BY Nathan Muir
THE internet, we’re told, is a sinister force harvesting our data to create a complete picture of our lives, precision-targeting us with adverts and all but controlling our minds.
Well, all I can say is when it comes to me, they’re severely underestimating what a cheap bastard I am.
Good luck to them, but the sidebar on my Facebook page is basically one long avenue of over-expensive trees they’re barking up.
Surely they know my credit rating? But for the last five months they’ve been pushing Ted Baker suits at me when I work at a distribution warehouse and dress from Primark.
I keep seeing decking adverts. Nice try. I live in a fourth-floor flat. I’ve as much chance of decking a garden as I have of decking Anthony Joshua.
Investment portfolios? Piss off. If they only tried a deluxe box of Heritage Shapes and Choc Chip Shortbreads from Poundstretcher for £1.99. That’s more my speed.
Or lunchtime deals on guest ales at Wetherspoons. Or scratchcards. Or shit cars with 87,000 miles on the clock.
Do that, and I will start to worry that Mark Zuckerberg knows me better than I know myself. Till then, my poverty is my shield of impregnability.