 They're at it again. The suits. The red ones this time—not that it matters, they all smell of Eau de Westminster and broken promises. Labour, the People's Party, bless their moth-eaten socks, have cooked up a fresh bowl of authoritarian porridge and want you to swallow it whole, no sugar, no milk—just a thick, gluey lump of compulsory digital ID to help protect you from the very mess they made.
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