A confused Millennial tries to… organise a night out without a mobile

IN the dim and distant past, nobody had iPhones. Texting hadn’t been invented. You would leave a message for a friend by ‘telling their dad’. 

In my ongoing inquiries to find out if old people are in fact human, I’m going to try to surmount one of the greatest challenges of their lives: organising a night out.

My phone is removed from me. Instantly, I feel isolated and terrifyingly alone, like Matt Damon in The Martian, denied the human warmth of ‘C u maccy D ltr?’

‘Stop being a bloody drama queen and use the landline,’ Dad said. It’s weird how violent homophobia like that hits home harder when there’s no friends to share it with.

I went to the landline, which is like a phone you can only use in one place. None of my mates’ numbers were on there. I felt the walls closing in around me, all hope of escape slipping away.

By a million-to-one chance Mum had Jen’s number written down. I had to type it in exact sequence against the clock, like a heist movie. A man called Derek answered the first few times and got abusive. I’d confused a 1 for a 7. How did they live like this?

Finally I got through – and no answer. Only voicemail. What kind of fucking halfwit would invent a phone that only works when you’re out?

I left 20 or so messages explaining my terrible plight. I got no call back. I had to face the awful truth – this Satuday I’d be stuck at home watching Strictly while Mum makes incomprehensible jokes about Claudia Winkleman looking like one of the Munsters.

She saw me on the stairs, head in hands, suffering deep trauma, and said: ‘Why don’t you walk round to Jordan’s? It’s only five minutes, you lazy sod.’ Genius! Even those sliding into senility have lessons to teach.

Jordan was in, though freaked out that I materialised from nowhere, and he had his phone. The WhatsApp group had assumed I was dead but no: I was back in the loop, ready for whatever life could throw at me.

We went to McDonald’s but mostly didn’t buy anything, then to Costa, then listened to hip hop on Liam’s phone, then I went home and had a ham sandwich and a wank.

To think I could so easily have missed that unforgettable night. Technology is meant to serve us, but it can too easily turn into our master. I explained this to Mum, but she laughed and called me a knob.

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Six ways to look like a bellend in an… England shirt

THE World Cup is here five months late, so why not express your belief in your country in an aggressive manner by wearing a replica kit 24/7 from now until mid-December?

A perfect way to show you support Southgate’s boys more than anyone who isn’t wearing one, the England shirt is a versatile garment to be worn:

Under a jumper

Wearing nothing but breathable, flying-pint-friendly polyester is sweetly sexy when cheering the lads on a balmy summer’s evening. But corruption nobody’s owning up to means the Cup’s in November and you’re in a heavy knit. Leave Harry and the other Harry to do the sweating and heat prostration until we win.

Under a flag cape

Does a Saint George’s cross clumsily tied in a knot across your shoulders count as an outer layer, or an outré accesory? And layering patrotic symbolism? Gauche. Just as you’d never wear double denim, don’t step out in double England. Think twice about single England.

Day in, day out

Now England have won 10-0, or near enough? You can’t wash your strip without dooming the team. In fact you can’t risk taking it off. Sure, if you had replicas of your replica, but at £75 a go you can’t afford one for every day of the week. Even your frothing fervour has hard, financially-imposed, it’s-not-Brexit’s-fault limits.

Everywhere you go

The pub is your catwalk in an England shirt, but don’t let it end there. The street, the office, weddings, funerals, job interviews and while presenting the Classic FM Awards; it’s beautiful everywhere and f**k anyone who disagrees. This isn’t like dressing as Iron Man outside of Comic-Con. The whole country stands with you.

With accoutrements

The England shirt is very basic bellend. To level up, pair it with a £12 flagon of Budweiser, England flags a-fluttering from the slightly open windows of your car that let sleet in, and the mot juste: a flare up the arse, burning end outwards. Now you’re ready for the front page of the Daily Star.

At a Wales game

Fashion’s about context and contrast, so the best and worst place to wear your gleaming shirt is at a Wales game in a Wales pub. Pop along, loudly order a lager, order a Merthyr Tydfil Uber to your local A&E and arrive in a pulped heap with a few less teeth. Unless Wales win a week on Tuesday, in which case the locals will luxuriate in your loser presence.