Your Wish is my Command
a Foray into the Digital Psyche Claw of Chinese Factory Bargains
I can’t remember what got me to download the Wish app the first time. I had heard about it from friends and thought it sounded awful. Long shipping times and bargains mitigated by shipping costs. But one day I did click on that sweeping white W on the pale blue background and was instantly drawn in. Up to 50% off! Buy in the next 4”33 to secure a lower price! Price blitz! I found myself ordering all manner of stationary. I spent an excessive amount of money on stuff I definitely didn’t need, but definitely wanted. Then you kind of forget about it and it arrives over the next few months in dribs and drabs. It’s all kind of cool, and better made than you might think (though perhaps worse than you’d hope) but not always exactly what you looked at.
The extreme examples are things I never would order. There were little things that looked like mushrooms in a bag, but in actual fact were some kind of electronic supply. Things that looked a lot like ecstasy tablets that were in actuality cloths that opened up in water. There was a handgun, well actually if you look closely it was a picture of a handgun on a mouse mat. And recently a metal wall plaque of a ‘vintage’ vial of cocaine hydrochloride. It’s hard if not impossible, on the internet to tell a photo of a photo from just a photo of an object. And if someone had bought the handgun mouse mat, I doubt they have much recourse for complaining to advertising standards that they thought they were buying an actual firearm.
Something about the crazy, compelling, but aesthetically nightmarish layout gives you the impression of a firm wild enough to send weapons and narcotics through the post. But it’s not the case, thankfully really. It’s like a playtime version of the dark web, probably. I deleted the app a couple of times and was drawn back in with a picture of a rather nice looking synthesizer for £13. Could I find it on their endless menus? Could I bollocks. But I probably bought some washi tape, knock off aromatherapy oil, and a clip-on telephoto lens for my phone. That’s exactly what I did. The app remains deleted now, but the adverts still come to me on facebook, and will do for who knows how long, until I finally cave in and go on a Wishing frenzy, which is briefly exciting and stimulating, and ultimately depressing, like gorging on McDonalds. And like McDonald’s it is an addictive hit, and they know you’re coming back for more.
