Theftbook

My relationship with Facebook has always been fraught to say the least.

I find the site annoyingly clunky, slow loading and just too bloated with useless “apps” and fly-by-night user groups who constantly paw at me wanting my cyber attention when in truth I’m rarely in the mood to give it.

The facility I use most on Facebook is the “ignore” button and I do apologize if you have been on the wrong end of it. It’s nothing personal.

Why be on Facebook in the first place then?

Well. I was curious. It was recommended to me by a friend (a real one). And I thought “why not?”

And once you’re on there it’s damned hard to get yourself off.

Facebook, you see, doesn’t like to let go.

Facebook has ownership issues.

Facebook is something of a smug, grasping, bully that doesn’t like to let anyone of anything out of its mucky clutches.

Want evidence?

Facebook has now decided to grant itself rights to users’ photos, wall posts and just about every conceivable bit of information that people are naïve enough to post on its site. Forever.

Even if you manage to delete your account all your photos and information will be archived somewhere and available for use by the Facebook bigwigs for what has been quoted in the Metro as “public performances”

Public performances?

WTF?

Has Facebook not heard of the data protection act or are they somehow exempt?

Here’s another quote for the Metro (only the best sources for me):

“Yesterday, the site’s founder Mark Zuckerberg attempted to defuse the row, insisting in his blog, ‘In reality, we wouldn’t share your information in a way you wouldn’t want.’”

Ri-i-i-i-ght.

In a way I wouldn’t want.

So that’ll be not at all then.

So what’s the point of Facebook hanging onto such information and private (can you read that, Zuckerberg: P – R – I – V – A – T – E ) photos in the first place?

Or is Facebook hoping that at some point in the future I will be quite content to let my personal information be used in some viral advertising campaign or pasted over a Beatles soundtrack to sell an updated version of their shitty little web site to invading Martians? Or even enable Wal-Mart to target me with useless white goods that they think I desperately need and must absolutely buy?

Dream on, Facebook.

Keeping my information without my express permission is theft. Holding my photos – my intellectual property – for a future use that I cannot control or opt out from, no mater how innocuous, is an infringement of my basic human rights.

Facebook, it’s time you were de-faced.

Permanently.

Arsebook

Following a justified dig at online social networking utilities by Rol over at Sunset Over Slawit yesterday I’ve misspent valuable work time this morning thinking up the perfect antidote.

I’d like to patent the idea for an antisocial networking utility which would function along the same lines as Facebook except that instead of trying to accrue loads of friends onto your web profile the goal would be to lose as many as possible. A possible name for this online service could be Arsebook (which, ahem, has a certain ring to it). I’m sure somebody out there could come up with a suitably pert little logo and even build and manage the site for me... cos I really can’t be arsed.

Members can accrue arse points each time they lose an online friend – and maybe earn extra arse points if they actually lose a real life friend that they’ve actually met in the real physical world? You could also install various apps onto your profile page designed to snub, insult and drive away all the other members who are there solely to pimp their band, homemade porno pics, terrorist training camps, etc. And there could be a status box where you could type in the current state of your arseyness at regular intervals of the day so that any other Arsebook member happening across your profile will know that you are flying the flag of arsedom and are to be added to their ever growing list of non-online-friends. Arsetastic!

Personally I think it’s a winner.

By the way, for those of you who have read this far: this is my 300th post. Send the Moet to the usual address please, barman...