Logging Off

by Spalding, Nick

  I instantly freeze.

  Bugger, he’s got me there, hasn’t he?

  But then a suitable response occurs to me. ‘I have friends, Herbert. Friends in high places.’ I try to say this as ominously as possible. ‘Friends who work for the newspapers. They can check on you for me. And they can let everybody know what you’ve been up to, all the lies you’ve been telling, unless you’re a very good boy and do what I say.’

  Now he looks terrified again. Good.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ he tells me in a squeaky voice. ‘I’ll go and help dogs and trees!’

  ‘No more sports cars?!’

  ‘No more sports cars!’

  ‘Good.’ A final thought then occurs. ‘Who knows, Herbert . . . if you actually do something good with your Instagram account, maybe you’ll get a lot of new, real followers. People love dogs and trees. There are plenty of them.’

  ‘Oh wow. You think?’ he says in excitement. ‘You think more people will follow me if I do all of that?’ A light bulb’s gone off in Herbert’s brain. It’s probably not hexagonal.

  ‘Yes, Herbert. Be a good boy and I’m sure you’ll be even more popular than you already are.’

  ‘Dogs and trees,’ he repeats, half to himself.

  I notice that Mrs Bilch has appeared at the front door again. ‘And Herbert?’ I add.

  ‘Yes, Andy?’

  ‘Pay your bloody mother back. Every last penny.’

  ‘Yes, Andy.’

  ‘Sell the bloody suits. The dogs and trees will only get them mucky anyway.’

  ‘Yes, Andy.’

  I nod in a satisfied manner.

  I think my work here – such as it is – is done. There’s very little else I can contribute.

  ‘Goodbye, Herbert,’ I tell the Instagram Influenza.

  ‘Er, yeah – bye, Andy. It was . . . it was nice to meet you.’

  My brow wrinkles. ‘I’m not sure I can say quite the same about you, Herbert. But at least we’re parting on relatively good terms. And hopefully you’ll change your ways from now on.’

  As I open the car door and climb in, Herbert digests this. ‘Yeah, definitely,’ he says. ‘After all, as I always like to say, when a change for the better comes along, you have to grasp it—’

  ‘Don’t say another fucking word!’ I scream at him, and slam the car door closed with all of my might.

  Well, that was a truly eye-opening experience.

  I’d always known that social media was a place of exaggeration and falsehood, but never actually thought I’d be the kind of person taken in by it . . . not to that extent, anyway. And yet, there we have it.

  Back home, as I huffed and puffed over getting the blown hexagonal spotlights out of the bathroom ceiling fixtures and the new ones fitted, I reflected on the reasons why Herbert Bilch managed to fool me in the same way he had done twenty thousand or so other people.

  About the only conclusion I could reach was that I must have a tremendous capacity to ignore obvious details when I’m keen on believing in something.

  I wanted ‘Lucas La Forte’ to be real, because I suppose he gave me something to aspire to. Local-boy-done-good kind of thing. I’m sure deep in the recesses of my subconscious I probably thought that with enough time, a bit of luck and some hard work, I too could be wearing expensive Armani suits and sitting on a penthouse balcony.

  That’s what Herbert’s alter ego said to me every day from Instagram, anyway.

  I don’t know how I really feel about discovering the whole thing was a load of old cobblers. On the one hand, I still feel angry that I wasted my time following Herbert, but on the other, he has shown me just how ludicrous and fake social media can truly be . . . which can only be a good thing for someone on a digital detox.

  Maybe the next time I’m desperate to find out what my favourite celebrities are up to, I’ll think about Herbert Glerbett and his clear-cut bullshit, and feel a lot better about being unable to.

  Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to enjoy urinating under the comforting glow of a fully functional 80-watt hexagonal spotlight.

  I don’t know what the future has in store for me beyond this moment – as I progress with my Internet-free life – but right now I’m just very pleased I have enough light to piss in.

  Which is something I’m definitely going to grasp with both hands.

  Chapter Five

  GETTING FROM A TO B, AND ENDING UP IN X

  I’m not going to pretend that my life isn’t significantly more difficult.

  It’s quite astounding to me just how much of my life – and all of our lives in general – have become so reliant on the bloody Internet.

  Of course, I didn’t realise this until I started the detox. If you’d have come up to me a few weeks ago and asked me how much I rely on being online, I would have probably downplayed it. Not just because I wouldn’t have wanted to admit the depths of my addiction, but also because I truly wouldn’t have appreciated how much time I did spend on it, on an almost constant basis.

  I feel like a moron these days.

  Literally, it feels like my IQ levels have dropped off a cliff since the detox began.

  I’ve been so used to outsourcing my general knowledge to Google that when I have to fall back on the contents of my brain, I find that it’s a sluggish, stupid thing, with far less recall of facts than it should have.

  For instance, I couldn’t remember the word you use for describing the way a piece of art looks yesterday.

  It’s the ‘aesthetic’ of it. I know that now.

  But yesterday, while I was trying to write a proposal for the pie shop job, I just couldn’t think of it.

  Was it ‘anaesthetic’?

  ‘Prosthetic’?

  ‘Atheistic’?

  I very nearly described a piece of my own work as either a knockout gas, a fake body part or a complete disbelief in the sweet baby Jesus.

  I had to go and dig out an old dictionary from the back of my cupboard just to get the bloody word right. What would have taken me ten seconds on Google instead took me over ten minutes.

  Being offline has made me slow down. An awful lot. My life feels like it’s being played at half speed. It’s very frustrating.

  Annoyingly, it’s also quite relaxing.

  This is a strange pair of emotions to put together, and they really shouldn’t play nicely with one another, but they seem to be getting on quite well in my head at the moment. Like neighbours who have finally reached an accord over where the fence panels should go.

  My head feels far less ‘cluttered’ than it did before I started the detox. Not having that instant recall of any information I damn well want has made the little grey cells bouncing around in my head calm down considerably. If my brain is smaller thanks to having no Google, it’s also a lot more relaxed. Stupidity appears to be calming. Who knew?

  I’m sleeping better.

  The jaw-clenching has lessened quite a lot.

  Even the IBS has calmed down. Although it’s going to take far more than a couple of weeks off Facebook to sort that one out.

  I’m still divorced from the world – but it’s starting to feel like the divorce might have been slightly worth it.

  My work has improved as well, I think.

  This is because I have no distractions.

  I can concentrate properly on the task at hand, without the near-constant binging of notifications and messages. There’s a fresh creativity and flourish to my artwork that I’m loving. It’s as if the inventive part of my brain – the bit that’s been stifled by all that online noise – has found a new lease on life, and is taking full advantage of it.

  Take the new logo design I’ve done for McGifferty’s Pies. The old attempt may have looked like a dog turd, but this new one is quite marvellous.

  The pie I’ve drawn looks extremely tasty. You’d almost want to reach into the screen and take a bite. And the font! Oh, I do love the new font! ‘McGifferty’s Pies’ is now written in a cheerful, bright,
porky font that just screams high-quality meat products.

  Put the design together with the rather eloquent proposal I’ve written (which includes the word ‘aesthetic’ twice, in its proper context) and you have what I believe could be a real winner on my hands.

  Paul McGifferty is going to be blown away by all of this. I’m sure he is.

  So much so that I’ve suggested I drive over to their office in the West Country to show it to them. I could have done it over Skype – my detox rules allow me to use the web for work purposes – but no, I’ve decided I want to do it face-to-face, such is the quality of my work and my pride in it.

  This is something of a sea change for me – and is probably another effect of the detox.

  I am usually not keen on doing things face-to-face. Not if there’s an electronic screen I can use instead. It’s so much more convenient, easy and simple. Less nerve-wracking for me, as well.

  And before now, going through all the bother of driving over a hundred miles to Weston-super-Mare would have made my toes curl. But the lack of technology has forced me to get out more – and that’s no bad thing.

  Other than purchasing hexagonal light bulbs from B&Q and having a run-in with a grotty little Herbert, I’ve also had to jump in the car to go food shopping at Tesco – instead of just ordering online.

  I finished The Lord of the Rings and needed a new book to read, so I actually went out to a bookshop to find one. I’m sure George R. R. Martin will keep me nicely occupied for the foreseeable future.

  Then there was an issue with a late payment for a job I did a few months ago, but instead of just using the live-chat option on my bank app, I popped into the local branch, and sorted it out there.

  Basically, I’ve had to interact with a lot more people since I quit the tech, and I’ve had to make much more of an effort to get things sorted out.

  And you know what? It’s not so bad. Not so bad at all.

  That’s why I feel quite happy to drive over to see Paul at his pie shop. The trip will do me good. And I am very, very proud of my new logo design. It only feels right to deliver it in person.

  It is with all this in mind that I set off the next morning in the direction of Weston-super-Mare in my trusty Volvo.

  I have never been to that part of the country before, so need help with the directions. I don’t own a dedicated satnav, and I don’t have access to my phone (it’s secreted away somewhere in Fergus’s house), so I’m just going to have to do things the old-fashioned way – and use a map.

  This feels right, though.

  It feels like the way I should be making this journey.

  And it won’t be a problem, I don’t think. I got on just fine using maps and road atlases before all that technology came along to get me around the place.

  OK, I mostly travelled on pushbike back then, but the principle still holds.

  The map I bought from WHSmith is very clear, very concise and easy to read.

  It’ll be fine.

  With an air of positivity about me that I certainly did not have when I went off to that meeting at Fluidity, I set off towards the west, with my logo designs and proposal printed off and on the seat next to me.

  Paul McGifferty is going to love it. He’s going to give me the job. And very soon, the six branches of McGifferty’s Pies will be emblazoned with the best artwork I think I’ve done for years!

  These happy thoughts fill my head as I make my way along the M4, listening to Radio 1 and actually managing to like at least half the songs I hear.

  I even have a little sing to myself as I go.

  I’m forced to stop singing and turn the radio down, however, when I reach a sudden traffic jam and evidence of a rather large accident up ahead.

  This starts to elevate my stress levels before I am even aware of it happening. I’ve given myself plenty of time to reach McGifferty’s Pies, but I could do without this kind of hold-up.

  The traffic moves forward in fits and starts, and I start to do that thing we all do when we’re in slow traffic – I begin to weave the Volvo slowly out to the right, to see if I can see what’s going on.

  Usually, by now, I would have reached for my phone, and would be furiously checking Twitter and the Highways England website for more information, but as I can’t do that, I am reduced to craning my head upwards and outwards, in the futile hope I might see something to explain why my progress has been halted.

  Luckily, there’s a police car up ahead, with a bored-looking copper standing next to it.

  ‘Excuse me, Officer?’ I ask him, as I bring the car to a stop once more. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘A lorry’s tipped over,’ he tells me. His tone of voice sounds as bored as he looks, so I’m assuming it’s not incredibly serious. ‘Dumped a load of oil over the road. They’re cleaning it up now.’

  ‘Oh no. Do you think it’ll take long to get it sorted out?’

  He shrugs. ‘There’s every chance. These things tend to take a while to get cleaned up. Are you in a rush?’

  ‘Sort of. I have a meeting in Weston in about an hour and a half.’

  The copper sucks air in over his teeth. Never a good sign. ‘You might want to get off the motorway then, mate. It’ll be blocked longer than that.’

  ‘OK, thanks,’ I say to him, just as the car in front of me starts to pull away again.

  Damn it.

  That’s annoying. I had planned on a nice easy run straight to the town. Now it looks like I’ll have to get off the M4 and take to the A-roads.

  I grab my clear and concise road atlas off the passenger seat and thumb through it to the correct page. As the traffic comes to a halt again, I study the map and see that my best bet is to get off at the next exit and make my way via the local A-roads to Weston-super-Mare through the Mendips – an area of outstanding natural beauty.

  On the one hand this sounds nice. A motorway is a boring thing. I could do with a change of scenery. On the other, though, it’s not going to be the easy, smooth journey that I would have had if I could have stayed on the M4.

  But what choice do I have?

  I can’t sit in this tailback for much longer. I’ll be late for my appointment.

  I spend the next ten minutes getting the car across to the left-hand lane, and breathe something of a sigh of relief when I hit the exit ramp and am travelling at more than five miles an hour again.

  To start with, I don’t have too many problems. The road atlas remains clear and concise, and I beetle my way down the A-roads of the West Country with some degree of confidence.

  Things start to get a little more stressful when I do hit the Mendips, though, especially when I arrive at the charmingly named village of Nompnett Humpwell.

  Nompnett Humpwell is one of those bizarrely monikered small hamlets that are littered around the English countryside. The kind with about twelve residents, a tiny church, and an atmosphere that makes you feel like you’ve travelled back three hundred years in the space of three hundred yards.

  The A-road along which I am travelling reduces to only twenty miles an hour as I go through Nompnett Humpwell, and reduces further to about two miles an hour when I come across yet another bloody accident on the road – this one involving a tractor and several discarded hay bales lying across the tarmac.

  There are several Nompnett Humpwellians standing around looking at the hay bales – but not actually doing much to clear them out of the way.

  I bang the Volvo’s steering wheel in frustration.

  Of all the luck!

  Not one, but two bloody accidents have crossed my path today.

  I can feel my jaw clenching as I take in the scene before me, and wonder what the hell I’m going to do now.

  I can’t just sit here while the Humpwellians all scratch their arses and wonder what to do with all of that hay.

  I have a sneaking suspicion the answer is probably going to be ‘bring the cows over, so they can eat it over the next several months’. Tiny villages like this move at
a snail’s pace at the best of times, so if I just wait here for them to sort the situation out, I will no doubt eventually become a Nompnett Humpwellian myself.

  As being a resident of a village with a silly name is not at the top of my to-do list, I decide to brave the B-road that leads away just off to my left. Consulting the clear and concise road atlas tells me that this B-road connects to another B-road, and then another B-road, in a spiderweb lattice of small, twisty roads that trace their way all over the Mendips.

  I should be fine, as long as I take things easy and consult the atlas frequently.

  Taking a deep breath, I indicate left and drive on to the B-road.

  As I do, I hear the sonorous, deep chime of a foreboding bell somewhere in the hinterland of my consciousness.

  If you’ve never had the joy of traversing the B-roads of the United Kingdom, then allow me to fill you in.

  They are a living, hedgerow-covered hell.

  They are the Kardashian family of roads. Beautiful to look at – but comprehensively awful to be anywhere near.

  Every single B-road is called the same thing. The B3241. Oh, the numbers might change around, but they essentially all just become the B3241 eventually. And the B3241 is always relatively well tarmacked, but has absolutely no lines painted on it and is always just a little bit too narrow to allow two ordinary-sized cars to pass one another comfortably.

  B-roads cannot be driven at speed. Ever.

  They meander and twist so much that any opportunity to put your foot down is impossible, given that at any second you are likely to have to slow down to a crawl, so you and the bloke in that Audi can pass each other without knocking your wing mirrors off.

  Also, the B3241 will contain cyclists. Many, many cyclists.

  Any pretence you might have held that Britain was not a nation that favoured physical exercise will be utterly blown away, because on B-roads, there are eleventy million of them.

  They are all wearing Lycra, they are all called Clive, and you can bet your bottom dollar they are not going to get over to the side of the road so you can get past. Not until they feel like you’ve had your fill of watching their large arses pumping up and down mesmerically on the way up the slope.