It's incredible how quickly we humans can develop a languid sense of entitlement over even the simplest of things. For instance, I've spent hours of my waking life in TV comedy writing rooms, which usually consist of about four or five people seated around a table coming up with gags. That's the idea, anyway. The reality often resembles a bizarre group therapy session in which a small cluster of faintly dysfunctional individuals have been encouraged to exorcise their collective anxiety by discussing appalling notions in the most flippant manner imaginable.

You're supposed to remain locked in said chamber until the script is complete – all of you sitting there, breathing in and out and perspiring, with the windows permanently closed, which is why writers' rooms quickly develop the fetid aroma of a becalmed submarine. But it's not quite a hermetically sealed environment. Human beings have to be kept fed and watered, which is why, at periodic intervals, a runner will enter the room to ask if anyone wants a coffee or a can of Coke, to take lunch orders (I have no idea what comedy writers ate before the advent of Nando's), or, if things are really dragging on, to take dinner orders too.

All very cosy. But here's the funny thing: after a few weeks of this, you become hopelessly infantilised. Cans of Coke, for instance, are often stored in a fridge about 15 seconds walk from the writers' room. Yet rather than leaving the room to fetch one yourself the moment you're thirsty, it quickly becomes second nature to wait until the runner appears and order it from them. Not because you think they're a waiter, nor even out of sheer laziness, but because you've genuinely on some level "forgotten" you're capable of locating and opening the fridge yourself. In other words, you're spoiled.

I bring this up because the other day I went online to post a Spotify playlist for people to listen to (if you're visiting from 1903, Spotify is a service that streams music to your computer – think of it as an infinitely huge jukebox. Although being from 1903, you won't know what a jukebox is either. Sorry. Guess you'll just have to fend for yourself).

Anyway, some people listened to it, some people didn't – but some objected to the mere mention and use of Spotify. Spotify, they said, was like Nick Clegg: it had promised one thing, only to do turn round and do another. It offered free music for all (supported by ad breaks, like commercial radio), only to recently scale this back to 10 hours of free music per month. The reason for the scaleback? Presumably an attempt to make the whole thing financially viable – by encouraging more people to subscribe. Subscribers pay about £5 per month and can listen to as much music as they want, without any ad breaks. If they go up to £10 they can also listen to music on their phones, even while offline.

In 1986, when I was 15, a 12in single cost roughly £2.99 – the equivalent of just over £6 today. And unless you were loaded, you didn't just buy records willy-nilly. You chose carefully and coveted what you had. (You also taped loads of them off the radio for nothing, but that often required the will and patience to sit through Bruno Brookes).

Anyhow. I'm not claiming five quid a month is insignificant: it's more than many can afford. But in this case it's bloody cheap for what it gets you. The problem for Spotify is that no one wants to pay for anything they access via a computer – and when they do, there's a permanent level of resentment bubbling just under the surface. Hence the anger about "only" getting 10 hours of free music.

Look at the App Store. Read the reviews of novelty games costing 59p. Lots of slaggings – which is fair enough when you're actively warning other users not to bother shelling out for something substandard. But they often don't stop there. In some cases, people insist the developers should be jailed for fraud, just because there weren't enough levels for their liking. I once read an absolutely scathing one-star review in which the author bitterly complained that a game had only kept them entertained for four hours.

FOUR HOURS? FOR 59P? AND YOU'RE ANGRY ENOUGH TO WRITE AN ESSAY ABOUT IT? ON YOUR EXPENSIVE IPHONE? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?

Yes. Of course they have. Because it's human nature. Like a runner who fetches us cans of drink when we're thirsty, technology has left us hopelessly spoiled. We whine like disappointed emperors the moment it does anything other than pander to our every whim. If the internet gave free back rubs, people would complain when it stopped because its thumbs were sore.

I ranted about precisely this on Twitter the other day – using that precise line about back rubs – and a couple of people told me to shut up because I was annoying them. Since Twitter is a) free and b) only displays commentary from those you chose to follow, this, too, is madness – like tailing someone down the street only to complain about the tune they've chosen to hum.

And even now, because these words too will appear on the internet, I know someone, somewhere, will be formulating a complaint in their head because I've reused my "free internet back rubs" tweet in this article. They'd read it on Twitter last week, and now they're dismayed to have to read it on their computer again today. Your Majesty is displeased. I've let myself down but more importantly, I've let them down. As has everything that provides anything other than perpetual complimentary delight.

And having written that, at home, alone, I'm off down the shops. To get a can of Coke. Assuming I can remember how.