I admit it: I'm a bigot. A hopeless bigot at that: I know my particular prejudice is absurd, but I just can't control it. It's Apple.
I don't like Apple products. And the better-designed and more
ubiquitous they become, the more I dislike them. I blame the customers.
Awful people. Awful. Stop showing me your iPhone. Stop stroking your
Macbook. Stop telling me to get one.
Seriously, stop it. I don't
care if Mac stuff is better. I don't care if Mac stuff is cool. I don't
care if every Mac product comes equipped a magic button on the side
that causes it to piddle gold coins and resurrect the dead and make
holographic unicorns dance inside your head. I'm not buying one, so
shut up and go home. Go back to your house. I know, you've got an
iHouse. The walls are brushed aluminum. There's a glowing Apple logo on
the roof. And you love it there. You absolute MONSTER.
Of course,
it's safe to assume Mac products are indeed as brilliant as their
owners make out. Why else would they spend so much time trying to
convert non-believers? They're not getting paid. They simply want to
spread their happiness, like religious crusaders.
Consequently,
nothing pleases them more than watching a PC owner struggle with a slab
of non-Mac machinery. It validates their spiritual choice. Recently I
sat in a room trying to write something on a Sony Vaio PC laptop which
seemed to be running a special slow-motion edition of Windows
Vista specifically designed to infuriate human beings as much as
possible. Trying to get it to do anything was like issuing instructions
to a depressed employee over a sluggish satellite feed. When I clicked
on an application it spent a small eternity contemplating the
philosophical implications of opening it, begrudgingly complying with
my request several months later. It drove me up the wall. I called it a
bastard and worse. At one point I punched a table.
This drew the attention of two nearby Mac owners. They hovered over and stood beside me, like placid monks.
"Ah: the delights of Vista," said one.
"It really is time you got a Mac," said the other.
"They're just better," sang monk number one.
"You won't regret it," whispered the second.
I
scowled and returned to my infernal machine, like a dishevelled
park-bench boozer shrugging away two pious AA recruiters by pulling a
grubby, dented hip flask from his pocket and pointedly taking an extra
deep swig. Leave me alone, I thought. I don't care if you're right. I
just want you to die.
I know Windows is awful. Everyone knows
Windows is awful. Windows is like the faint smell of piss in a subway:
it's there, and there's nothing you can do about it. OK, OK: I know
other operating systems are available. But their advocates seem even
creepier, snootier and more insistent than Mac owners. The harder they
try to convince me, the more I'm repelled. To them, I'm a sheep. And
they're right. I'm a helpless, stupid, lazy sheep. I'm also a
masochist. And that's why I continue to use Windows – horrible Windows
– even though I hate every second of it. It's grim, it's slow,
everything's badly designed and nothing really works properly: using
Windows is like living in a communist bloc nation circa 1981. And I
wouldn't change it for the world, because I'm an abject bloody idiot
and I hate myself, and this is what I deserve: to be sentenced to
Windows for life.
That's why Windows works for me. But I'd never
recommend it to anybody else, ever. This puts me in line with roughly
everybody else in the world. No one has ever earnestly turned to a
fellow human being and said, "Hey, have you considered Windows?" Not in
the real world at any rate.
Until now. Microsoft,
hellbent on tackling the conspicuous lack of word-of-mouth
recommendation, is encouraging people – real people – to host "Windows
7 launch parties" to celebrate the 22 October release of, er, Windows
7. The idea is that you invite a group of friends – your real friends –
to your home – your real home – and entertain them with a series of
Windows 7 tutorials. So you show them how to burn a CD, how to make a
little video, how to change the wallpaper, and how to, oh no, hang on
it's not supposed to do that, oh, I think it's frozen, um, er, let me
just, um, no that's not it, um, er, um, er, so how's it going with you
and Kathy anyway, um, er, OK well see you around I guess.
To
assist the party-hosting massive, they've also uploaded a series of
spectacularly cringeworthy videos to YouTube, in which the four most
desperate actors in the world stand around in a kitchen sharing tips on
how best to indoctrinate guests in the wonder of Windows. If they were
staring straight down the lens reading hints off a card it might be
acceptable; instead they have been instructed to pretend to be friends.
The result is the most nauseating display of artificial camaraderie
since the horrific Doritos "Friendchips" TV campaign (which caused
50,000 people to kill themselves in 2003, or should have done).
It's
so terrible, it induces an entirely new emotion: a blend of vertigo,
disgust, anger and embarrassment which I like to call "shitasmia". It
not only creates this emotion: it defines it. It's the most shitasmic
cultural artefact in history. Watch it for yourself.
Still,
bad though it is, I vaguely prefer the clumping, clueless, uncool,
crappiness of Microsoft's bland Stepford gang to the creepy assurance
of the average Mac evangelist. At least the grinning dildos in the
Windows video are fictional, whereas eerie replicant Mac monks really
are everywhere, standing over your shoulder in their charcoal
pullovers, smirking with amusement at your hopelessly inferior OS,
knowing they're better than you because they use Mac OS X v10.6 Snow
Leopard.
Snow Leopard. SNOW LEOPARD.
I don't care if you're right. I just want you to die.
