Logging Off

by Spalding, Nick

  I grunt. ‘Stop being melodramatic.’

  Fergus chuckles. ‘You nearly bashed your front door off its hinges because you can’t go on Twitter, and I’m the one being melodramatic?’

  ‘It’s not just that!’

  ‘Of course it’s just that. You yourself said you can still use the Internet for work. It’s still there for everything that’s necessary in your life. So, what’s your bloody problem? You don’t need the Internet. You don’t need social media. You got on fine without it before it existed, so why can’t you cope without it now . . . especially just for sixty days?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know!’ I snap, clenching my fists.

  ‘No, my friend. You don’t. And you never will unless you go through with it, will you?’

  ‘I guess . . . I guess not.’

  What the hell is going on here?

  I was adamant that I wasn’t going to carry on with this stupid detox, but here I am agreeing with Fergus.

  It’s because the bastard is making a very good point.

  Am I really so weak-willed that I can’t go even a day without my phone in my hand? Without checking what the latest hashtags are? Am I that pathetic?

  You see? He’s like a bloody can opener.

  And I’m about to spill my guts.

  ‘I know I probably need to do this, Fergus. It just feels . . . feels so difficult. Almost impossible. Yes, I know I’m addicted, but I don’t know if I have the strength to go without it all.’

  ‘Right. So, you’re not worried so much about not being on Facebook. You’re just worried you’ll fail.’

  I blink a couple of times. ‘Yes. That’s it. I don’t want to fail.’

  ‘So it’s easier to not try?’

  I blink again.

  How is this man not a psychologist?

  ‘Yes. That’s right.’

  ‘You’ll live with the pain and discomfort, just because you can cope with them better than the idea that you failed at something.’

  ‘Oh, all right. Give it a bloody rest. I feel like I should be laid out on a couch.’ I stare at him. ‘How does a ginger twat like you know so much about this kind of thing?’

  ‘Because this ginger twat used to drink two bottles of red wine a night.’

  ‘Is that why you’re so ginger?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I laugh and rub my face. ‘Oh, God almighty. What am I going to do?’

  ‘Sixty days without technology. That’s what you’re going to do.’ Fergus also smiles. ‘And this ginger twat is going to help you do it.’

  ‘Really? How?’

  ‘I’m going to write a story about you for the paper.’

  ‘No you’re bloody not.’

  ‘Yes I bloody am.’

  ‘No, Fergus. You really bloody are not. I do not have an amusingly shaped marrow anywhere about my person.’

  Fergus steeples his fingers in front of him, sinking down into the Costa chair a little more. ‘Tell me, Andy. Do you think you have the willpower to last sixty days? Be honest.’

  I stare into my empty coffee cup, giving this some thought.

  ‘No,’ I say, being as truthful as I can. ‘I don’t think I do. I want to. But I don’t think so.’

  Fergus nods. ‘But we can agree that the sixty-day detox is something you need to complete?’

  ‘Yes. I guess that’s true. No matter how much I hate the idea.’

  ‘Good. So what you need is incentive.’

  ‘Incentive?’

  ‘Yes. You need something to keep you on the straight and narrow. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about. I’d never have stopped drinking were it not for my uncle threatening to fire me.’

  ‘I never knew that.’

  ‘No. It’s not the type of thing I like to talk about. Were it not for him, there would be no Bruce Forsyth marrow.’

  ‘Well, technically the marrow would still exist, unless your journalistic powers extend as far as telepathically growing vegetables that resemble light entertainers.’

  ‘Stop changing the subject, Andy.’

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I look towards the heavens in exasperation. Fergus clearly isn’t going to drop this, is he? ‘Who the hell wants to read a bloody newspaper article about me?’

  ‘You’re kidding, right? This is a great human-interest story.’ Fergus looks instantly more animated. ‘I can picture it now. A searing indictment of one man’s struggle to live an analogue life in a digital world!’

  ‘I’m only doing it for a couple of months.’

  Fergus waves his hand at me. ‘Semantics. It’s a good story, Andy. Trust me.’

  ‘And how exactly is it supposed to stop me from backsliding?’

  ‘Well . . . if I write a story about you for your wonderful Daily Local News, then our readers will know about it, won’t they?’

  ‘So?’

  Fergus smiles in a knowing fashion. ‘You wouldn’t want to make a liar of your old friend Fergus, would you? If I highlight your detox and you fail before it’s over, you’ll make us both look bad. You wouldn’t want that, now, would you, Andy?’ Fergus affects a pitiable look that makes my hair itch. ‘After all, you missed my lovely party, which I am endlessly hurt about, obviously. You wouldn’t want to also ruin my reputation as a journalist, would you?’

  I suck air in through my teeth. ‘No . . . I guess not.’

  ‘Well, there you go. That’s all the motivation you need, isn’t it? Surely the hideous idea of everyone knowing you’re a failure will stop you from falling off the analogue wagon?’

  ‘Everyone?’

  Fergus contrives to look slightly offended. ‘Our readership is growing, thank you very much. Both in physical format and online. Barrington is very happy with the way things are going – that’s why he promoted me, and that’s why I threw a party you didn’t turn up to.’

  I ignore that. Fergus will beat me over the head with it as much as possible, and I don’t want to give him any added ammunition. ‘Well, Barrington won’t be happy if he finds out you’re writing stories about your mates.’

  ‘Oh, pish. Stop trying to make excuses. It’s a good idea, and you know it.’

  I go wide-eyed. ‘Do I now?’

  ‘Of course. Think of the exposure it’ll give your work.’

  This makes my ears prick up. ‘I’m sorry, what?’

  Fergus holds out his hands. ‘I can scarcely do a human-interest story about a local graphic designer without featuring some of his wonderful artwork, can I?’

  By now, you are hopefully starting to see what makes Fergus good at his job. Someone in his line of work has to be very persuasive – and dangling that particular carrot in front of me is just about the most persuasive thing he could have done.

  ‘You’d feature my work?’

  ‘Of course!’ He snaps his fingers. ‘Hey! Maybe you could do a nice little illustration for the story itself!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah, you know . . . I give you the title, and you do me a picture for it.’ Fergus brings his hands together and laces his fingers. ‘Pulls everything together nicely, that does. I just have to think of a good title for the story.’

  ‘“One Man and His Descent into Madness”?’ I suggest. This earns me a dark look, so I have another go. ‘“Detox Dickhead”?’

  ‘Do be quiet, I’m thinking,’ Fergus admonishes, and looks upwards in thought. ‘It has to be a punchy title . . . Something memorable . . .’

  I roll my eyes as I watch him go off into his own little world.

  His idea sounds quite, quite crazy to me. He may be a very good journo, but I struggle to see how he can make a story about my detox that interesting. I have a few talents, but being interesting is not one of them.

  I’m never the guy who’s the centre of attention at parties (thank God).

  I have carved out my own little niche, and I’m more than happy to be one of the people on the periphery. All I want is a nice, quiet lif
e – where I can use social media and play online first-person shooters in peace. Sadly, my body has decided I can’t do that, and it looks like Fergus is determined to thrust me into the spotlight, whether I like it or not.

  Mind you, I can’t pretend that seeing my graphics work splashed across the pages of the paper doesn’t give me something of a thrill. It certainly can’t hurt my chances of getting future commissions. And I could do with all the help I can get after what happened at Fluidity.

  OK, then. I’ll let Fergus do his silly little story about me.

  I doubt it’ll get all that much attention, but if it does give me the impetus to keep going with the detox – as well as potentially helping my business – then what have I got to lose?

  I don’t think he’s going to come up with a better title for the story than ‘Detox Dickhead’, though. Who doesn’t enjoy a nice bit of sweary alliteration?

  Fergus snaps his fingers again. ‘Ha! I’ve got it!’

  ‘Have you now.’

  ‘Yes! We’ll call the article . . .’ Fergus sits up straight and holds his arms out, fingers splayed dramatically. ‘“Logging Off”!’

  I scratch my chin thoughtfully for a second.

  Actually . . .

  You know what?

  That’s not half bad.

  LOGGING OFF!

  Story by Fergus Brailsworth

  Artwork by Andrew Bellows

  LOCAL MAN SWAPS THE DIGITAL FAST LANE FOR A LIFE LESS HECTIC!

  Modern technology can be such a pain in the neck, can’t it?

  Literally, for a lot of people!

  We live in a world where the Internet and the online world rule our lives, and doctors across the country are increasingly diagnosing patients with a whole variety of problems related to all that time we spend on our tablets and phones.

  ‘Many people have chronic conditions these days,’ says local GP Dr Christopher Hu, ‘and there are many studies to show these can be linked to spending too much time hunched over a screen. I can’t tell you the number of patients I have coming to my office who have muscle aches and pains, headaches, stomach issues, eyesight problems. It’s an epidemic.’

  An epidemic that has caused one local man to take a stand!

  Andy Bellows, 36, has been suffering for months with the kinds of health problems that Dr Hu highlights, and has decided to quit the Internet and technology, to see if that can help him.

  ‘I figured it was worth a shot,’ says Andy, who works as a freelance graphic designer. You can see some examples of his design work alongside this story. ‘I probably spend too much of my time on things like Twitter and Facebook, so doing a digital detox seemed like a sensible move. It’s a sixty-day programme I’m on. In that time, I have to avoid going online as much as possible, to see if that puts me in a better place, emotionally and physically.’

  The rules of Andy’s digital detox are quite simple.

  He is not allowed to use his phone, tablet, PC or any other item of technology to access the online world, unless he absolutely needs to do it for work.

  For an entire two months, instead of spending his time on social media and video games, Andy will try to fill his life with more meaningful pursuits.

  ‘It’s a good excuse to do a lot of things I otherwise wouldn’t,’ he says, when I ask what he’s going to do to fill his time. ‘I could certainly do with more exercise. And I have some books I’d like to read that I’ve never gotten around to. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even find a new hobby to try!’

  And maybe he will . . .

  Andy seems like a determined man, and I have no doubt that he’ll be able to make it through those sixty days with no problem whatsoever – and come out the other side happier, healthier and feeling great!

  So, if you see Andy around, do say hello and let him know you’re supporting his digital detox. ‘I’m happy to speak to anyone about it,’ Andy tells me. ‘Maybe if it helps me, it could help other people too.’

  This reporter is sure it could.

  We’ll catch up with Andy again at a later date, to see how the detox has gone for him. In the meantime, I’m sure we’d all like to wish him very well as he embarks on a life unattached from the screen, and hopefully one a lot less hectic!

  To see more of Andy’s work, visit his website at www.bellowsgraphics.co.uk.

  Chapter Four

  INSTAGRAM INFLUENZA

  Let me tell you of my week.

  A week in which I have become a minor celebrity via the local paper, because I have an interfering best friend who has my best interests at heart.

  I was recognised over the plums yesterday.

  There I am, carefully inspecting each and every plum for the correct level of ripeness (not too firm, not too soft, if you’re interested. Give it twenty-four to forty-eight hours and it’ll be the perfect amount of juicy) when a man in a pink polo shirt asks me if I’m the detox bloke.

  ‘Yes. I guess I am,’ I reply hesitantly, as I place a couple of likely looking plums into my Tesco trolley.

  ‘Yeah. Fought so. I saw you in the paper.’ He gives me a searching look. ‘So, are you all fucked up and that, then?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  He points a finger. ‘Story said you was fucked up because you like Twitter.’

  Which is, if nothing else, a fairly accurate summation of my current situation.

  ‘Um . . . yes. I suppose so.’

  ‘I hates Twitter,’ my new friend says to me. ‘My wife Shez is on it all the time, and keeps making me eat cabbage.’

  And with that, Mr Pink Polo Shirt walks away from me, leaving me in a state of complete befuddlement.

  Part of me wants to follow him to ask why his wife going on Twitter means he has to consume cabbage. There is a tale to be told there, of that I have no doubt.

  But I’m not Fergus, so I’m not one to chase a story. Instead, I shrug my shoulders, pick a third plum to add to the other two and continue about my shopping, hoping and praying nobody else recognises me and wants to tell me how Instagram has made them eat more Brussels sprouts.

  Speaking of Fergus, he is apparently not a man above embellishing a story to suit his purposes. Those quotes he ascribed to me were completely made up. I never said anything of the sort.

  ‘You sound miserable about the whole thing, Andy,’ he admonished me. ‘I’ll just include a few words that sound like you don’t think it’s the end of the bloody world.’

  I never said anything about being happy to speak to other people about the detox. That was just Fergus’s way of making me stick to the bloody thing. What the hell do I say to someone if they want to know more about how the damn thing is going, and I have to tell them I’m thinking of quitting?

  I am not a convincing liar.

  I once tried to tell my mother that my school shoes had been eaten by a rabid dog, which from my description of it was the size of a small horse, and appeared to have leapt from the very bowels of Hades itself – just to nick my shiny black size sevens.

  She didn’t believe a word of it, of course, and I eventually (in about thirty seconds) broke down and admitted I’d left them on the bus on the way back from the leisure centre. It was all very humiliating.

  Fergus has now made me a target of the public’s attention, and he knows I hate to be embarrassed. So I have no choice but to stick to the detox, otherwise I’ll have to lie to complete strangers about how Cerberus the Hellhound made me log on to eBay to check if anyone had a pair of school shoes for sale it could munch on.

  The story in the paper is having its desired effect – for better or worse. I haven’t been tempted to go online for a whole week now.

  . . . Well, all right, I have been tempted. Very, very tempted.

  But I haven’t actually done it. I’ve been a very good boy.

  A very good boy who feels like he’s living a surreal life.

  That’s what happens when such a massive change is enforced upon you.

  The second and third days were nearly as bad
as the first. I was almost climbing the walls with frustration . . . and that antsy feeling I mentioned before.

  I threw myself into work as much as I possibly could. I sat at my desk for ten hours straight both days, I think, just trying to lose myself in something practical, rather than continuing to stare into the void of a social-media-free existence.

  Fergus’s story led to two new potential clients, so the bastard was right about that as well. I haven’t been this busy in months. My days have been pretty full, thankfully.

  The evenings aren’t good, though.

  Would you believe that a couple of times I ended up pacing up and down in my small living room for over an hour, my brain afire with thoughts of all the things I was missing out on?

  What was trending?

  Who was talking on Facebook?

  Who was playing Death Curse Intransigent?

  What kind of onesie was Robert Downey Jr. wearing?

  What piece of sage wisdom had Lucas La Forte come out with today, as he sat astride his Ducati motorcycle?

  What the hell was going on in the world?!

  I eventually had to force myself to sit down and read a book, just to fill up the time. There was nothing I wanted to watch on TV, so a big, thick doorstop of a novel felt like the right thing to have a go at.

  I have never read The Lord of the Rings, so I figured this was a good time to have a crack at it. I’ve seen the films, of course – there’s a lovely Blu-ray box set of the extended editions on my bookcase – but never had the inclination to sit down with Tolkien’s actual novel.

  Not until now.

  That got me through the evening . . . just about.

  The following night was easier, though, and I actually started to enjoy reading all about Frodo and his ring – despite the fact that Tolkien writes with a stick up his arse. Once you get into the rhythm and style of his prose, though, you start to forgive his rather Victorian language and generally quite prissy writing demeanour.

  So that’s how I spent the rest of the week.