“I really thought they’d sorted out the fault in my beautiful little object of desire last year,” blubbered Apple fanatic Uncle Stephen Fry, all over Twitter. “Not being particularly boffin-minded, I didn’t want to bother myself with what a pancreas even looks like, let alone how it works. I just expected it to do lots of clever stuff in the background. I never imagined it might be something which would seriously detract from my everyday appreciation of Steve, or the warm feeling of smug superiority which he generously deigned to bestow upon me.”
|Master... master... why have you forsaken us, master?|
Lord Sugar of Amstrad, meanwhile, paid a moving tribute to himself and the shit he used to put his name on: “The peculiar drag-and-drop interface, unfamiliar 32-bit colour, awkward ‘mouse’ accessory and paltry internal hard drive of the Macintosh II very nearly gave my pioneering PCW8256 word processor, with its ground-breaking 80 columns of green text and unique 3” floppies, a run for the money. Jobs – you’re fried!”
Finally, it fell to the lyrical talents of Dannii Minogue to poignantly sum up the shattered emptiness suffered by millions of shiny-thing addicts, with her deeply touching elegy: “#SteveJobs RIP”.
An Apple disciple later reassured weeping worshippers of cheaply-made gadgets with a reassuringly expensive price tag that, on the third day, an immaculate Jobs2, 3 or even 4s would rise again, rolling away the stone from the Foxconn crypt in China to hold out the redeeming promise of everlasting lifestyle accessories to his faithful followers.