A Ramble in Two Parts

I was all too recently forced to survive for 36 hours without a stable Internet connection.
I know. Brutal, right?

It's the first-worldiest of first world problems, but that's a rant for another day. Today's blog will be a ramble in two parts.

Part the First: Addict
It was early afternoon on Saturday the 22nd March 2014, and the Internet suddenly gave up the ghost. We were without a connection. Oh, our phones displayed that glorious Wi-Fi signal symbol, but connect we could not. Forced to resort to conversation and casual gaming to stave off the inevitable end of all things, but no online interaction for us.
The hours ticked by, still no fix. Using paltry signal on a mobile Internet connection, we checked the status of Virgin broadband in the area and found it to be a problem throughout the area. The estimated fix time was midday on Sunday. We could survive. After all, we had company in the evening that could distract us from our disconnecty woes.
Sunday morning occurred in a bleary mess and still no Internet. The router is turned off, and the house is vacated in favour of the local greasy spoon. The router is turned back on upon return, and still nothing. It's after midday, and we had hoped it would be fixed by now. The Virgin team now say a fix should be available by the following day.
Resorting to cleaning the house before attempting to entertain ourselves without the use of the Internet, we make it to Monday, and University. What a blessing to have something with which to distract ourselves from the woes of disconnection. After returning home, in a final desperate attempt before demanding an engineer cure us of this disease-like state, I jiggle all of the wires and restart the router once more.

O! The blinking light!
The flickering blue star
That signals the return of
the book of faces
the endless video
the electronic mail
eldritch rants and o!
the status updates
link sharing and
communication
Thank you, blue star
For leading us to our destination

Or something less tortured and marginally more subtle.

I wrote a blog almost a year ago on the subject of being addicted to my smartphone and this experience threw into harsh relief the freedom that actually comes from not being connected to the Internet. Yes, it is embarrassing how many times I crossed my fingers and hoped that this time would be the time for the router to start working after a reboot. But in between those times, it is amazing how little I cared for the missing Internet.

Part the Second: Status
Not the type of status update that Facebook quietly, but incessantly asks us for at all times. But what comes from having the very best of possessions.
It is common knowledge that I don't use Windows or Mac because I don't believe in paying for operating systems and I am quite happy using Linux thank you very much. Anybody that wants to can read about that particular little tantrum here or just ask me about computers and watch in amusement as I explode with rage that everybody thinks that Windows is the only option *ahem* I'm back, sorry.

Today I was walking through the Leeds Student Union, happily eating my English breakfast pasty and getting crumbs everywhere. My jubilation at finally filling my stomach was torn to pieces by an overheard conversation by two people of the female type sitting at a table with their laptops out. Their laptops were Apple Macs, and I'm guessing on the newer side - they were very thin, shiny, metallic... and expensive looking. Take a look on the Apple website and notice that their cheapest offering in the laptop department; £849.
Now, this is not a tantrum about how awful Macs are, or that they are overpriced, or evangelism about why people shouldn't use the operating system. I have a lot of respect for the ecosystem, and a lot of good things have come from Apple in the past decade or so.

My issue is what I heard one of these girls saying to her friend:

"Oh, I only really use my computer for the Internet."

Fantastic. You've just spent the best part of one thousand pounds to buy one of the best computers available today and only use it to check Facebook and your emails. So why do you own it? Would not a cheaper computer have suited? Google make their Internet-dedicated chromebooks, why not get one of those? It would have cost you a quarter of the price and you could have spent the remaining £600 on something like driving lessons. Or a holiday.
I'm the last person to teach about being sensible with money. My idea of good business practise can't actually be written here in case a prospective employer reads this and sees that not only am I a raving lunatic but also have literally no idea how the economy works. Suffice it to say that I think right now the best place to invest in is Russia. Or Crimea.

What it eventually comes down to, surely, is that a Mac is a status symbol? People of my generation are familiar enough with computers and technology for the "it just works" argument to be so much dung. Maybe I just don't get it. But I'll give you another example of my startlingly acute business acumen: If I were in charge of selling Apple computers, I would require each customer to submit a usage plan for their new machine that they must stick to or else. That'll see 'em right.

The Secret Hipster

Well, they say that good things come to those who wait. Whilst that most assuredly is sure of the die hard fans of Tool, Guinness, the Higgs Boson and (we hope) the Star Wars franchise, it's perhaps less applicable to this here blog of mine.

Yes, it's been a while since last I donned my helmet of Internet-based vitriol. Too long since I last hammered out my mundane thoughts into words on your screens for you to snort at in disgust. I like to tell the Internet on a regular basis that I'll "get my act together" and "be more consistent" but we both know that it's not true. Hell, you know it's not true as well. Don't you, lovely reader?

But fret not, because true to form, I'm back and it's a long one.

We're all familiar with the hit TV show Sherlock. Whether you're amongst the very small number of my friends who cannot stand the show, or what appears to be the rest of the world in worshipping the programme as some form of messiah for all BBC television, we've more or less all of us seen it. For a good many of us, we've lived the consistent two years between each instalment of the show, forgetting about it for about twenty months before the adverts start to return to our screens, minds and hearts (how good was #sherlocklives ?).

Note, this blog will contain spoilers for seasons 2 and 3. You have been warned. If you've not seen the TV sensation that is BBC's Sherlock, go and watch it all and come back when you're done. Go on. I'll wait. I'm writing this in smallprint, because hey. What's life without whimsy?

The Confession
I am getting slowly more annoyed with how popular Sherlock has, is and will become. Those of you who I've condemned as hipsters to be first against the wall when the revolution arrives will have to pause now after reading that to calm yourselves. Perhaps you'd like to adjust your ridiculous glasses, and rebutton the tweed jacket that you've just torn off in disgust. That's it. Now take a refreshing sip of Pabst Blue Ribbon and we'll get back on with the preceedings as though I've not just confessed to being a massive hypocrite and I'll explain.

Where was I? Ah yes!

I am getting slowly more annoyed with how popular Sherlock has, is and will become. When the first season came out, it did so quietly and unassumingly. Much like the rest of British culture in that respect. After three weeks, Sherlock went away again and the world went about its business. Two years later, we experienced the rush all over again.
Perhaps you, like me, had prefaced the glorious return with a marathon of the first season. And like me, mayhaps you introduced a friend or six to the phenomenon. Lather rinse and repeat for the third season. Only this time, all of your friends have introduced Sherlock to five or six of their own friends. You involve them in your marathon of the first two seasons (nine hours in one go... Don't you have anything better to do?) and then gorge yourselves on the offerings of the third.

And herein lies the problem.

You, dear reader, like me (I imagine) watched Sherlock from the off. We have from the very outset, been used to having to wait two years between each new instalment of Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat's retelling of the tale. We don't mind this wait. In fact, we relish it a little. Time to mull over some of our favourite scenes. Time enough to discuss in hideous, sickly detail exactly why the angle at which Holmes jumps from the roof explains his miraculous survival. We are the lucky ones.
It's the people we introduced - foolishly, with hubris in our hearts - maybe even the second generation of fandom that we helped to create are similarly lucky. They too have had the two years' wait to find out precisely what happened to Sherlock and whether or not he was wearing a parachute that blends into the colour of the building behind him as he fell *ahem* sorry, getting distracted there. Except, we all know that's how he really survived.
No, it's the people that we all introduced just before the third season that are the problem. These people, who watched all six episodes on Netflix or through slightly more illegal means. Who perhaps only had to wait a week, a few days, or even a few short hours before finding out what has become of our beloved sociopath. They have been spoiled.
They have not learned the patience that you and I, dear, beautiful, wondrous reader, have learned.

The Internet it seems, is overflowing with articles, blogs, comments, podcasts and videos discussing the future of Sherlock. As well they should. After all, it is one of the BBC's triumphs! But it is the slightly dispondant, demanding, desperate, dunder-headedly deserving way in which these are written and spake, that truly sparks my ire. All of them seem to centre around the theme that the fourth part of the saga will not be with us until 2016, and that this is too long of a wait. All of them are just obsessed with the fact that it will take two more years to release the equivalent of three films. Never mind the fact that both of the star actors now have huge roles in major franchises, or that the writers have other projects to keep them in BMWs, fancy restaurants and Armani suits (I'm just guessing at these. In my head, writing something as successful as Sherlock means that they must be richer than Bill Gates by now).
No, instead they whine at how two years is such a long wait. And lets face it, I'm not nearly as eager to see how Moriarty survived as I was to see how Sherlock had. My point is, that when I read such articles as these... I find myself thinking "God, I wish Sherlock weren't so popular... I liked it back before it was cool to think Benedict Cumberbatch is sexy and Martin Freeman looks distressing with a moustache."

It's at that stage that I find something decidedly conformist to do and join the masses in reading A Song of Ice and Fire after it became cool.


As I write this, sitting in my linen, festival clothes, sipping at a vodka-laced hot chocolate, it occurs to me that I'm probably not the first to talk about, write down, or even think about this... But bronze is important too guys. And as with this blog itself, as well as the subject matter; better late than never.