by Peter Cook
In case any of my email contacts are in any doubt, I am not destitute in Spain, I have not been robbed, and you don’t have to send me any money. Well you can if you like, but to my home address, not to Spain.
I am not a vindictive man. But I hope the demonic low-life perversion of a living organism that hacked my account has his underpants infested with the scorpions of hell.
This cybernetic satan has cost me days of my life. I have had to find my way through the mind-destroying underworld of the internet in vain attempts to get back online.
I have had my brain cells corroded by inane music for hours as I hung on and hung on to a helpline that seemed destined never to answer. When it was answered I was told to call another number.
I have had to change dozens of passwords, most of which I had long forgotten anyway, and lain awake at night lest the few shillings left in my bank account are being siphoned away by this blob of malignant slime.
I’ve even had my Facebook account shut down, though this could be a good thing. I’m still undecided about Facebook.
Having one’s account hacked certainly teaches you how much we rely these days on the internet.
If we want the best prices on our gas and electricity bills, we have to pay them online. I am still registered for VAT and you can only pay that through the net. There are no high street shops anymore, so the internet is the only way to buy many of the things we need.
I can’t believe that the criminals who try this kind of trick actually make any money from it.
The messages they put out in your name are couched in a phraseology that is clearly compiled by someone for whom English is not their first language. Who do they think they are fooling?
So I am more than a little displeased with this person as I think I may have mentioned.
I hope they become tangled in a cyber-web so convoluted and devious, that they disappear up their own USB portals.
