Alea iacta est: digital ID will mean crossing the Rubicon
“Alea iacta est”, huffed Reggie as he took the last bite of his dripping crumpet. “Alea iacta est, alea iacta est”.
“You wot my dear”, retorted the Housekeeper, Mrs Daddywood.
“Alea iacta est”, (‘the die is cast’) – it is what Julius Caesar said when he crossed the Rubicon in defiance of the Senate. Yes, there is no going back now, Old Blighty boy”, continued Reggie. “You see the thing is Mrs Daddywood, there is no going back once ‘Starmer-Starmer-two-faced liar your bum is on fire’ forces digital ID on His Majesty’s subjects. Bit-by-bit, government will take complete control of our lives. It was planned a long time ago by the likes of war criminal, Blair, and his entourage of megalomaniacs – Soros, Gates and the other no-borders bogeymen. This is a co-ordinated attack on freedom loving people by the globalists, Mrs Daddywood. They are going to tell us it is for our own safety (just like taking an experimental vaccine for Covid 19 was, and then getting myocarditis) and the innocent lambs are going to sleep-walk into slaughter because up until recently their respective governments ‘haven’t done too much untoward’... Haha, what baloney! First Australia, yesterday Britain, today Switzerland, tomorrow Liechtenstein and San Marino – you will see, Mrs Daddywood. We are going to end up on digital queer street!”
“Oh, but I thought it would mean they could control our borders, dear”, said Mrs Daddywood as she dusted the Serpentine side table and Regency rosewood whatnot laden down with 19th century erotic novels.
“I fancy not, Mrs Daddywood! By golly, Mrs Daddywood, how could you be so dash naïve to believe that codswallop! They are ferrying them in. They will create the chaos, and then the grey, tool-maker descendant with the charm of a septic tank cleaner and the nasalised voice of a worn-out automaton will say: ‘digital ID is the surest way of tackling the migration problem’. And, then we will all die of boredom”.
“No, no, this is just more duplicitous twaddle! We already have digital ID for migrants. It is called the Share Code. What is more, you can’t work in the UK without a National Insurance number. No, this is not about them. It is about us! It is about taking control and micro-managing every tiny iota of our final shards of privacy! They will know who you are, where you are, whence thou cometh, whither thou goest. They will be able to read anything and everything you have ever been tempted to scribble since the dawn of the digital era. So, you had better stop sending me messages about your son’s flatulence, Mrs Daddywood!”
Reggie gently blotted his buttery-crumpet lubricated lips with that favourite Portuguese antique linen napkin of his and reached steadfastly for the cafetière. Disinclined to work, he continued to scroll the pages of X – full of recently arrived ‘engineers’ and ‘doctors’ hurling coarse insults at the local chaps.
“Oh, Reggie, by heck is it really so? Right, luv, I need pop out and buy sum groceries and cheese for dinner tonight. You got Mr and Mrs Shining-Meekly cuming aint’ ye? I’ll see ye in a jiffy, Mr Reggie”, shouted Mrs Daddywood.
The door closed, leaving Reggie to revel in his solitude and ponder the ever-so trying situation of England drunk on nihilism. He remained obdurate, but it was a glorious morning, late summer or early autumn, depending on how you care to take it. The dainty sheen of the beech leaves blushed to a deeper mustard colour. There were occasional flashes of sunlight on the glinting river, empty except for an occasional sculler passing over the Cherwell’s surface with the agreeable dexterity of a pond skater. Save the clunk of the silver Stieff cutlery, there was a short, interstitial silence which gave way to the distant cry of a throaty coxswain.
Then, the front door opened with a gust of energy.
“Ee ba gum! Ye are not gonna believe this, luv. Well, u know that Digital ID thing Mr Reggie were talking ‘bout? I downloaded that app thing just last week. I just wen’ to pay for groceries and cheese, and it were declined, weren’t it…Look at this…I got message on phone that says”:
‘Payment declined. Please delete all tweets that violate hate speech legislation to process payment’.
Reggie and Mrs Daddywood looked at one another, aghast. Aghast that the digital dystopia could reveal itself so rapidly on the threshold of gratuitous witticism, respectability and English decorum. This was a truly bad business. She deleted her son’s tweets where he had been a trifle rude about the Mayor of London’s questionable achievements.
“Stone the crows”, said Reggie. “Stone the sodding crows! What on earth have we become?”
Reggie dashed his hat, seized his umbrella and marched Mrs Daddywood down to Paxton & Whitfield.
“Good morning, Sir. I should like 500 grammes of your finest Baron Bigod, Cornish Yarg and St Jude with some plum and habanero chili jam as an accompaniment”, offered Reggie. Reggie and Mrs Daddywood cast a nervous glance at one another. The frigid air was filled with suspense as Reggie produced the previously declined card to facilitate payment.
Bing! A message appeared immediately on her phone:
‘Payment declined. You have exceeded your carbon allowance for the month of September.’
Horrified – Mrs Daddywood’s face had gone from beet-coloured to crimson. She looked first at the cheesemonger and then Reggie. She knew that bus trip to Cornwall just last Saturday and Sunday had been a costly error.
“No problem at all, Madam”, said the cheesemonger. “It’s happening all the time now. You will need to come back at the beginning of November and make the purchase providing you reduce your carbon footprint over the next month that is”.
Mrs Daddywood grasped Reggie’s imperméable with a look of guilt and shame.
“That is it, dear Reggie. That is it. Alea iacta est”, she nodded in stern agreement.
“Alea iacta est”, huffed Reggie as he took the last bite of his dripping crumpet. “Alea iacta est, alea iacta est”.
“You wot my dear”, retorted the Housekeeper, Mrs Daddywood.
“Alea iacta est”, (‘the die is cast’) – it is what Julius Caesar said when he crossed the Rubicon in defiance of the Senate. Yes, there is no going back now, Old Blighty boy”, continued Reggie. “You see the thing is Mrs Daddywood, there is no going back once ‘Starmer-Starmer-two-faced liar your bum is on fire’ forces digital ID on His Majesty’s subjects. Bit-by-bit, government will take complete control of our lives. It was planned a long time ago by the likes of war criminal, Blair, and his entourage of megalomaniacs – Soros, Gates and the other no-borders bogeymen. This is a co-ordinated attack on freedom loving people by the globalists, Mrs Daddywood. They are going to tell us it is for our own safety (just like taking an experimental vaccine for Covid 19 was, and then getting myocarditis) and the innocent lambs are going to sleep-walk into slaughter because up until recently their respective governments ‘haven’t done too much untoward’... Haha, what baloney! First Australia, yesterday Britain, today Switzerland, tomorrow Liechtenstein and San Marino – you will see, Mrs Daddywood. We are going to end up on digital queer street!”
“Oh, but I thought it would mean they could control our borders, dear”, said Mrs Daddywood as she dusted the Serpentine side table and Regency rosewood whatnot laden down with 19th century erotic novels.
“I fancy not, Mrs Daddywood! By golly, Mrs Daddywood, how could you be so dash naïve to believe that codswallop! They are ferrying them in. They will create the chaos, and then the grey, tool-maker descendant with the charm of a septic tank cleaner and the nasalised voice of a worn-out automaton will say: ‘digital ID is the surest way of tackling the migration problem’. And, then we will all die of boredom”.
“No, no, this is just more duplicitous twaddle! We already have digital ID for migrants. It is called the Share Code. What is more, you can’t work in the UK without a National Insurance number. No, this is not about them. It is about us! It is about taking control and micro-managing every tiny iota of our final shards of privacy! They will know who you are, where you are, whence thou cometh, whither thou goest. They will be able to read anything and everything you have ever been tempted to scribble since the dawn of the digital era. So, you had better stop sending me messages about your son’s flatulence, Mrs Daddywood!”
Reggie gently blotted his buttery-crumpet lubricated lips with that favourite Portuguese antique linen napkin of his and reached steadfastly for the cafetière. Disinclined to work, he continued to scroll the pages of X – full of recently arrived ‘engineers’ and ‘doctors’ hurling coarse insults at the local chaps.
“Oh, Reggie, by heck is it really so? Right, luv, I need pop out and buy sum groceries and cheese for dinner tonight. You got Mr and Mrs Shining-Meekly cuming aint’ ye? I’ll see ye in a jiffy, Mr Reggie”, shouted Mrs Daddywood.
The door closed, leaving Reggie to revel in his solitude and ponder the ever-so trying situation of England drunk on nihilism. He remained obdurate, but it was a glorious morning, late summer or early autumn, depending on how you care to take it. The dainty sheen of the beech leaves blushed to a deeper mustard colour. There were occasional flashes of sunlight on the glinting river, empty except for an occasional sculler passing over the Cherwell’s surface with the agreeable dexterity of a pond skater. Save the clunk of the silver Stieff cutlery, there was a short, interstitial silence which gave way to the distant cry of a throaty coxswain.
Then, the front door opened with a gust of energy.
“Ee ba gum! Ye are not gonna believe this, luv. Well, u know that Digital ID thing Mr Reggie were talking ‘bout? I downloaded that app thing just last week. I just wen’ to pay for groceries and cheese, and it were declined, weren’t it…Look at this…I got message on phone that says”:
‘Payment declined. Please delete all tweets that violate hate speech legislation to process payment’.
Reggie and Mrs Daddywood looked at one another, aghast. Aghast that the digital dystopia could reveal itself so rapidly on the threshold of gratuitous witticism, respectability and English decorum. This was a truly bad business. She deleted her son’s tweets where he had been a trifle rude about the Mayor of London’s questionable achievements.
“Stone the crows”, said Reggie. “Stone the sodding crows! What on earth have we become?”
Reggie dashed his hat, seized his umbrella and marched Mrs Daddywood down to Paxton & Whitfield.
“Good morning, Sir. I should like 500 grammes of your finest Baron Bigod, Cornish Yarg and St Jude with some plum and habanero chili jam as an accompaniment”, offered Reggie. Reggie and Mrs Daddywood cast a nervous glance at one another. The frigid air was filled with suspense as Reggie produced the previously declined card to facilitate payment.
Bing! A message appeared immediately on her phone:
‘Payment declined. You have exceeded your carbon allowance for the month of September.’
Horrified – Mrs Daddywood’s face had gone from beet-coloured to crimson. She looked first at the cheesemonger and then Reggie. She knew that bus trip to Cornwall just last Saturday and Sunday had been a costly error.
“No problem at all, Madam”, said the cheesemonger. “It’s happening all the time now. You will need to come back at the beginning of November and make the purchase providing you reduce your carbon footprint over the next month that is”.
Mrs Daddywood grasped Reggie’s imperméable with a look of guilt and shame.
“That is it, dear Reggie. That is it. Alea iacta est”, she nodded in stern agreement.
