at the idea: first world problems, check your privilege, etcetera, etcetera. But it is what it is. I’m getting old and I’m beginning to understand why my parents always insisted on a fortnight spent splayed out on a sandy beach or a poolside deckchair. Adult life is tiring.

In this worn-out state, then, I somehow had to organise a trip. Travelling used to be all about the excitement of planning, the thrill of catching a plane or train, and “it’s not the destination, it’s the journey”. Now, it’s just a chore I endure to get where I need to be. So, despite all my reservations about cognitive offloading, I fired up ChatGPT. My brain was already fried and so I surmised that no further harm could be done.

That’s how I ended up in Tarragona. I stepped off the train at a station that the AI overlords had confidently told me was a quick taxi away from my accommodation. I arrived 45 minutes and 55 euros later at the hotel lobby, a healthy dose of karma after the hours I’ve spent tirelessly preaching to others about the need to cross-reference and double-check everything AI spits out.

In checking into my room, I checked out of life for a few days. I threw my phone into the safe and swapped my trainers for some white slippers. I divvied up my time between the spa, the pool, and the beach. I don’t think I’ve ever spent so much time in a bathrobe in my entire life. And just when I was beginning to tire of all this relaxation and solitude, I found someone to spend some time with… but that’s a whole other story.

Despite my physical inactivity, which I am an expert at, my brain took longer to slow down. At the beginning, these fancy surroundings were a mere backdrop for my thoughts. I pondered many things, but front and centre was the need to know why I felt compelled to take a break like this. The conclusion I eventually came to was pretty simple and rather anticlimactic: I just needed a fucking rest.