Big Brother Has Weighed You: NHS Unleashes Spy Scales That Snitch on Your Snacks
Because nothing says "healthcare" like a talking fridge, a tattletale toothbrush and a GP who knows you had three Battenbergs before breakfast.
So, the NHS in its infinite and ever-expanding wisdom, has come up with a solution so utterly ridiculous, so dystopian, it makes Orwell look like an optimist. We now have scales... not the old-fashioned, step-on-and-lie-to-yourself kind, no, these are connected to an app monitored by your doctor, which transmit your weight like some sort of covert MI5 operation.
But here's the best bit, the child doesn't even see the number. Because apparently, knowing you've ballooned after half a dozen mini Battenbergs is too upsetting. Instead, the data is beamed silently into the cloud where a GP in Croydon, or possibly a robot named "Simon," can send a supportive "Wow" or a digital slap on the wrist.
And people are nodding along as if this is completely normal.
Now, I've already lived through the horror of car insurance companies insisting on fitting a "black box" in my car. A ghastly little narc of a device that checks I'm driving sensibly... i.e. like a 94-year-old woman reversing out of a bingo hall. No acceleration. No fun. No life. The automotive equivalent of a school report from a teacher who hated me.
And now the same logic has staggered into our homes. First it was smartwatches. "Ooh look, I walked 10,000 steps today!"... Congratulations, that used to be called going to work. Then came fridges that can tell when you're reaching for the cheese. Toothbrushes that email your dentist. And sleep trackers that make you feel guilty for having a late-night scrolling through holiday rentals in Sardinia.
I for example, own a wearable device that proudly informed me last week that I'd only slept 4 hours and had eaten two slices of toast. At what point did I become a monitored lab hamster?
Honestly if this carries on, I'll have to start eating my daily pain au chocolat under the duvet, in the dark, whispering apologies to my pancreas.
And where does all this glorious "data" go? Are we building a national archive of pastry consumption? Will the government create a butter-to-weight ratio chart? Will someone from Public Health England eventually knock on my door and confiscate my sourdough starter because it's "a gateway carb"?
Worse, will the fridge start arguing with the scale? "He's eaten three sausage rolls!"... "Yes, but he ran up the stairs once, leave him alone!"
We've become a nation so utterly mollycoddled, we need to be told that coffee is hot and that you shouldn't attempt hedge trimming in a swimsuit and sandals. In America, I'm not even allowed to fill up my own car... because apparently, unsupervised petrol is a death wish unless you've passed the national nozzle safety exam.
And my car now refuses to start if the doors aren't locked, the seatbelt isn't on and presumably Mercury isn't in retrograde. I checked the manual the other day and I swear it said, "Do not change a tyre while the engine is running." Really? That wasn't on my bucket list.
But this... these surveillance scales, take the gluten-free, low-carb biscuit. They're marketed as "helpful behavioural tools," but let's call it what it is, digital parenting by a thousand passive-aggressive nudges. The NHS has decided parents are too soft, teachers too busy, and common sense too old-fashioned. So it's handing over the job to a Bluetooth-enabled square of plastic.
Soon there'll be scales in Greggs. You step on, it flashes "DO YOU REALLY NEED THAT?" and you're banned from sausage rolls for a week. A digital scarlet letter of shame. Your app sends your GP a warning: "He's back in the pastry aisle." Next thing, a drone shows up and confiscates your steak bake.
And let's not forget, these scales are being trialled on kids. Every day, they're expected to step on a thing that tells a stranger if they've eaten too many Wotsits, but doesn't tell them a single digit. And this is supposed to teach healthy habits?
It's not just overreach. It's underthinking. Because when we outsource every decision to a device, from when to sleep to what to chew, we breed a generation of perfectly-behaved morons... unable to tell if they're full, unless their smartwatch beeps.
The future isn't flying cars. It's getting arrested by your toaster for buttering crumpets too aggressively.
And quite frankly, I'd rather take my chances with cholesterol.
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Chris Geiger, Author of The Cancer Survivors Club.
Daily Dose of Disbelief!
Bsky: @chrisgeiger.com
Bsky: @thecancersurvivorsclub.com
Bsky: @dailydoseofdisbelief.com
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