SO, at 3pm on Sunday, you officially relinquished all human control to the Government and are now some sort of Rishi-run automaton.
Unless, that is, you were in the countryside, a Three network subscriber, had switched your phone off or are Fern Britton*.
Except, of course, this is utter nonsense and the emergency alert test is no different from, say, receiving post from the DVLA or getting an email alert from HMRC.
But what IS scary is the device in our grubby, capitalist little hands: The smartphone.
Last week I went to the dentist and was offered Invisalign alignment treatment by a man who clearly thought I had teeth like Steptoe and Son.
An hour later, sponsored ads for Invisalign started popping up on my Instagram feed.
The following day, after hoovering up two Deliveroos in the space of seven hours, I was moaning to my friend that I felt fat.
So far, so totally female.
Except, minutes later, up popped a spam email on my private account, supposedly from the NHS offering me a “free weight-loss plan”.
To add insult to injury, the email told me I qualified for a free consultation.
Then — and this one wounded — Facebook came out swinging.
My target ad read “How to reverse menopause weight gain” and featured a first-person testimonial FROM A MUCH OLDER WOMAN THAN ME saying: “I started at 13 stone, I’m now down to ten.
“There’s no way I could do a body transformation with my busy schedule without the xx programme.” (I absolutely refuse to plug the company.)
Over the past couple of months, boozy nights out have almost invariably been followed by irritatingly worthy ads, telling me I’m a G&T away from rehab.
Looking through my camera roll, I can see I’ve saved a couple of beauts.
One told me: “Alcohol-related fatty liver develops in 90 per cent of people who drink more than 40g of alcohol (or four units) per day.”
Cool story, bro.
Another ad told me: “It’s binge-release day! Put down that chocolate bar, and get help today!”
I’ve been offered cleanses, hip-mobility courses, weight-loss camps and been asked if I’d like a scan to check my brain for signs of dementia. I wouldn’t, no.
My friends have similar horror stories.
For someone like me, with no known mental health problems (besides the usual slight hormonal madness etc, and a temper like Mike Tyson when I’m sleep-deprived) it’s water off a duck’s back.
But for someone vulnerable or lonely, such insensitive, close-to-the-bone messaging is potentially devastating.
My recovering-anorexic friend has been offered diet pills and a slimming jab.
It very nearly triggered a fresh spell of disordered eating.
A new report out Stateside over the weekend claimed that Google is now using special fonts to track users’ IP addresses and browser history.
Smishing is also increasingly becoming a problem.
A relatively new form of cyber attack, it’s threatening millions of Brits hourly, using text messages to entice consumers to click on phoney links which either allow personal information to be exchanged or malware to be downloaded.
As if our £900 smartphones, which are also giving us the collective concentration spans of koi carp, weren’t toxic enough, poor Chinese schoolchildren toiling away in Chinese labour factories are making them.
And still this doesn’t stop us stooping over our screens, frantically over-sharing with friends, family, Google, Rishi and, quite probably, Putin’s GRU.
No wonder more and more people are doing the only sensible thing left: Binning the Samsung and going off-grid entirely.
The hashtag #offgrid has more than two million posts on Instagram, although presumably not by the people going off-grid themselves.
Frankly, who can blame them?
*Fern Tweeted despondently yesterday saying she never received her alert.
A PARENT should never have to bury their own child, it goes against every law of nature.
The same, then, applies to dogs and their owners.
Seeing the late, great Paul O’Grady’s beloved Maltese, Conchita, being cradled by Paul’s husband Andre Portasio during his funeral procession last week was as poignant as it was heartbreaking.
Little Conchita won’t understand where or why her dad has gone, and doubtless will spend the rest of her days patiently waiting for Paul’s familiar footsteps, beckoning her for walkies.
ANOTHER day, another unfortunate leak involving the Duchess of Montecito Sussex.
Meghan, it’s claimed, flagged her concerns about “unconscious bias” to the then-Prince Charles.
Whatever.
What I REALLY want to know is exactly HOW Meg wrote to Charles?
Surely the King is bombarded with thousands of fan and nutter letters daily.
So, how and why did this one missive manage to wind its way up into his little sausage fingers?
Details on a postcard please Meghan.
A COUPLE in Pennsylvania, Simone and Malcolm Collins, are planning on having at least eight children.
Their hope is that their kids each go on to have eight more, etc, for the next 11 generations.
If their plan comes to fruition, there will be more mini Malcolms stalking planet Earth than there are people alive today.
These hipster eugenicists have just had their third child, a little girl called . . . Titan Invictus.
Without irony, they cite research suggesting feminine names mean girls get taken less seriously.
Because a 21-year-old Titan Invictus, applying for her first job straight out of university, will, of course, be taken oh-so seriously.
TWEET Of The Day comes courtesy of one Sarah Lyons.
It’s happened to us all, Sarah.
TURNS out that international superstars are as petty, churlish and teenage as the rest of us.
Taylor Swift’s best pals have done what all good friends do, everywhere, and unfollowed her ex on Instagram.
Chums including Ryan Reynolds, Gigi Hadid, Blake Lively and the Haim sisters have unceremoniously cut ties with Brit actor Joe Alwyn.
Forget Insta, though. Just wait until Taylor gets her lyrical revenge on the poor sod.
NOW, turning a snooker table orange is one thing.
But those eco-toffs at Just Stop Oil will be going a step too far with their latest would-be stunt.
Apparently, militant protesters are plotting to sabotage the Coronation by throwing rape alarms at horses in the procession.
This is utterly sick, and needlessly cruel.
We, the humans, are the b******s ruining our planet.
Leave those poor, innocent horses – ones who have never stepped foot on a private jet or driven a Range Rover – out of it.
REAMS have been written about ex-Deputy PM Dominic Raab, much of it by the man himself, who clearly feels he’s the victim of an insidious snowflake assault.
Whether or not he’s a workplace bully remains to be categorically determined.
But yes, Dom’s clearly not a little ray of sunshine, spreading joy and cheer to all and sundry around the photocopier.
But is that an offence you should resign over?
While, in this day and age, there is no place for mean, cruel, gaslighting bosses – those abusing their power just for the sake of it – the under-30s shouldn’t cry wolf (or, indeed, cry) every time they get pulled up for unsatisfactory or slipshod work.
It’s the work place. Not a holiday camp.
One of my former bosses used to liberally litter every verbal interaction with the word “c***!”
Men, women, no-one was spared the c***iness.
But this man was also supremely smart, talented and successful, and therefore got the best out of his workforce.
Similarly, I once got such a ferocious b****cking from a boss, I squeezed my arm in an effort not to cry. I didn’t cry.
To this day, I remember the man veritably frothing at the mouth, spittle flying, as he tore into me in front of 20 colleagues.
It did me absolutely no lasting damage.
I learnt never to repeat that mistake, and, well, I toughened up.
It’s how we learn.
Tomorrow’s generation must stop being so quick to take offence.
POLICE in Pennsylvania offered denizens a family bag of Doritos for anyone who turned in their cannabis dealer over the weekend.
Yup.
A free bag (family-sized) of the salty snacks for anyone with the munchies.
British police, take note.
