He’s got a face for radio.

She’s got a face like a second-hand dartboard.

He’s got a face only a mother could love.

They’ve got a face like a bulldog licking piss off a thistle…

We’ve heard them all, haven’t we? Cheap, nasty little insults, usually reserved for slagging someone off behind their back.

They sometimes occur to me when I’m looking at my Sony A7 IV.

It’s not the prettiest camera in the world — a massive, oversized handgrip that looks like it was designed for a sweaty giant, and a dial that, on previous models, showed proper exposure compensation markings but now sits blank, save for a pencil line I’ve crudely scratched in to mark neutral.

There’s zero flair in its design, save for the funky little orange ring around the lens mount — probably something one of their Gen Z designers managed to sneak past Sony’s risk-averse, labyrinthine approval process. It’s the one tiny touch that even flirts with ambition in the otherwise soulless aesthetic of this camera.

But those of us with a history of the occasional alcohol binge know that — under the right conditions —sometimes questionable aesthetics become less of a concern.

Happy to leave that metaphor in the rearview mirror. Let me tell you how I ended up with the Sony — aka the world’s ugliest camera.

How Did We Get Here?

Last winter, I’d been shooting with my trusty Fuji X-T3 and the classic 35mm f/1.4 — which, as we all know, gives a roughly 50mm angle of view and, all things being equal, about the same light-gathering ability as a 50mm full-frame f/1.4 (subject to the usual boring variables of course — we’re not living in a world of T-stops).

The Fuji and that lens make a great little setup for shooting at night. It’s lightweight, and being a crop sensor, you get a bit more depth of field than with full-frame—which I think is a good thing at night, since you're often shooting wide open at f/1.4 (I know I am, anyway). It’s nice to have some context in your photos, rather than just a blur of bokeh shot through a lens slick with filthy city rainwater.

Anyway, that wasn’t really a rationale for why I had that setup—it was simply all I owned. At the time, I genuinely thought it was the best night-shooting option I’d had after trying the Fujifilm X70 (too much noise), the Ricoh GR II (hated the camera), and the X-T3 with the Fuji 35mm f/2. That’s a great little lens, but it’s not fast enough, and the bokeh isn’t as nice as the aforementioned f/1.4.

I was out shooting with John again, who a couple of nights earlier had been using a Fuji X-T2 and the 56mm f/1.2 — another excellent nighttime rig. Tonight, though, he was shooting with a Sony and an 85mm f/1.2, which was an unexpected left turn for someone I’d always known as a die-hard Fujifilm shooter. Turns out, he’s had more cameras than hot dinners.

So we’re out shooting in the rain, and my camera’s missing focus at what feels like a ridiculous rate. I’ve shot at night plenty of times before — though probably not much in the two years prior — but still, it genuinely feels like I’m getting fewer hits than Gotye after Somebody That I Used to Know. Meanwhile, John’s landing keeper after keeper, throwing me the occasional knowing wink and announcing that the Sony “just doesn’t miss.”

The next day, I was a bit pissed off — I’d missed quite a few decent opportunities. I started thinking about that Sony autofocus magic and wondering… could I really cheat on my Fujifilm? I’d always been the one winding up Sony shooters, saying their cameras had no soul, their colour science was crap, and that the photographers behind them were basically dead inside. I suppose you could say I was passionate about Fujifilm.

A Love Letter, Interrupted

You see, I never saw the Fujifilm as just a “tool.” I still find it odd when people refer to cameras that way. When I think of tools, I picture a hammer or a screwdriver—not a beautifully engineered device, more powerful than the computers that took us to the moon. Besides, using that camera was an experience. With its dials and tactile controls, you felt connected.

I’ve never shot film, but I imagine this is as close as digital can get to replicating that analogue romance. Every time I picked it up, I relished the feel of it in my hands — the gentle click of the aperture ring, the satisfying resistance of the shutter dial. It gave you a sense of ownership over every shot.

It’s no exaggeration to say I loved that camera. For a long time, I assumed it would be Number One for life.

Well, it didn’t take long before I made a U-turn worthy of the greasiest politician and ordered a Sony A7R (can’t remember which version)—the high-resolution one from their prosumer lineup. I’m not even sure why I did it. Fujifilm had just released an updated version of the lens I’d been using, which probably would’ve solved a lot of the autofocus issues I was having.

But a few things complicated that option. For one, the screen on my Fuji was starting to break down. And the new Fuji lens, while technically still smaller than a full-frame setup, was quite a bit chunkier than the one I had. After hours on the street, neck ache is still neck ache —regardless of whether you shave off a few grams. One painkiller or two… So I sacked off that idea and clicked “buy” on the Sony, along with their 50mm f/1.4 G Master lens. (I like that name—G Master. Sounds street. Like OG? I used to listen to a lot of rap.)

That gave me a full-frame setup that was roughly equivalent to what I had with the crop-sensor Fuji and its 35mm f/1.4.

Buyer’s Remorse

When the Sony arrived, something about it just didn’t click with me. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I instantly felt a wave of regret. Something felt off — the horrendous menu system gave me an uneasy feeling —but I decided to give it a proper try in the hope that things might click once I started shooting.

So I stepped out onto the street and fired off a couple of frames. The images didn’t blow me away, and even the autofocus — tested on my cat — wasn’t quite the revelatory experience I’d been hoping for.

The next morning, I decided I was going to send the Sony back. The problem was, camera shops can be a bit arsey about people returning gear without a “good” reason. So I settled on one: the camera was only a year newer than my Fuji, which didn’t feel like much of an upgrade. Sure, I didn’t really know how to use it yet — it was a whole new system — but it had the feel of an old camera. It was about six years old, after all. In digital years that’s about seventy.

Doubling Down

In the end, I sweet-talked the shop into taking it back by pointing out that I’d found a great cash-back deal on the A7 IV — so by exchanging these cameras, they’d actually make more money off me. The A7 IV was the equivalent model, but with lower resolution. In theory, that meant faster performance, smaller files, better low-light capability — and crucially, it was two years newer than the one I was returning and three years newer than the X-T3. Now that felt like a proper upgrade.

The only catch? It cost quite a bit more. And it didn’t help that I’d picked up my Fuji at a bargain-basement price, which probably gave me a false sense of what decent cameras are supposed to cost.

I was still pretty anxious about receiving it — feeling like I’d made a mistake, a classic post-Christmas impulse buy to inject a bit of glitz into that grim time of year. Still, I’d made my choice. Time to see if I could make my peace with it…

Photos from my last night shooting with the Fujifilm, wasn’t such a bad nights shooting after all! I remember the camera was a real struggle though, that night and proceeding ones