My name is Bernard O’Shea, and I’m addicted to buying stuff online that I don't need

I'm not a shopaholic. Not a collector. I'm just a middle-aged man buying things I didn't know existed five minutes ago... I'm a doom spender

'I’m not sure if secret FBI agents are sneaking into my room at night and hypnotising me in to buying more and more car-phone holders than one human could possibly need in a single lifetime, but I’m not ruling it out.'

There's now a name for what I have: Doom spending.

It’s the habit of buying unnecessary things to make ourselves feel better when the world feels uncertain, stressful, or slightly on fire.

Younger generations are often blamed for splashing cash on luxuries, instead of saving for the future. I snuggled up to this demographic security blanket, thinking I wasn’t as flippant with my finances, but after a very quick self-inspection, I realised I’m a type-A doom spender.

Spending is my digital ice cream.

I always knew, growing up, that ice cream would become a major part of my life. I can’t say the same for the family phone, which was rooted to the hallway and surrounded by the 0502 phone book, the Yellow Pages, and the tiniest chair that I’m pretty sure we got out of a Barbie dream house.

I remember massive rows after Sunday dinner, when my mother would try to get eight exact ice-cream slices to shove out individually, like a bird trying to feed expectant chicklets (with accompanying wafers, obviously) from one HB block.

Like the ice cream, my phone now serves me a digital soft scoop in the same rose-tinted manner. A product will be offered up like an Aztec sacrifice in the family WhatsApp group. I’ll think, ‘Oh, we’ll have a look!’ (in Steve MacManaman meme style). Then I’ll think, ‘This could be very useful,’ or ‘I was looking for that exact thing’, even though I wasn’t.

But the sugary hit punches harder than ever when I purchase another magnificent piece of Temu-inspired plastic.

But here’s the thing. It’s better than ice cream. It has no calories, my algorithm keeps feeding me.

I call it ‘my’, not ‘the’ algorithm. Why? Because like those home bakers who keep feeding their sourdough starters, I, too, have fed my algorithm, and now it knows what I want and when I want it.

I’m not scared of big tech knowing my every purchase. In fact, there are times when anniversary presents wouldn’t have been bought if they didn’t pop up on my feed.

My new addiction of choice is children’s sporting goods. I think to myself, ‘What if they don’t have football socks that fit them?’, or ‘Maybe they need the third-choice Nottingham Forest strip, and it’s on sale, I’d better get it now, or I will fail as a father’.

However, I most definitely crossed the Rubicon when I made friends with Temu. Temu and I go on very long, digital shopping walks. In fact, I’m thinking of writing a book, titled Temu And Me: A Journey Of Wonder… Why I Bought This.

I really think I need the stuff.

I’m not sure if secret FBI agents are sneaking into my room at night and hypnotising me in to buying more and more car-phone holders than one human could possibly need in a single lifetime, but I’m not ruling it out. But when I see them being used and eulogised by TikTokkers, my bunny brain kicks in, and something deep down in the bowels of my soul screeches, ‘I NEED THAT.

Not only do I need it, but I genuinely think it’s going to change my life. Then, the daydream narratives kick in, and I see myself post-school drop-off with a new magnetic phone holder. I get a call from an unknown number, ‘Bernard, this is the Taoiseach. We know about the 360-degree, swivel magnetic phone holder with an added USB-C port you just bought. We have a dangerous mission. We need a man like you. Dammit, Ireland needs a man like you’.

I essentially turn in to a man-child who can’t stop thinking about his birthday present. The thought of it is much bigger than the thing itself. But I’m 47 now, and I don’t have to wait.

It’s a seriously bad habit.

Doom spending slowly crept in to my life, replacing the Angelus. Every day, at 6pm, I’d sit on the couch. First, I’d doom scroll, then I’d doom spend to offset it.

Do I need 500 extra-thick bin liners? Yes, of course I do. What happens if we’re all locked down again and the bins pile up? What about the twin-seal waterproof and UV-protected surfing bag? Don’t be silly. What if we go to the outside part of the giant swimming pool in Center Parcs, where will we put our wallets and phones? We need it.

The sad thing is, I really feel like I’ve achieved something. Until it’s delivered. Then, I convince myself that whatever piece of crap I bought will ‘eventually be useful', but, inevitably, it ends up in one of the 500 extra-thick liners I bought and dumped.

When I started writing this article, a wave of shame washed over me; I was embarrassed to think I once believed I had autonomy over what I bought online.

I thought I could never be duped in to parting with my money so easily and so often. As my mother always says: ‘You wanted it, but didn’t need it.’ To be honest, I’m not even sure what I need anymore!