Living My Best Life (My Arse)

I saw a young ‘un on the bus yesterday filming herself drinking a cup of coffee. Not drinking the coffee. Filming herself pretending to drink it. Lips puckered like a duck, head tilted, eyes dead. Thirty seconds of pure concentration to make sure the light hit her cheekbones just right. Then she put the cup down, untouched, and started scrolling.

I nearly stood up and applauded the performance. Bravo. Ten out of ten for commitment to absolute bollocks.

This is what we’ve done with the internet. Handed over the most powerful tool in human history so every gobshite with a phone can become a brand. “Influencer.” Even the word sounds like a disease. Used to be you influenced people by being sound in the pub or rearing decent kids. Now it means showing strangers your breakfast and charging companies to pretend your life isn’t as miserable as everyone else’s.

They’re all at it. The “authentic” ones are the worst. Filming themselves crying in their perfect kitchens about how hard it is to be vulnerable. Meanwhile their granny is sitting in a council flat with the heating off, not posting a single thing because she’s too busy being actually poor.

I tried it once. A youngster I worked with said try it. “Post a picture of your desk.” So I did. Me, a cup of coffee, and a stack of paper that looked like it had been shat out by a printer. Got seventeen likes and a comment from some Polish account telling me I needed to work on my “personal brand.” Personal brand. I’m a writer, mate. Not a fucking packet of corn flakes.

The worst part is the language. “Living my best life.” “Slay.” “Vibes.” If I ever hear one of my own characters say “vibes” I’ll delete the manuscript and set fire to the computer. These influencers wouldn’t last five minutes in any real Coventry conversation. They’d be roasted alive before they finished their first oat milk flat white.

We’ve replaced arguments in the pub with silent screaming into the void for approval. Replaced “how’s your mam?” with “double tap if you agree.” And the funniest thing? All these people curating perfect lives are more insecure than the rest of us combined. That’s not an opinion, it’s observable fact. The more filters they use, the more terrified they are.

Me? I’m going to keep writing books and talking to actual humans. If I want validation I’ll ring my mate and let him tell me I’ve put on weight and call me a fat twat. At least that’s honest.