Andy Richardson: I'm the proud owner of the world's worst phone

She looked at it as though inspecting the sole of her shoes for something brown and slippery. Incredulous that I could be so unfashionable, she repeated, slowly: "It's a, it's a Blackberry . . ."

She wore the expression of a fashionista who'd spotted a 1970s tanktop at a 2016 spring/summer fashion parade or a foodie who'd arrived at a Michelin-starred restaurant and been offered slices of crinkled, pickled beetroot with toast and margarine.

In the world of insults, less is more. The shop assistant's views were clear because of what she didn't say – rather than what she did. She smiled, hopelessly, pretending to be interested.

"Please take a seat," she said as she disappeared into a back room, either:

a) To find the missing part that would make my new phone work,

b) To call her mates and tell them about the geeky technophile who'd got the world's least fashionable phone, or,

c) To file her nails.

I'd like to think a) was the reason for her temporary departure. But, judging by her demeanour – and the exceptional state of her nails when she returned – I think it was probably c). Those little white stars on navy blue nails looked great, by the way.

The showroom reinforced her Crackberry Hate. It was crammed with rows and rows of iPhone 6s, Samsung Galaxy uber-widgets and other cool, sleek devices. You know, ones that people actually like. I felt like I was trying to explain to a first date why I'd brought her tickets to a gig by The Wurzels instead of Kanye.

"It'll be fun. We'll drink cider."

"I hate you."

I am the proud owner of the world's worst phone for one simple reason: it has a typewriter. And – being a writer – I find that's particularly helpful. And it's not just any old typewriter; it's a typewriter that's almost as wide as the keyboard for my PC. That presents logistical problems. I've just taken my first call on my sparkly, shiny Passport. And I had no idea where to put my ear. If I put it at the top of the screen, my mouth's too far away from the microphone. If I put it too close to my mouth, I can't hear what the other person is saying. So when I have a conversation I have to slide it higher up my cheek and when I'm listening I have to slide it back down to mouth level. Talking to a friend makes me look like I'm rubbing my face with a phone, which is just plain weird. Because nobody rubs their face with a phone. Not even the famous Phone Rubbing Man from Planet Crackberry. And he should know.

So I've been thinking of writing to Crackberry's customer services department to suggest a few complimentary add-ons they might like to offer those of us who waste money they don't have on their beautifully-keyboarded device.

The first will be a free face extension, so that people have the extra inch required to listen to calls and talk into the microphone without doing the phone rubbing thing. I was thinking they might give away some sort of portable face stretching rack, too, the sort of thing they've still got at the Tower Of London. Or, alternatively, when EE customers visit their local store with a Crackberry Passport, they can be whipped into a small antechamber where their face can be pulled until it's long enough and wide enough to fit the phone.

I thought Crackberry might also like to offer a self-help manual to new customers, so that they're prepared for the inevitable humiliation that follows when talking to staff at the EE store.

They could offer tips like this:

1. Realise you are not alone. Three other people own Blackberries.

2. Seek out a support network to help you move on. You'll find them on the Dark Web.

3. Don't hide. And I've a feeling all Blackberry Passport owners will be fine with that one. When you've got a phone the size of a CD case, it's pretty difficult.

4. View your Blackberry crisis as an opportunity. I'm not sure how we can spin that. View it as an opportunity to do what everybody else does and buy an iPhone or a Samsung Galaxy, perhaps.

And, finally:

5. Use any down-time to do something you really enjoy. Yeah, like looking at an online phone catalogue and marvelling at pictures of iPhones.

Back in the store, the shop assistant had returned from the back room with the all-important missing-thingamajig that made my new phone work.

"You can leave now," she said, with a frostiness that made Ann Robinson seem happier than a lottery winner. As I walked through a packed shopping centre, wondering how I could fit the too-big Crackberry to my too-small face, the phone rang. I did what all Crackberry owners do. Ignored it.