Annabel vs the Internet

by Annabel Port

  Next I see a Wonder Woman figurine that’s been lying about for ages. I’ve almost put it in a bag destined for the charity shop three times now, but felt guilty as it was a gift. I was given it at the end of a job I did a few years ago. (They paid me as well.)

  I look through a pile of vinyl that I rarely play and find the 12-inch of Northside’s “Shall We Take a Trip”. There’s also an album called Chart Hits 81, featuring the “Birdie Song”, Ottowan’s “Hands Up” and “Can Can” by Bad Manners. As I don’t subscribe to Record Collector magazine, I have no idea if these are now very rare and valuable. I presume they are. These go in my carrier bag too.

  Now I’ve got all my goods. I just need to decide how and where to sell them. As eBay is an auction site, perhaps the best non-Internet alternative is an auction house. The only one I can think of is Sotheby’s, which is good since I’ve got an “in” there. My cousin Belinda once did work experience there for two weeks, eighteen years ago.

  I head off down New Bond Street to Sotheby’s, where there’s a man in a fancy suit on the door. He asks if I’m okay. “Just got some things to sell,” I say, holding up my Tesco carrier bag and then breeze past him. He doesn’t stop me.

  I go to reception and tell the woman that I’m here to sell. She sends me straight up to the valuation counter. It’s that easy. I didn’t even know that there was a such a thing as a valuation counter. I’d assumed all this kind of thing was done in opulent hotel rooms or bank vaults. I haven’t even needed to mention my cousin Belinda yet.

  I walk down the hall and up the stairs to my left. It’s all bouncy carpets and cream walls. I reach the valuation counter and tell the woman I’ve got some goods to auction and start pulling the things out of my carrier bag. She is very polite but says they wouldn’t be able to do the Jamie Oliver Flavour Shaker, the Northside single, the eighties album or the Wonder Woman toy. They only sell paintings, sculpture and jewellery.

  I ask if she can give me a rough valuation so that wherever I go next, I can say I got my things valued at Sotheby’s. She’s afraid not. Not even the Flavour Shaker. She probably got egg on her face once by undervaluing an Antony Worrall Thompson Electric Knife.

  She does tell me though, that Bonhams auction toys, so I should try there. They are just down the road, so off I go.

  There’s no one on the door this time, so I go straight to reception and explain again that I’m here to sell. The woman agrees to take a look.

  I show her the Flavour Shaker first. I make sure I point out that it’s signed this time. She says that it’s still very modern but she thinks maybe it’ll be worth something in a few years. I press her to say how many years. She says about five. I make a mental note to bring it back then.

  Next I show her the vinyl. She has to ring the entertainment section for an answer on this. She must need a second opinion. This is good. I listen in as she says in a very well-spoken voice, “I’ve got here Northside and ‘Shall We Take a Trip’.”

  I whisper that it’s a double-A side with “Moody Places”. I hear her say, “No, it’s not signed.” I wished I’d signed it now. And known the name of anyone in Northside.

  Then she tries Chart Hits 81. I whisper to her, “Some of the artists might be dead, if that helps.”

  Unfortunately, the person on the other end of the line is not interested if they’re not signed and has never heard of Northside. Where was he in 1990?

  I try the Wonder Woman toy last. She now has to ring the toy department. She doesn’t say much on the phone this time and doesn’t speak for very long. She puts the phone down and says to me, “They’ve given an estimate of £80 to £120.”

  It’s the most amazing moment. £80 to £120! If it had happened on Antiques Roadshow, the clip would’ve been shown for years to come. I can’t believe I’d nearly given it to charity three times.

  The only drawback is that the next toy auction is four months away. But I’m really buoyed and am now determined to get rid of the records and the Flavour Shaker.

  I go to Habitat. Habitat has got to be buzzing with kitchen-gadget-loving people. I approach around thirty of them with, “Would you like to buy a Jamie Oliver Flavour Shaker?” Not one person is interested. I start feeling like I’m in an episode of The Apprentice but I’m one of the really awful, useless contestants, who don’t get fired straight away, as their idiocy and incompetence is making good television.

  I decide to give it one last try with the records. I go to the Music and Video Exchange in Soho. The man says, “I can give you, let’s see . . .”

  I wait excitedly.

  “I can give you 25p.”

  I’m not selling my records for 25p.

  I’ve still got the records and Flavour Shaker, but a £80–120 estimate on my Wonder Woman toy. I’ve just got to go back in four months. I do wonder if eBay is not slightly quicker. But in Annabel vs the Internet, I’m calling it a draw.

  Part three: Facebook

  Why can’t I have a non-Internet Facebook page? What would be so strange about that? What’s the difference between having one on the Internet and having one on a piece of paper that you carry around with you? I suspect I’ll have to find the answer to all these questions myself.

  I start by trying to find some old work friends, which Facebook is often used for. I go back through my old jobs and count twenty-four of them. I had twenty-three of these between the ages of twelve and twenty-five. Starting with my paper round, which I did from the illegal age of twelve to the weirdly old age of eighteen.

  The problem is that a lot of the places I worked don’t exist any more, and I’m struggling to remember the names of anyone in the other places.

  A more recent job was from nine years ago when I worked as a staffroom assistant at an English language school in London. It’s not far from where I work now, so I decide to go down there as I’m better with faces than names.

  First, I quickly make my non-Internet Facebook page. I tear a piece of paper from my A5 notebook and write FACEBOOK at the top. Then I draw a box round it to jazz it up a bit. I need a profile picture, so in the top right-hand corner I do a quick sketch of myself, adding some defined cheekbones and long eyelashes that I don’t have in real life. Next I write my name Annabel Port and then Friends. Then there is a lot of blank space.

  I’m starting to get little worried: working at an English language school can be quite a transient job, so everyone I was friends with at the time has probably left. But when I get there, I immediately recognise someone. A woman, whose name I think is Anne. She works on reception and I’d see her every day. We’d sometimes have a little chat. She’s the sort of person where it’s almost impossible to guess her age with any confidence.

  “Hello! Is it Anne?” I say. I’m really hoping it is Anne.

  “Yes,” she says. I can tell straight away that she has no idea who I am.

  “Do you remember me? I used to work here.”

  Anne looks surprised and a bit embarrassed. “Oh, no, I don’t.”

  “It’s Annabel. I was the staffroom assistant. We worked together.”

  “No, sorry. I’m really sorry.”

  She’s very apologetic but I’m actually quite insulted. I worked there for eight months. I saw her every workday for eight months. I sometimes used to cover reception for her. It was only nine years ago. I recognised her straight away. But I refuse to let the fact she doesn’t know who I am get in the way of making a Facebook friend.

  I say, “Well, the reason I’m here is I’ve set up a Facebook page, except not on the Internet.” I show her my page, then continue with, “And I was looking for old friends to contact and so I’d like to request your friendship.”

  I’m thinking now, Okay she doesn’t remember me, but all she’s got to do is write her name on a bit of paper.

  “Oh . . . no, I won’t,” she says.

  I’m a little surprised.

  “All you’ve got to do is write your name here and perhaps draw a little picture of yourself or I
could draw it.”

  “No, it’s not for me. Maybe you’d like to ask someone else here you used to work with.”

  “Well, you’re the person I most remember.” This is a lie. I barely knew her.

  “No, I’m really sorry.”

  She doesn’t want to do it so much that she won’t even write her name just to get rid of me. She could just scribble something indecipherable. But she won’t.

  I’m getting desperate so I say, “I’ll be honest with you, Anne. I’m quite hurt. You were the first person I thought of and the first person I asked.”

  It doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference and actually I think she’s getting a little freaked out now.

  So I leave, saying, “It’s been great catching up.” Another lie.

  It’s going very badly. But I realise something. You look at some people’s pages and they’ve got over five hundred friends. They can’t know all of those people well. They’re people they’ve just met. This is the way to get Facebook friends.

  I get on the London Underground. A Japanese girl is sitting next to me reading a free newspaper. After a couple of stops I turn to her and say, “I’m getting off at the next stop so just wanted to say it’s been really nice sitting next to you.”

  She doesn’t reply but smiles in a really nice way.

  I carry on, “So I was wondering if I could request your friendship.” I show her my Facebook page.

  She laughs out loud at me and then says, “Oh no, no, no.”

  At my Tube stop there’s a WHSmith in the station. I buy some chewing gum and while the man is serving me I say, “How’s your day going?”

  He replies, “Good, thanks,” but I get the impression he’s not used to actually talking to customers.

  When the transaction is finished, I say, “Now we’ve met and had a nice chat, could I request your friendship on my Facebook page?”

  “Oh, okay,” he says and takes my Facebook page and writes his name.

  I tell him that he can either draw a picture of his own face or I’ll do it for him. He says I can. So I do. There’s a bit of a queue building behind me. He doesn’t seem bothered, so I take my time. When I finish, he says, “Thanks ma’am,” like I’m the Queen. Even though I realise later that my picture looks like if you’d asked a five-year-old to draw a Chinese person without eyeballs. And he wasn’t Chinese. But he didn’t seem to mind at all. This is going great.

  I’ve got my first friend! I’m ready to meet more new people.

  I start walking from Oxford Street down to Piccadilly Circus. There’s a road full of those charity clipboard people who always approach me. I’ve tried pretending to be on the phone and pretending to cry. Neither work. I’m currently signed up to five of them. They owe me.

  What I’m thinking is, If they stop me, we’ve met, so I can ask them to be my friend.

  I walk down the road and not one of them approaches me. Not one. I’m even making eye contact with them and at one stage looking pleadingly at both them and the clipboard. Not one stops me. Unbelievable.

  I need to try something different to make friends. I see a man and say, “Excuse me, which way is Carnaby Street?” He tells me, then as he’s walking off I say, “It’s been really good talking to you, can I request your friendship?”

  “Oh, okay,” he says. He even looks a bit pleased. He writes his name, Terry, and I draw a picture of him.

  “How shall I say I know you?” I ask him.

  “Why don’t you write that we met walking down Argyll Street?”

  “And can I have your telephone number so I can ring you to give you my status updates?”

  He agrees and writes it down.

  “What about your address?” I ask now. “If you write that down I can come and write on your wall.”

  It’s one step too far. But I won’t let him leave without me giving him a little Facebook poke on the arm.

  Apart from making Facebook friends, I’m picking up my new iPhone today. I’m in the Orange shop with an assistant called Adam and going through the serious business of setting up my new tariff, signing contracts, etc.

  Towards the end I say, “Well, it’s been great spending time with you. I feel like we’re friends now.”

  He looks worried.

  “Would you be my friend on Facebook?” I ask.

  “I’m not on Facebook.”

  “No I mean this one.” And I show him my page.

  He looks even more worried now but he lets me write his name. I draw his picture and then say, “And if I want to send you a cupcake or throw a sheep at you, shall I just come to this shop?”

  Adam agrees that would be the best thing to do. He’s probably relieved I haven’t suggested coming to his house.

  I leave feeling happy. I’ve got four friends. Then an hour or so later, I remember that I’d promised to give Terry, who I met on Argyll Street, my status updates. I ring the number that he gave me. It rings and then goes to a voicemail saying the person is unavailable. Then the line goes straight from that message to a ringing tone again. I stay on the line. There’s no answer, just the message again and then the ringing tone again and so on.

  On about the fifth time I’ve continually rung his number, Terry answers. I say, “Hi, it’s Annabel. Your Facebook friend.”

  He sounds uncomfortable and says, “I’m in class at the moment so I can’t really talk.”

  “Oh, what are you studying?”

  He tells me he’s at printing college.

  “Well, I just wanted to give you my status update. Annabel is happy because a man called her ma’am like you would the Queen.”

  “Oh, okay, well I can’t talk now.”

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll ring you later.”

  I don’t, as he’s probably changed his number. But I do really feel like I managed to recreate the whole experience of Facebook with my own piece of paper.

  I think it’s very clear that on this occasion, it’s Internet 0, Annabel 1.

  Final score: Annabel 2, Internet 1. Let that giant bug do its worst – we can easily live without the Internet. So long as we are also prepared to live without our dignity.

  2

  The Challenge:

  To prove that Britain isn’t broken

  The tabloid newspapers are telling us that we are living in Broken Britain. That teenagers are out of control, women are behaving worse than ever before, we’re all spongers, there’s endless anti-social behaviour and the country is basically unrecognisable as the great place it used to be. But are they right? Is it really broken? Geoff challenges me to find out.

  Part one: Teenagers

  I start with teenagers. Teenagers today get a bad press. If I believed everything I’ve read, they are all, right now, in a WKD Blue and Miaow Miaow-fuelled orgy of simultaneously stabbing each other and contracting chlamydia. While playing music loudly on their mobile phones.

  Actually, that last bit is probably true. That’s one thing I can confirm from my extremely limited interaction with teenagers.

  On one occasion, when faced with the loud, tinny and bad music from a mobile, I asked the owner to turn it down and he didn’t thrust a screwdriver into my eye socket. No. He smiled and then turned it down. A tiny bit.

  I already have my doubts that adolescents are playing any role in the breaking of Britain, if it is going on.

  Perhaps, though, this one encounter isn’t enough to make my findings statistically significant. I think Pavlov, for example, tried his response thing out on more than one dog. I need to get among the teens.

  One place I know I won’t be able to find them is at school. Not because they’re all bunking off for that stabbing/chlamydia orgy. No, because it’s half term.

  This knowledge comes with some relief. I hadn’t fancied hanging around any school gates for reasons that would be even more obvious if I were a middle-aged man.

  However, my relief is soon tainted by the realisation that I have absolutely no idea what teenagers do in half term
.

  One thought does eventually strike me: Youth clubs. I never went to one when I was younger but I’ve seen Byker Grove on the telly so I know teenagers go there. And blind themselves with paintball guns.

  I’m not thrilled by the prospect. I toy briefly with the idea of wearing some kind of safety goggle. But with Donal MacIntyre-like abandon, I venture to a youth club I’d found on the Internet, not too far from where I live in east London.

  As I’m making my way there, I start thinking about how to befriend these teenagers and I decide my best bet is to pretend I’m one of them. Despite the fact I’m in my mid-thirties. But just last year I got asked for ID when buying wine in Tesco, even though I was also buying sweet potatoes and a product from the Tesco Finest range, and what teenager buys goods from the Tesco Finest range? Maybe Brooklyn Beckham. But that’s it. I might just get away with it.

  It’s a horrible day, pouring with rain, so I’m wet and cold when I arrive at the youth club. I go in. It’s a room with a snooker table, pool table and table tennis table. My first thought is: teenagers really like table-based ball sports.

  Next, I notice the people. There are five teenage boys, one teenage girl and an old lady sitting on a chair. I’m really pleased to see her. Because if she’s getting away with masquerading as a teenager, then this is going to be a breeze for me.

  As I walk in, one of the boys greets me with a gruff, “What do you want?”

  It’s not a great welcome.

  “Just to hang out,” I tell him.

  He says something a bit grunty and points towards another room, where I see what must be the youth-club leader. He’s painting a wall mural. I’m not getting real life confused with an episode of Byker Grove again. He really is painting a wall mural.

  I approach him saying, “Hello, what’s the age range here?”

  I don’t want to go too high with my fake teenager age. He tells me it’s thirteen to nineteen but they take them from eleven during half term.

  He then adds, “How old are your kids?”