Rotten to the Core

Apple it would seem, have me over a barrel; and if that barrel were full of buggy, laggy smart phones that crash at the drop of a hat, then I guess you could say that Apple has me over a barrel of Apples.

What I’m trying to say is, I don’t want to get another iPhone.

When I bought my iPhone, two years ago, it was the Natalie Portman of the smartphone market: a smoking hot, great performer with little to no competition. The App store was robust, the touch-screen was (almost) unique and as a man on the move, it was the perfect solution to the “I don’t want to take my laptop to Liverpool” problem.

But this ain’t 2008 anymore Toto. Obama’s lost his cool, Tiger Woods left his dignity inside a few prostitutes and our Natalie Portman has somehow morphed into Lindsey Lohan. Years of use, abuse and software upgrades have resulted in a bloated brick that doesn’t respond promptly, text reliably or even inform me of a call until after the person has long since left voicemail.

Sure, I’m out of contract and could upgrade to the new iPhone 4 but the magic is gone and that would feel like trying to fix a broken relationship by buying my girlfriend a boob job. Why stick with this caustic relationship when I could kick Li-Lo to the curb and go in search of a new platform to fall in, then out of, love with all over again? Unfortunately, Apple has me stitched up. Shackling me to the past are about £300 worth of apps that are rattling around in Lynsey’s skull, all of which I forfeit if I switch to Android, Windows or Nokia’s (perpetually disappointing) Symbian OS.

It’s the mobile phone equivalent of a secret pre-nup. “Sure, you can leave me for someone new”, says my acne-addled, rehab-requiring, iPhone, “but I’m taking your house, your car and your 3 star rating on Angry Birds; so stick that in your ball-bag and smoke it.

So you can see why I’m angry. I can’t traipse gaily into the golden pastures of another phone without my leaving everything I own with my psychotic ex-phone, who, given her sneaky ways, is technically my psychotic current-and-future-phone.

The next time you see me, I’ll probably have an iPhone 4 and will bitch to you about dropped calls, signal strength and the outrageous price of a protective cover. And while I may appear to you, a man who’s lost his way, if you look closer, you’ll see, that I still hold onto hope. Because even in this darkest hour, the on the wallpaper of my battered, AIDS-ridden iPhone, is black and white portrait of Natalie Portman.

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