The Good, The Bid And The Ugly

The small basement room is full this evening, yet I can draw no comfort from the fact that I am not alone in my suffering.

As I walk inside, I notice that my palms are already moist, an instant reaction to the harsh neon lighting and the imminent torture that it represents. I approach the loose circle of chairs in this, my purgatorial antechamber.

The shy young computer technician - Robert, I think - is here, as he always is. He affords me the slightest of nods as my glance sweeps past him. We tried to hold a conversation several weeks ago, but it was so painfully awkward that the relief was mutual when the time came to sit down. we have not spoken since.

I can also see Jason, who is beckoning me over to his side of the room. He pats the empty chair beside him, and although I cannot bear the thought of his incessant whispering and nudging, it is the only available seat and I reluctantly make my way around the outside of the group and sit down.

Now that each and every chair is occupied, the group grows silent in nervous anticipation of the next event to occur.

Mustering uncharacteristic courage, and ignoring the familiar shameful weakness in my knees, I stand up. All eyes are now on me, with a mixture of relief and encouragement. I can do this, I think to myself as I address the room:

'Hi, my name is Jean-Marc and I am addicted to eBay.'

*****

Having lain dormant for two and a half years, my eBay account recently had its e-cobwebs dusted off during my desperate search for a ticket to the reunion concert of Faith No More. With a generous budget of £100 and my fingers hovering expectantly over the keyboard, I approached my mission with the naive confidence of an ex-smoker taking a drunken puff at a party, forgetting how much junk I had purchased on the site many moons ago.

Fast forward 48 hours and I have added several dozen CDs to the online marketplace and am bidding in an equal number of buying auctions. I have rather rapidly come to question my moral integrity as I discover the sadistic satisfaction obtained from driving the price up on items I have no interest in winning. It is a stupid and risky game that appeals to the purest form of my competitive spirit.

But I also play to win. I bide my time and bid at the very last moment, outfoxing my opponents in Manchester, Moscow and Melbourne. And I buy, I buy more items. Most items I have no use for whatsoever. But I have WON these items, I am a winner!

I am hooked again.

Analysed carefully, I am able to distinguish the differing sentiments coursing through me, a trinity of emotions with each success: the instant rush of victory as the auction closes just after my last gasp bid; the crushing low as I instantly question the validity of the contest; and finally the warm glow of anticipation and expectation as I wait for the glorious prize to be delivered to my door.

For almost four weeks during the month of June, I sold, mailed, bid or re-bid from the crack of dawn to the fall of night. It was only my holiday to Portugal that saved me from descending into full-blown addiction as I realise now how much time I actually spent on the website.

By a strange wringing of the wet towel of coincidences, I opened this morning's Metro newspaper to discover that the British arm of eBay was celebrating its 10th anniversary on this very day. I am but one of the 38.4 million people to have made 964 million transactions during the last decade, to have felt the magnetism and experienced the winning rush. I have luckily managed to wean myself off this cybervice, but how many others are logged on right now, buying one of the 3455 handbags sold very day at the rate of one every 25 seconds?

Having felt quite smugly content with the sparkling originality of this post's introductory scene, I watered the seed of my own doubt by Googling 'eBay addiction' and was rewarded with a kick in the creative cojones as I discovered that it really is a recognised form of Internet Addiction. Reading the recollection of a recovering addict ('It was 5am and I couldn't log on, I had a complete breakdown, I started crying. That's when I realised I had a real problem') and remembering the countless hours tucked up in bed with my laptop, I realise how easy it would be to succomb to the siren's call once again.

*****

'Hi, my name is Jean-Marc and I am addicted to eBay. I have been clean for three weeks.'

That Johnny Cash Song

22.11.2008: Swatch Group International HQ - Biel, Switzerland

Catalogue Coordination Manager: The print deadline is this Friday, how are we doing?
Senior Graphic Designer: Well, the images are all prepped and templated, but final text is waiting for your approval and has to go to the printers tomorrow.
CCM: Have you run the new collection names past the translation agency?
SGD: No, we're already over budget for the catalogue, we'll have to do it in-house this time. It's only the duty free magazine in any case, and we used last year's copy for the basic translations.
CCM: That sounds reasonable, leave the text on my desk and I'll proof it and get it back to you by close of business.
SGD: Great, thanks.

01.07.2009: Seat 7A - Flight TP387 from London Heathrow to Porto

I can barely contain my annoyance at having had my holiday enthusiasm deflated by a two-hour delay to our flight. I need a pacifier or there will soon be a hail of toys flying out of my pram, I need to find something to occupy myself fast. But what? Two carefully selected holiday books are gleefully gathering dust, lying forgotten on my office desk, my iPod has taken a vow of uncharged silence and dinner is half an hour away.

Faced with no viable alternative to alleviate my frustration, I reach for the in-flight entertainment world's equivalent of a full frontal lobotomy: the duty free magazine. Indeed, no sooner have I contemptuously flicked the first three pages than my brain commits itself to instant hibernation, pausing just briefly enough to wonder how on earth 102 pages of cosmetics, perfume, chocolate, alcohol and tobacco can be crammed into the narrow trolley that the cabin crew are wheeling down the aisle.

As I flick through the latest products from the houses of haute couture and smelly scents, I gradually sense my cerebral activity beginning to flatline when

WHACK!

It hits me like a sledgehammer, I can barely understand and my eyes nearly pop out of their sockets.

Successive waves of shock, disbelief, surprise and finally elation wash over me. There it is, right before me: the Holy Grail of inter-linguistic double entendres. I am gobsmacked, both figuratively and literally as I clasp my hand to my shocked mouth so fast that I nearly knock my front teeth clean out.

I turn to show Sarah the source of my side-splitting comedy histrionics but can utter no words as I am still in the delicious ecstacy of pure and unexpected laughter. It is all I can do to hand over the magazine and reveal the full glory that is:



Go on! Do it, laugh out loud! Let rip your snorts, guffaws and sniggers. Marvel at the unfortunate shape of this fine piece of jewellry and then read the fine print for further puerile gratification (hint: a 'ç' is pronounced 'ss'). Most of you will have by now closed this window and moved on to more serious business*, but for those of you who appreciate infantile humour as much as I do, please click here for an extra dollop of cheap entertainment.

€55,00 it may well cost, but in reality it is priceless...

* Except for you, Brooks, I know where you are reading this and this one's dedicated to you.