There's only three floors in this building but the majority of us lazy arses still use the lift. Sometimes it's jammed full with sweaty bodies and the rustle of lunchtime shopping bags. Sometimes it's completely empty and you have 15 precious seconds from Ground Floor to Level 2 in which to check your hair or to see How Big Your Bum Looks In This. Then other times you're stuck with a Phone Guy.
Phone Guys are very common these days and easy to spot. They're the ones who insist on taking out their phone every time they have a quiet moment, unhooking it from their belt thingy or extracting it from the depths of their pockets. Then they gaze fondly at it, or poke at a few buttons, sometimes even stroke it a little, smiling to themselves. This display goes on for the entire lift journey, then when the door opens they put it away, giving it a little reassuring pat as they stroll out into the sunshine.
What is it with some guys and their phones? Last week I overhead my rich fat cat former employer calling someone specifically to tell them he'd bought a new phone. "It's the Ericsson. It was only released today. And it's so small and sleek." And I am a wanker and will no doubt chose the wankiest ringtone known to mankind. Perhaps the Mission: Impossible theme or one of Foreigner's greatest hits.
Oh how they annoy me, those Phone Guys. Why can't they just keep it in their pants? I'm not impressed by your 20,000 ringtones and your global roaming. Mine's smaller than yours! I hear you crow. I'll bet it is!
I was explaining this phenomenon to some folks at the pub last week, punctuated with great disdain, bitterness and vodka. And wouldn't you know it, I spied a Phone Guy in the corner who was demonstrating the theory to perfection. He was tight-jeaned and polo-shirted and sharing a bottle of wine with a young woman. She was bewitching in a loud cotton frock and a hairband with worry dolls parading across it…
(Whatever happened to worry dolls? They were all the rage, briefly, some time ago.)
Goodness knows what they were talking about, but there was a lapse in conversation and I could see him wondering what to say next. That is when he reached into his back pocket and plucked out his phone. "Hey lady! Watch me pull a Nokia out of my arse!"
We watched as he turned it on and began crapping on about its wonderous features. He punched at the buttons with gusto and talked rather loudly. She nodded at appropriate intervals and gave those weak kind of smiles that don't quite reach the eyes. The poor lass. I couldn't quite hear the conversation but I'm sure it went something like this:
"Look at this. It's my new Nokia Whatever and it cost me three weeks salary."
"It WAPs and raps with 5 billion happenin' ring tones."
"It fits inside a matchbox."
"And now I am going to dazzle you with my phone prowess by pressing an alarming number of buttons in quick succession. Some things will go bleep and some wacky pictures will come up on the display and you will be most impressed."
"Oh yes. I'm very impressed!"
"Good. Would you like to see my penis now?"