By skyforbes 
The Emergence of the Mobies
Try to imagine this: my neighborhood supermarket, the aroma of slightly spoiled reduced-for-speed chicken wafting through the air. and me, your lovable narrator, attempting to purchase a reasonable loaf of bread as my three-year-old nephew grips a package of Haribo as if it were the last piece of gold on the planet. I was on a relatively typical excursion with my three-year-old nephew- let’s call him “Tiny Tim” for record purposes- with the aim of purchasing some necessities: crisps, whiskey (me, not him), and the small cheese cubes that he constantly crunched away on like a starving Victorian waif.
And then, as we’re waiting in line like civilized humans (or so I hoped), it happens. A woman ahead of us in line just drops her basket, pulls out her phone, and starts writhing around like she’s auditioning for a low-budget Magic Mike sequel. There. Between the digestive biscuits and the self-checkout.
While we were witnessing this event, another took place in the queue at the checkout, and an extremely odd scene unfolded in front of us. An older lady, dressed in what could only be described as “pajamas that would shame her parents,” began dancing in front of a display of reduced sausage rolls.
Her phone was balanced on top of the chewing gum stand, recording what I presumed she believed was a seduction scene but instead looked like a flailing flamingo in a tornado. Tiny Tim, my observant kid that he is, pulled on my arm and leaned in to ask, ” Uncle… why is that lady doing Mobie?”
My nephew tugs at my arm. “Uncle, why’s that woman behaving like a Mobie?”
Mobi?” I inquired.
“Uh-huh,” he nodded seriously.
Bloody hell. My nephew, a kid who still thinks “peekaboo” is a riot, has already made the final diagnosis of society’s terminal illness. Mobies. He’s talking about Zombies!! Brain-dead, phone-wielding husks, stumbling through life in quest of likes, clout, or whatever unimaginable currency powers this cyber-purgatory.
Now, I know what you’re asking yourself: How does my toddler nephew have a zombie vocabulary? Likely the same reason he knows the word “espress.o”; contemporary parenting is a minefield, sweetheart. But the genuine terror here isn’t his zombie vocabulary; it’s that grown adults have become attention-grabbing ghouls, trading dignity for 15 seconds of “POV: You’re a sexy trolley-pusher.”
I’ve spotted them everywhere:
1.) Gyms: Some guy groaning through bicep curls while his phone records his “progress” (read: his face scrunching up like he’s passing a kidney stone. Me… I’m just hoping not to die on the rowing machine.
2.) Public Toilets: I heard from my co-worker that a girl applying lip gloss and quietly whispering \” POV: You’re my work wife\” to her own mirror image.
3.) Motorways: Real people dancing on the M25 while lorries honked like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
4.) Hospitals: Even hospitals aren’t safe anymore. I actually witnessed a nurse a nurse! Pirouetting in front of a patient’s bed as if she was auditioning for Strictly Come Haemorrhoids. I did complain, of course. The NHS doesn’t have enough problems without personnel making A&E into a bloody “So You Think You Can Dance” audition.
The Phones Are Drinking Our Souls.
Now, I’m not unfamiliar with performance. I’ve played a donkey in a play. Don’t even bother asking… A very low point of my life. But even “I” understand there’s a time and place. TikTok has convinced otherwise reasonable people that every moment is their moment. The reality is, we’ve turned into a nation of Mobies. Phones aren’t devices; they’re vampiric attention-suckers, bleeding us of fundamental human decency. We once patiently waited in line, grumbling passive-aggressive remarks under our breath at the person ahead of us purchasing 17 cans of cat food. Now? Now we perform. We broadcast. We make the bloody milk aisle our own personal Got Talent casting call.
And the worst part? My nephew was the first one to spot them. A toddler saw the Mobies for what they are: soulless, shambling husks, addicted to the glow of their screens. So the next time you’re at your local grocery store and have the urge to floss in front of the frozen peas, ask yourself: Am I the Mobie? And if the answer is yes… for the love of God, hang up and buy your wretched little meal deal like everyone else. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go explain to Tiny Tim why REAL zombies would never be found dead doing TikTok dances.
The Cure? A Well-Timed Eye Roll
I’m not recommending we outlaw TikTok (although if it vanished tomorrow, I’d be having a whisky in celebration). I’m saying let’s perhaps ponder:
“Is this video worth appearing in front of a toddler who already believes you are dead?”
If the answer is yes, then by all means, shake your booty next to the frozen peas. But if there is a tinge of shame? Put. The phone. Down. When we were exiting Tesco, Archie announced loudly, “I don’t wanna be a Mobie.” Smart lad. Meanwhile, the dancer’s video had 12 likes.
The next time you notice a person recording a TikTok in public, do what I do: Sigh deeply… Mutter “Oh, for fuck’s sake”.