Free The Hell of It All by Charlie Brooker Page A

great.
    All of which makes me wonder why they haven’t invented an intelligent mood-complementing MP3 player yet. They’ve got ones for joggers that deliberately select fast-paced tracks when they’re running quickly, but why should they have all the fun? When are we going to get a music player that can tell, say, that you’re melancholy (maybe by measuring the level of moisture on your face and working out whether you’re crying or not), and demonstrate itssympathy by playing some welling, mournful strings? Or perhaps do the opposite, and try to cheer you up with a stirring burst of ‘Oops Upside Your Head’ (although if you’re sad because you’ve just lost your ears in an accident, that last choice could be construed as tactless).
    And it wouldn’t just detect obvious moods, like joy or sorrow. It’s the future, you cunt. It’d clearly be far more sensitive and advanced than that. If you were in the mood for a biscuit, for instance, it wouldn’t only see it coming a mile off and select the perfect piece to get you in a biscuit-eatin’ frame of mind, but time its cue perfectly so that great bit with the drums would kick in just as you took your first bite.
    In fact, the only thing it might have trouble with is choosing a piece of music that goes nicely with the feeling you get when you’re sick of having music chosen for you by a smartarsed machine. That’d be too self-reflexive. It’d overheat and explode and unfortunately, since the mood-detecting chip is made out of uranium (yes, uranium), the blast would devastate an area twice the size of Asia and millions would perish screaming in flames and it’d all be your despicable fault. But that’s technology for you. It’s risky.
Loves me, loves me not [29 October 2007]
    Friends occasionally come to me for advice, which is odd, because one glance at my shambling semi-existence should be enough to convince them I’m in no position to offer guidance on anything. I wouldn’t trust myself to tell someone which end of a mug to drink from.
    But still they come. The other day, a friend wanted to know if a colleague of hers was (a) flirting with her or (b) not flirting with her, and (c) how she should proceed, bearing in mind she didn’t know the answers to (a) or (b) yet.
    I like it when female friends ask for advice about men, because it gives me a chance to slag off my entire sex with as much authority as I can muster. So I said, ‘Duhhh – he’s a man! Of course he was flirting.’
    ‘What if he’s just being friendly?’ she wondered.
    I snorted like she’d asked whether horses have gills, and shook my head, which was pointless because we were on the phone.
    ‘Look. All men, without exception, are shallow, priapic skunks. A man would fuck a ham sandwich if no one was looking. Sex is all men care about. It’s the only thing. There’s literally nothing else going on in our minds. Remove those thoughts and our skulls would cave in. And any man who says otherwise is lying – lying in the hope that his wheedling little lies will lull you into a false sense of security, and he can have his way with you. Up against a bin, if need be. He doesn’t care. He’s a man. At the end of the day he’s just a quasi-sentient jizzing machine. A cum dispenser. That’s the software he runs on. That’s what makes his eyes blink and his limbs move. He’s a dick and a larynx and absolutely nothing else. Hello. Hello? Hello?’
    She hadn’t hung up. Just fallen silent. I’d gone overboard a bit, and was befouling her harmless romantic daydreams, robbing her world of magic. I felt bad, as if I’d just told a six-year-old that not only does Santa not exist, but only an idiot would think he does. Worse still, this was an ex I was talking to.
    ‘Is that what you thought when you met me, then?’ she asked.
    ‘What? Nooooo! Of course not! Don’t be daft. Look, I’m joking. Ignore everything I just said. He’s probably lovely.’
    I managed to make the about-turn