I am uneasily aware that around this time last year I wrote that my drive to acquire material things had somewhat subsided: I was older and wiser, had everything I needed, was repelled by the sheer volume of stuff in the world, blah blah blah. Unfortunately, the internet seemingly viewed that as fighting talk, an impossible-to-turn-down challenge, and in recent months I have once more found myself wanting stuff. Lots of stuff.
It’s not surprising perhaps – stuff is everywhere, whispering, or shouting, to us from every screen we stare at. “The constant stream of ads on Instagram is exhausting,” said my best friend gloomily just last week, and she’s right: my eyes are constantly assaulted with offers of miracle goop for my mature skin, wellness gadgetry, expensive knitwear and greenwashed “disruptors” of almost everything. I just spent a minute scrolling and was offered, in quick succession, a “calfPRO” (no idea, alarming), kombucha, cleanser, an eco frying pan, “reminiscent of Phoebe Philo-era Celine” jumpers and, bafflingly, Canadian sea urchins.
In this newly lawless age for social media there are bigger problems than the relentless onslaught of targeted ads, but in addition to the urgent upskilling in critical reading the world needs, we need to work out how to fight back against all the stuff the internet wants us to buy. If we don’t, we might, to give a random example, end up taking sheepish delivery of a candy-coloured bra we bought in a fugue state after seeing it 800 times in a week on our phone. The bra will turn out to be apparently constructed from satsuma netting and clingfilm and offer absolutely no support to the wearer, instead fighting tirelessly to relocate all my – sorry, their – breast tissue to their armpits. It is destined for landfill, where it will strangle a seabird, then decompose into microplastics to poison generations of our descendants.
Deinfluencing is an online content genre now, with creators fighting back against consumption culture by explaining how they’re happy with one pair of trainers and basic shampoo. It’s admirable, but inevitably generic. The sheer scale and granular targeting of the data-driven, algorithmically manufactured discontent industry is such that I think we need to take things into our own hands. Because who better to deinfluence you than yourself? The only person who knows your longings and weaknesses better than the almighty algorithm is you; only you can fight it effectively. I’ve been trying to deinfluence myself in recent weeks and it’s quite the battle – I am weak-willed and made stupider by the minute by internet nonsense, and the algorithm is tireless. But I have a secret weapon: I know my craven, ridiculous desires intimately, which helps me shout them down. Now when tempted, that’s exactly what I do. Like so:
The perfect reusable coffee cup: Let’s review what happened to the last perfect reusable cup you bought: you left it on a bench on its second outing. Very ecological. You drink too much coffee anyway.
“Parallette” bars for calisthenics: You really believe you can use these lengths of wood to train your weary, wonky body into doing a handstand? You have a core reduced to mince by birthing two large babies and the shoulder strength of a sparrow. This is why no one over 35 should be allowed on TikTok (except to understand the highly relevant concept of “delulu”).
A £500 jumper with a crow on: You think you’ll look like Alexa Chung, or Björk or some other quirky yet chic style icon; you’ll look like Gyles Brandreth. If you’re lucky.
“The last charger you’ll ever need to buy”: Can we rephrase? “The last charger you need until you leave it on the train like the last three,” is more accurate.
Miracle cleanser: Unless the miracle is that it actually crawls out of the tube and applies itself, you won’t be using it – you’re too lazy.
Disruptive “plant-based” electric toothbrush: Remember the disruptive plant-based deodorant you bought? It’s still rancidly reproaching you from the bathroom drawer. Try getting really disruptive by not credulously buying this.
It’s brutal but, at least in my case, absolutely necessary and almost a full-time job: Canadian sea urchins you say, rich and creamy, limited availability? Hmmm.
• Emma Beddington is a Guardian columnist
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