Blackberry's famous, desperate last stand

Blackberry-worshipper Nicky Woolf is begging RIM not to sound the death knell on the device he loves so much.

Ever watch someone you love slowly go to pieces? It's not a pleasant experience, but it's one that I've been having with Blackberry these last few years.

I love my Blackberry. I use it to write. I write articles on here. I am writing this article on my Blackberry. I write long, rambling emails. I take long, rambling notes on memo-pad. I have long, rambling conversations with friends and family on BBM, that lovely little exclusive club to which only crackberry-addicts can belong. I tweet from my Blackberry. I send more than twenty thousand texts a year. Dear Blackberry: your red flashing light is my comfort in dark places. You are my life.

I don't want gimmicks, and I'm uninterested in bells and whistles. I want a phone that gives me the basics. I communicate with people. The email system on my Blackberry is perfect. I couldn't give less of a crap that your iPhone has a spirit-level app. I already own a spirit-level, somewhere. I have never used it. I rarely browse the web. I do not play games on my phone; I have a console for that. I don't care how angry that makes your birds.

I am a man of simple tastes.

It's not like I haven't tried the alternatives. Last year I bought a Samsung Galaxy, and after the initial rush my relationship with it turned to loathing. Frustrated by how much I had to keep correcting my output on the touch-screen, I tweeted less and was brusque in texting. Sure, I could play Draw Something or Words With Friends, but I never did, because that's not what I want a phone for. I want a phone so I can efficiently and satisfyingly input and output words. That's it. The Galaxy wasn't any good for that.

On top of that, it had a malice I never sensed from a Blackberry phone. I am guilty of anthropomorphic projection here, but I am convinced that phone hated me as much as I hated it. In the end, in a fit of rage, I snapped it in half. The big fragile screen screen cracked like burnt toast. Afterwards, I felt cleansed.

Before you start, ye false-idol-worshipping cultists of iPhone, your beloved sugar-glass monolith is no more user-friendly than my hateful Samsung was. There are whole websites devoted to the hideous travails of your auto-correct. I refuse to take spurious spelling corrections from a gadget with the obstinant self-satisfaction of a traffic warden. Without auto-correct on the other hand, typing is practically impossible for human hands on a touch-screen phone. It's just untenable.

But poor Blackberry has been battered by the economic storm, crushed up against the hulls of bigger companies like Samsung, Google and Apple, sitting lower and lower to the waterline like an old rusting tramp-steamer, all hands to the pumps. Some of its output has been bizarre, and it has driven its customers – even its loyal business base – away. The "Storm" – what was that? A bizarre and ill-fated stab at touch-screen phones that nobody wanted and nobody bought. The "Torch" – as badly made as a Nineties Cadillac, and twice as ugly. Trackballs that got sticky. Keypads that shed keys. Those blackouts that forced us all to go cold-turkey on data for days on end. It's no wonder that today's release is being thought of as the last ditch effort for RIM.

But please. On the day of your famous last stand, I'm begging you. Stick to the fundamentals, and get them right. There are plenty of us who love our Blackberries for what they can do, and don't envy iPhone users their gadgetry one bit. I don't need streaming video, I don't need Spotify, I don't need games. I need a keyboard, a notepad, a solid browser maybe and a decent email system, and I need it to be bug-free and crash as little as possible, if that's not too much to ask. If the X10, the new keyboarded handset you announced today, is the spiritual successor to my little Bold, then I know I will love it.

There are many more like me. Don't let us down.

 

The Blackberry: in Nicky's eyes, infinitely superior to anything Samsung or Apple try to sell you. Photograph: Getty Images

Nicky Woolf is reporting for the New Statesman from the US. He tweets @NickyWoolf.

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The footie is back. Three weeks in and what have we learned so far?

Barcleys, boots and big names... the Prem is back.

Another season, another reason for making whoopee cushions and giving them to Spurs fans to cheer them up during the long winter afternoons ahead. What have we learned so far?

Big names are vital. Just ask the manager of the Man United shop. The arrival of Schneiderlin and Schweinsteiger has done wonders for the sale of repro tops and they’ve run out of letters. Benedict Cumberbatch, please join Carlisle United. They’re desperate for some extra income.

Beards are still in. The whole Prem is bristling with them, the skinniest, weediest player convinced he’s Andrea Pirlo. Even my young friend and neighbour Ed Miliband has grown a beard, according to his holiday snaps. Sign him.

Boots Not always had my best specs on, but here and abroad I detect a new form of bootee creeping in – slightly higher on the ankle, not heavy-plated as in the old days but very light, probably made from the bums of newborn babies.

Barclays Still driving me mad. Now it’s screaming from the perimeter boards that it’s “Championing the true Spirit of the Game”. What the hell does that mean? Thank God this is its last season as proud sponsor of the Prem.

Pitches Some groundsmen have clearly been on the weeds. How else can you explain the Stoke pitch suddenly having concentric circles, while Southampton and Portsmouth have acquired tartan stripes? Go easy on the mowers, chaps. Footballers find it hard enough to pass in straight lines.

Strips Have you seen the Everton third kit top? Like a cheap market-stall T-shirt, but the colour, my dears, the colour is gorgeous – it’s Thames green. Yes, the very same we painted our front door back in the Seventies. The whole street copied, then le toot middle classes everywhere.

Scott Spedding Which international team do you think he plays for? I switched on the telly to find it was rugby, heard his name and thought, goodo, must be Scotland, come on, Scotland. Turned out to be the England-France game. Hmm, must be a member of that famous Cumbrian family, the Speddings from Mirehouse, where Tennyson imagined King Arthur’s Excalibur coming out the lake. Blow me, Scott Spedding turns out to be a Frenchman. Though he only acquired French citizenship last year, having been born and bred in South Africa. What’s in a name, eh?

Footballers are just so last season. Wayne Rooney and Harry Kane can’t score. The really good ones won’t come here – all we get is the crocks, the elderly, the bench-warmers, yet still we look to them to be our saviour. Oh my God, let’s hope we sign Falcao, he’s a genius, will make all the difference, so prayed all the Man United fans. Hold on: Chelsea fans. I’ve forgotten now where he went. They seek him here, they seek him there, is he alive or on the stairs, who feckin’ cares?

John Stones of Everton – brilliant season so far, now he is a genius, the solution to all of Chelsea’s problems, the heir to John Terry, captain of England for decades. Once he gets out of short trousers and learns to tie his own laces . . .

Managers are the real interest. So refreshing to have three young British managers in the Prem – Alex Neil at Norwich (34), Eddie Howe at Bournemouth (37) and that old hand at Swansea, Garry Monk, (36). Young Master Howe looks like a ball boy. Or a tea boy.

Mourinho is, of course, the main attraction. He has given us the best start to any of his seasons on this planet. Can you ever take your eyes off him? That handsome hooded look, that sarcastic sneer, the imperious hand in the air – and in his hair – all those languages, he’s so clearly brilliant, and yet, like many clever people, often lacking in common sense. How could he come down so heavily on Eva Carneiro, his Chelsea doctor? Just because you’re losing? Yes, José has been the best fun so far – plus Chelsea’s poor start. God, please don’t let him fall out with Abramovich. José, we need you.

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 27 August 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Isis and the new barbarism