Autocorrect doesn’t fix mistakes, it creates them – Kevin Page
There are many modern inventions that claim to make life easier. Autocorrect on your phone is not one of them.
Autocorrect is the digital equivalent of that well-meaning friend who insists on finishing your sentences, except they’re always wrong and somehow make you look like a complete idiot in the process.
Now I should point out here my phone is ancient – as in probably 5 years old – and my fat fingers are, well, too fat for me to be doing a lot of texting so I rarely correct anything. Which is part of the problem, to be fair.
Take last week, for example.
I was emailing someone called Elizabeth. A perfectly normal name. A name that has existed for centuries. A name that does not require intervention.
I typed “Dear Elizabeth”.
My phone, in its infinite wisdom, changed it to: Dear Elephant.
I didn’t notice.
I sent it.
It wasn’t until she replied – very politely, I might add – that I realised I had greeted a grown woman as a large grey mammal with tusks.
I apologised immediately, of course. My phone changed “So sorry” to “So soggy”. At least I think it was my phone and not just me.
Which didn’t help.
Anyway.
This is the problem with autocorrect. It doesn’t correct anything. It just confidently replaces your perfectly normal words with bizarre alternatives that make you sound like you’ve suffered a minor head injury.
I well remember an early trial of something similar back in my newspaper days.
Tasked by the bigwigs with giving this new-fangled scanner-word-predictor thing a go, I confidently wrote there would be “100 orienteers running around the forest” that weekend.
The machine turned it into “100 urinators” and that was that test over with for a few more years until more kinks were ironed out.
Back at home on my phone, Mrs P has witnessed many of my predictive text disasters.
She once watched me send a message that was meant to say “I’ll be there soon” but autocorrect decided I meant “I’ll be there spoon”. She didn’t even blink. She just said, “Take the good one from the drawer.”
Another time, I tried to text No 2 Son “Good luck for the interview”. My phone changed it to “Good luck for the interlude”, which made it sound like he was auditioning for a Shakespearean play rather than applying for a job at a bank.
And then there was the time I attempted to write “We’re running late” and it became “We’re ruining latte”. Which, to be fair, is something I’ve probably done as well.
The worst part is autocorrect seems to have a very inflated sense of its own abilities. It doesn’t just fix typos – it rewrites your personality. It takes one misspelled word and decides you’re a completely different person.
Type “meeting” and it changes it to “melting”. Type “dinner” and it changes it to “danger”. Type “Thanks” and it changes it to “Thongs”, which is not ideal when messaging your boss.
I’ve tried fighting back. I’ve tried slowing down, typing carefully, watching each word as it appears. But autocorrect is faster than me. It lurks in the background like a mischievous gremlin, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Mrs P says I should turn it off.
I tried.
My phone asked, “Are you sure?”
I said yes.
It changed it to “Are you soup?”
I gave up.
The thing is, autocorrect never steps in when you actually need it. If I accidentally type “I’ll be there at 7pm” when I meant 8pm, it doesn’t correct that. If I write “I’ve attached the file” and forget to attach the file, it doesn’t say a word. If I send a message to the wrong person entirely, it sits quietly, letting the chaos unfold.
But type “Elizabeth” and suddenly it’s Sir David Attenborough.
I’ve come to the conclusion that autocorrect isn’t a tool. It’s a prankster. A digital troublemaker. A tiny comedian living inside my old phone whose sole purpose is to embarrass me in front of people I’m trying to impress.
And it’s winning.
Last night, I tried to send Mrs P a message saying “On my way”. Autocorrect changed it to “On my yak”.
She replied: “Get milk.”
I didn’t bother correcting her.
At this point, I’m thinking of embracing it. Let autocorrect decide who I am. Let it rewrite my messages. Let it send me off to meetings about melting. Let it ruin latte.
It’s clearly in charge anyway.
Still, I live in hope. One day, someone will invent a phone that simply asks: “Is this what you meant?”
And I will proudly tap “Yes please”.
And hope like hell it doesn’t change it to “swiss cheese” or something to do with urinators running round a forest.