Without data, a 'phone is just a 'phone

Those of you who are unmoved by sport may be disappointed to learn that this blog post concerns the Olympics. As I have just spent eleven days camping in London and attending the veues, this should not be a surprise.

For a sport-obsessive, it has been a kind of heaven. For a writer, it has been hell. My volunteering has put me close enough to the action to hear the cheers, but out of the loop enough not to know who they're for. I've been on a shifted sleeping pattern approximating that of someone living in Moscow and thus missed all the most exciting evening action. Worst of all, I have no internet.

The internet is roughly the same age as I am, and yet has achieved far more global significance than I could hope for in my wildest imaginings (where I am the unicorn-riding warrior heir to the throne of a magical kingdom). The internet has revolutionised our lives to the point where we even carry it around in our pockets.

I do not. I am far too tight-fisted for that. My mobile contract is £10 a month, which covers 500 minutes and unlimited texts and absolutely no data at all. Not bad- if this was the noughties.

It seems an exaggeration, but in the last five years, information has become accessible instantly and anywhere. This has changed journalism particularly, entirely and irrevocably. If you want to know what's going on in the world, you don't open a newspaper- that's about what happened yesterday. You log into Twitter. Once you've overlooked the utter non-news being peddled by the Beliebers and Directioners, and dismissed the likes of #PeopleIWouldDestroySexually (which led Mila Kunis to become a trending topic), you can probably find something up-to-the-minute regarding, say, whatever's been happening in Syria since I lost the internet.

See? I can't live like this any more. Much as I hate plebeian journalism, the patrician kind is becoming increasingly out-of-touch. The fact is that I broke the news of the death of Michael Jackson ahead of CNN, the BBC and Sky. Because individuals have less face to lose than major news corporations, in the social media age, we the people have the edge.

I have a smartphone, but without data, it's about as technologically advanced as a Nokia 3310- without the durability.

Some people pay 50p a day (and twice that on a Sunday) for a quality daily newspaper- full of obsolete information and a crossword that makes you feel like a moron. That works out at £416 a year. However, for an extra £60 a year, I could bring myself into this decade and buy a data package.

It's an easy decision, I'm afraid. I only wish I'd realised two weeks ago.

Well, I'm Off

I know, it's not much of a revelation, since I've not posted anything since a rather catastrophic falling out with Blogger about three weeks ago. However, today, Friday 27th July, I am off to the Olympic Games to work as a volunteer.

As you may or may not know, there are pretty tough restrictions on what anyone who has any involvement with the games can say on social media. I will be publishing a day-by-day account after the Paralympics close, but until then I will just have to censor myself. Feel free to guess the missing words.

I may have told you in person that I'm going to be working as security, but I shouldn't have done that. Firstly, it sounds a little bit too sexy for a job that mostly involves telling people how to queue in order and figuring out ways of mentioning to fat people that they won't fit through scanners without ending up with an enormous fist in your face. Secondly, and probably more importantly, security is a bit of a dirty word at the moment, what with the whole omnishambles regarding G4S. I wouldn't worry about that, incidentally- from what I've heard, the military are doing a much better job than those halfwits. Instead of security, then, I must say Venue Entry.

From 0630 on Saturday morning, I will be posted at the Olympic Park, which, by the way, is gorgeous. Though, when I saw it, my body temperature was about a squillion degrees and so I may have been suffering from delirium. I will do my job as I have been instructed: with a smile on my face.

Incidentally, for a would-be journalist, censorship is an absolute pain in the arse.

I am not allowed to talk to journalists, which I need to do because I have no contacts. I am not allowed to tweet my location live- as if I could, what with my mobile network being as rubbish, if cheap, as it is. I'm allowed to say that. I am not even allowed to publish any photos of me in uniform- until after the Paralympics are over, anyway.

I'm not complaining though, not really. The London 2012 Olympic Games has taken a lot of flak from both press and public over the last few weeks. Barely has there been a mention of the IOC's verdict- that London is the best-prepared city in Olympic history.

I will be proud to work at the Games. I will be part of history, no matter how small my role. And I will be there- maybe not to witness the golds, but to hear of the successes at the beating heart of it all.

So: all you olympi-haters can just suck my imaginary dick.