It was the Summer Solstice on Thursday*. For once it was a dawn that could be seen, with clear skies allowing revellers to see the Sun come up over the Heel Stone at Stonehenge.

I say revellers, but that word probably doesn’t apply to Druids, who have hijacked Stonehenge as their own. They also fetched up at the three circles in nearby Avebury.

However, a goodly few of the 9000 or so who did rock up were revellers of a New Age persuasion. And many of them were clearly tits.

In one of the newspapers there was a photograph where the focus was some tit dancing with hula-hoops. Not even facing the Sun. In fact, of the 16 people I bothered to count, only two were actually facing the Sunrise. Two of the others? Sitting down not facing the Sun, one talking on his mobile (surprised he could get a signal) and the other taking a selfie.

It got worse. There’s another photograph taken in the moshpit, with maybe 100 people in it. You can see lots of woolly hippie hats, but precious few are facing the Heel Stone. The odd person here or there was facing the Sun, but to a man all were recording things on their mobile cameraphones. Every single manjack of them was more interested in recording than observing.

A few weeks ago this ‘record but don’t experience things in real time attitude’ reached its nadir. The occasion was The Big Weekend, a series of rock/pop concerts. There were four venues in all, in England, Scotland, Northern Ireland, and Wales, to reflect the diversity of the four nations in the Union.

There were some pretty splendid bands on**, the weather was kind, all was well with the world. Apart from the audiences. All you could see was cameraphones.

I’ve railed about this modern obsession with recording not experiencing before. Back in late May I was especially caustic about the rise of selfie hoidays. If you’re looking at a small screen, you’re missing the bigger picture. It’s not immersive to worry more about Snapchat than what’s in front of your very eyes.

*Unless you’re an Ocker, in which case it was the Winter Solstice. I know, so don’t bother telling me.

**You can take Liam Gallagher out of that. He really is a first-class tit. His brother’s High Flying Birds were ripper, though.