I think we all have our own nemesis, don't we? Batman had the Joker, Cuchulainn had Ferdia and George Bush had the nefarious English language conspiring against him. I have one too it seems.

The mobile phone: fashion item of the 21st century, glorious love-child of the Information Age and useful for 1,001 reasons. And by "useful" I mean "guaranteed to toy with your hapless, fragile mind". The phone is small, compact, manageable and 'practical in it's dimensions,' they say. These synonyms for 'easy to lose' aside, it's not necessarily the decidedly microscopic dimensions of the 21st century's newest limb that irritates me. No, it's the admittedly schizophrenic personality of the detestable paper weight that makes phone use about as productive as gouging my eyes out with a sharpened pencil.

My phone is sitting in my left pocket as I write, secretly reveling in devising new and innovative ways of pouring salt into the wounds it has previously dealt me. It used to be cool, loving, and essential for daily living, but I quickly discovered that my mobile, like cigarettes and ex- girlfriends, is very, very bad for me. I really appreciate when it chooses opportune moments to decisively cease functioning, especially when it's considerate to die whilst I'm phoning people of crucial importance (namely my girlfriend or perpetually angry parents). Better still, I love how it developed a disquieting rattling noise ten minutes after I bought it.

Oh well, at least my phone's a cultured fellow: seeing as he routinely changes his language to the charming letters of Turkish or Japanese kanji. I am now quite proficient at over seven languages thanks to my phone's machinations.

My phone has a very obscure sense of humour actually, as well as a sadistic streak. You see, he thinks it's the zenith of comic genius to cheerfully write "SIM CARD ERROR" in an irritatingly large font. His sadism stems from the fact that he murders my wallet on a weekly basis. Phone credit in and of itself is financial rape, but what's even more violating is my phone's penchant for systematically calling people in my phonebook while it's snug in my pocket. My friends are often treated to intellectually stimulating conversation with the ruffling of my pocket's interior, though they've since learned to hang up immediately. Poor phone, it must be a plea for attention, a cry for help: much akin to when a psychotic Texas farmboy torches his father's chicken coop with an extremely large volume of kerosene.

I realise that I should treat man's new best friend with more care: buy him more shiny/pointless phone covers, switch to bill and walk him twice daily but to be honest I can't be bothered. See, me and my phone - we don't get along: I'd much rather have a dog as a best friend than a phone, but hey - Sony's just made a cybernetic dog haven't they? Well then, sorry Rover.

Well, that's my phone in all his small, compact, Turkish-speaking glory. His personality can be equated to a few infamous serial killers: interesting, but to be kept at a distance. Although that's an insult to serial killers across the globe - my phone's sterility-inducing radiation is far more dangerous. How am I Vodaphone? I'm very, very tempted to hunt down my phone's creators with a knife or, better yet, my phone. Trust me, you wouldn't like him when he's angry.