Many years ago, back when computers were made of oak and the Internet was a minority sport, we all relied on hard copy for most of our pleasures. We all read our newspapers and got inky fingers. We all mounted our photos in self-adhesive albums and got sticky fingers. We all relied on magazine porn and got… well, you get the idea.
Fourteen-year-olds across the land would wander into their local John Menzies, pick up a copy of the local broadsheet gazette, grab Razzle, pop them on the counter one of top of the other to vaguely mask their onanistic intentions from the middle-aged Doris serving. Doris had already served 23 wankers that morning.
The days when your parents disappeared off out and you were left alone in the house with the single most important task of the day. Find Dad’s stash. Your prurience is so utterly consuming that you would do anything to find it, totally disregarding all sense of propriety so as to find fresh material for your already over-subscribed Wank Bank.
Where was I? Ah yes, Mr Jobs. Apple co-founder, billionaire, marketing genius and all-round good egg apparently. Passing away after battling with pancreatic cancer for 7 years (which is mental – average survival rate is usually measured in weeks) he triggered such an outpouring of deifying messages on Internet message board Twitter that one could have been forgiven for believing him to be a Messiah. A curious position given the atheist proclamations of the majority of Twitterees.
For what it is worth I would like to add my thanks to Mr Jobs and his legacy.
The advent of the iPhone/iPad/iPod Touch has delivered to us an indispensible tool of everyday life that has helped shape porn habits and empower masturbators across the world to partake in self-gratification any place, any time, anywhere. Steve Jobs is responsible for the Martini Wank.
Firstly, as one of the first true digital pioneers, he was at least partly responsible for taking bush photography out of the hedgerow and onto our screens. A generation exists that has never experienced that keenest of retail embarrassments of buying spoof rags out of actual shops, or trawling through a mountain of year-old Sunday newspapers your Dad inexplicably hoarded by his bed to discover a copy of Penthouse so old the cover price is in shillings and pence.
Secondly he removed the location issue. Yes, yes, 900,000 apps is very well and good. We listen to music, watch (mainstream) movies, organise our lives, play games and track our health regimes. But the real benefits of your iDevice only really comes to light when you’re perched on the edge of your bath, door locked, headphones in, concentrating furiously on the latest sapphic interlude to punch its way into the grubbier corners of your synapse.
Granted, we’ve all been enjoying solo flights on the PC for many years, and thank you very much Mr IBM. However, as any stereotypical right-handed man will tell you, multi-tasking is tough. So concentrating on the screen and working a mouse left-handed just ain’t happening, which results in many mis-timed moments of arrival. But, thanks to Mr Jobs’s innovation of a small HD screen that reacts to the deftest of touches, we can now hold the grot in one hand and the grottier in the other sitting anywhere there isn’t a risk of being caught or an unreasonable draft.
It is clear Mr Jobs never received the recognition he deserved for this sublime, and I suspect completely intentional, benefit to lone-working so I will lead the way and posthumously announce my complete respect for his work and how it changed our lives. Forever.
Thanks, Steve. RiP. X
