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Consent was supposed to give the reader a choice. In practice it has given us a toll-booth on every page.
Plain-spoken columns about everyday British bother.
Every other month a familiar app arrives new, polished, and oddly smaller. The button has moved. The bit you relied on has gone away for your own good.
The patch notes are poetry. Performance improvements. Minor bug fixes. A delicate line about how the team has been listening. You update, because you have been asked politely twenty times and the little red dot has started to feel personal, and the app opens looking like itself. Then you try to do the one thing you actually open the app t… Read the column →
Consent was supposed to give the reader a choice. In practice it has given us a toll-booth on every page.
Buying a train ticket in Britain is a short exam, and the answer you give decides how much you pay for sitting on the same seat.
A council car park used to want pound coins. Now it wants your mobile number, your postcode, and a small monthly surcharge.
The widget says "Hi! I'm here to help." It is not here to help. It is here to delay you until you give up.
The receipt is an ecosystem. It has a title, a loyalty tier, an invitation to rate us, a QR code, and, somewhere near the end, what you bought.
“Please keep writing about the receipts. My pockets cannot take another winter.” A reader, Durham
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