Rachel Lavin
It has officially been estimated that come the year 2027, newspapers will be extinct. I can’t even begin to express my annoyance at this piece of information. How can they say this? I spend my whole life yearning for my name in print on these profound pieces of paper, be it a mind-shattering article, a Noble Peace Prize acknowledgement or feck it, I’d even be happy with an obituary notice. But no, technology is the way of the future. Well then kill me now (at least then my obituary will get printed).
It’s not just the immortal physical record of a newspaper, but the experience. Every Sunday, buying the favourite from the newsagents, setting down in front of the Sunday Game and devouring it, section by section, covering the couch with every morsel of news, opinion and feature that this country has to offer. To split up the sections and ravage them, each with its own importance, opinion and mood, and the familiar faces of journalists who let you into their heads. The triumph of completing the crossword, what other affirmation of your limitless intelligence could you need? And then there’s the smell. Oh sweet scent of intellect, or more literally, fresh industrial ink on cheap paper.
But most of all it’s the feeling of solidarity, that you can hold this communal piece of interest in your very hands in front of you, a symbol of identity in this ever-changing nation. And now what?
Just another website, of giga-memory-bites and links and pokes and tweets and updates and loading…
I am an out and proud technaphobe. I just don’t get gizmo gadgets and why my brick phone is frowned upon. I don’t even text. I call because I like to hear people talking and hate the sight of ‘omg!kk, bbz, ttys’, and the sentiment r.o.f.l. (yet somehow still typing?!) enrages my inner-most zen.
And what is it with people with i-things thinking they are now cooler than Snoop Doggy Dog himself. These people are merely compact computer nerds. When will they learn that there is no app for loneliness!
For me it is not reality, just a cyber world, a vacuum where greasy old men bask it its sinister glow. But now that’s all changing. Another even scarier statistic is that 47% of UK Facebook users check their page first thing in the morning. Well of course, eight hours of not knowing who’s single, ‘totally wadsteredt…’, and creeping on ex-shifts must be distressing.
I thought the ultimate abuse of reality this week was when a friend heard bad news she said, “aw, sad face.” There it is. That’s how twisted our 21st century thinking has gone. We have forgotten how to make facial expressions. Intense outbursts of emotion and passion are transferred into tweets, even then you only have 140 characters.
Then again, maybe that’s best. The internet is full of such crap these days! There’s no filter, no standard, no elitism! For once, I’d love a little bit of elitism. No really, I’m not being a Trinity Head, but bloggers are just irritating. Sitting in Starbucks with their mocha-latte-chinos, too withdrawn from reality to realise my judgmental hateful stares. They totally undermine serious hard-working journalists who have real legitimate opinions.
So when I found out University Times was going up-grading its online forum in acknowledgement of the demise of print it was the last straw. I had firmly resolved to return to the bogs of Roscommon. Oh Roscommon! They don’t even know the meaning of ‘the book-face’ there.
What’s that, editor? You want me to write a blog?
Hmm, wonder what the deal in Starbucks is this week.
