Day 9 It’s not my party but I’ll cry if I want to
Someone asked me recently to come back to Facebook, and I explained that I couldn’t as having left the party and slammed the door loud enough to get people to notice, the least I could do was walk up and down the road a bit. And that’s what I’ve been doing; every now and then someone’s nipped out for a bit of a chat or a fag, and I have crept back up to the house and peeked in through the steamy windows to look at you all grooving away in there to your hearts’ content. But for the most part, I have been out here on my own. So are you lot having a good time in there? Is DJGJ still spinning the decks? Ivan telling you about how far he’s run? Plenty of people to flirt with? Good. I’m pleased for you, but also, and far be it for me to be the party pooper, just wondering who you think is hosting this fab party you’re at?
Even on the outside of Facebook I find myself jettisoned back to my login page whenever I come across a Facebook Connect site; you might not even notice this, as many people are now logged in to Fb all the time. However, the BBC’s agony over finally implementing the Fb “like” button has highlighted the danger of allowing Fb to score data from whatever site asks us to kiss its little blue F. As you stagger around the internet how often are you gifting the F’ass with a little bit more of your exhaust data? Don’t worry this ain’t a paranoid rant, well not much of one, it’s just that it occurred to me yesterday that my self-imposed exile may start to exclude me more than I had actually reckoned on. In the future will this Facebook Fail of mine prevent me from having a bank account, logging on to HMRC or even voting? This vast repository of registration that Facebook has become will surely become the default go-to place for anyone needing that data. Will there come a time when the ads say “No Fb? No future”.
The “zipless fuck” experience of friction-free travel round the web where all we need is our Fb login and four cans of lager might not be quite the pain-free experience it currently seems. Sitting here in my Faraday cage watching you lot get loaded and shagging each other in the coat bedroom is great fun, but have you noticed that your Dad is the one who owns the house?