Consuming constant clips made me feel stupider and lonelier. Thank God I’m old enough to remember a world before
A clip from Before Sunrise. A woman joking that she won’t date men with flat heads because their lack of tummy time as babies betrays parental neglect that any female partner will be tasked with unpicking. Another woman gathering dahlias from her garden. A man discussing how Trump’s erratic night-time posting is a sign of the “sundowning” behaviours of patients with advanced dementia. Bob Mortimer being Bob Mortimer. An American cooking spaghetti in the same pan as a creamy sauce, enraging Italians. Ryan Gosling laughing at his face on a tea towel. Nina Simone playing the piano. A beautiful honey cake.
“I built this algorithm brick by brick”, as social media users say – a wry nod to our own complicity in the selection of content furnished to us by platforms such as Instagram or TikTok. Perhaps it’s because Thomas the Tank Engine loomed large in my childhood, but whenever I see that comment I think about Henry, bricked up in the tunnel he obstinately refuses to leave (“we shall leave you here for always, and always, and always”, says the Fat Controller).
Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett is a Guardian columnist. Her novel Female, Nude is out now
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