The history of European immigration

Well, I was going to serve you a dish of 20.000 words of history stooped in left-wing rhetoric and smothered in sarcastic hatred of the pettiness of the so called fortress our greatest of leaders would wish to embrace us in, to keep us safe from the ravaging hordes of islamo-fascists and thieving niggers.

But, alas, I was in the pub, drinking beer that evening (for a change) and was disturbingly unamused at a set of circumstances I’m sure many a person will recognise!

What?
Let me repeat that, just to make it very clear: What on earth makes people think that their mobile telephone is more fucking interesting than me?

Now, I know that I don’t write as profoundly as Eco or as surprisingly as Brown and I know I don’t speak as wisely as Chef or as funny as Hicks, but at which point have I become so discerningly boring that a beep is enough to divert attention from me to something, most likely, just as tedious?

“Oh. I just have to answer this.” And he walks out of the pub. 25 seconds later he comes back in.
“Oh. Who was it?” I ask, pretending that I’m in the least interested.
“James wants to know if I’m coming to dinner next week.”
What a fucking great answer. What a fucking great message. How fucking important was that?

Now, don’t get me wrong. I have absolutely nothing against modern technology. I love mobile telephones! Seriously, I do.
If you’re stuck in a car and you need to phone the AA (which in my case could be the American or the British AA…) a mobile phone is heaven sent!
If your Dad is on the brink of death and you want to know when to arrive at the hospital to watch the priest give the last rights…hell…by all means, the mobile (it’s pointless to use telephone, because everyone knows it’s just “mobile” now) is at the least hell sent.

But, when there’s nothing happening in your life (which is generally the case, I mean…we can’t all be unemployed writers and ex-Bollywood stars) and you’re sat in a pub talking to someone you’ve not seen for 5 months, turn the fucking thing off.
How difficult can it be to be unreachable for 2 hours?

Why do people feel so obliged to answer (you don’t pick a mobile up, you answer it…) a mobile when it rings? Why not just let it go off and wait until I’m in the toilet (which is far less frequent than a month or so ago, by the way) to see who phoned them?
How fucking difficult can that be???

“Beep.”
“I’ve got a text message. I’ll quickly read it.”
“No you fucking won’t.”
A look of surprise.
“You are talking to me. Whatever that text message is saying is less important than sitting here with me. You will wait until I go to the toilet before you look at your telephone.”
I still use telephone. Mobile to me is either driving very fast or a place in Alabama.

You should see the sweat drip from the face.
The look of deep distress.
How dare someone tell “him” not to look at the text message.
“But I just have to see who sent it.”
“Why?”
“It could be important.”

Yes. I agree. It could be important. But then again, if someone’s got something important to tell you, don’t you think they would phone? Or pop by and tell you personally?

“How many important text messages have you received then?” I asked, taking a large gulp of beer.
“Well…”
“No, I mean it,” I continued, “How many deaths have been texted to you? How many road accident incidents have you received through your telephone’s text service?”
“Well...”

It’s not fucking important. It’s fucking rude.
That’s what it is.
If you’re talking with someone and your telephone goes, let it go or switch it off. Look at it later
(Unless you’ve specifically mentioned you might be phoned about something important like a death, a birth or a publishing deal).

And yes. I’m talking about you!