The keys are in your hand, the mortgage is a fresh, twenty-five-year chain around your neck, and you think you’ve finally acquired a castle of your own. You’ve successfully concluded the Capitalist Rite of Passage by purchasing my house, and you’re ready to start living.
Oh, sweet, heavily-indebted pioneer. You may own the brick and mortar, but the Digital Ghost of Your Dwelling is still watching, and it’s staring through the digital lens of the internet’s most efficient data-hoarding overlord: RightMove.
RightMove isn’t a property portal; it’s a sentient, all-archiving Ministry of Truth… but for laminate flooring and the regrettable choice of kitchen splashback. It is the architectural equivalent of the Eye of Sauron, perpetually holding the images, the floorplans, and the very dimensions of my private sanctuary hostage. It keeps a perfect, unerasable record of the house before you—a record I now live inside, constantly reminding me of the previous owner’s beige nightmares.
I successfully executed a complex, multi-sprint project to acquire the dwelling. But when I attempted to exercise my basic Article 17 Right to Erasure—the mythical ability to make The Algorithm forget the property’s historical existence—the system responded with a chilling, automated laugh and a demand for a Sacred Legal Artefact.
The Bureaucratic Black Hole and The Data Seance Scrum
The property purchase was legally completed over a year ago. The data—the images of my home, the identifying features of my existence—is, by any sane metric, no longer necessary for the purpose it was collected. It is now merely a data-point in the Sprint Backlog of Perpetual Surveillance that RightMove calls its archive.
I formally notified the Necromancers of Property Data, invoking my Right to Object (Article 21) to their alleged “legitimate interest” in maintaining an archive. That interest? To keep a permanent record of what my curtains look like, purely for the joy of future identity thieves and bored stalkers.
My fundamental right to privacy, my control over the digital projection of my own life, apparently rates somewhere below the value of historical data integrity on RightMove’s corporate JIRA board.
This, my friends, is the Agile Apocalyptic Framework in full swing. The framework dictates that the customer (me) is always wrong, and the data (the photo of the garden shed) must be perpetually iterated, refined, and retained against all human logic.
The Illusion of Law and The Data Brokering Black Market
This is where the humour bleeds out and the true dystopian horror begins.
We think we have control. We cling to the faded pamphlet of the UK GDPR, believing the Information Commissioner’s Office (ICO) or the FCA are our valiant white knights. They are not. They are merely glorified, underfunded receptionists for the big corporations. When the ICO finally decides to look up from its annual compliance tea-break, it invariably finds a way to side with the giant entity that can afford the better legal team, effectively rubber-stamping the continuous brokering of your life.
To prove my identity and link to the data, I provided a Driving Licence. RightMove rejected it. They demand the Title Register or the Deeds. They require I embark on a Hero’s Journey, a Conveyancing Pilgrimage for the Sacred Scroll of Ownership, just to delete a blurry photograph of a kitchen counter.
This is an excessive and disproportionate burden (Article 12) designed to make you give up and weep. They are demanding proof of my ontological self because they are not just dealing with my house pictures; they are brokering away data about me I don’t even know exists.
They canvas all data they can get their hands on—social media posts, dodgy, unsanctioned job references, electoral roll snippets. And here’s the most chilling part of the Agile Data-Gathering Manifesto: if there are gaps in the data they hoover up, they don’t just stop. They either make it up or, worse, imply guilt.
A data gap means you were up to something BAD. The absence of a particular piece of financial or personal information becomes a “black mark” against your score, an un-erasable stain on your digital soul because they cannot find the data. RightMove’s refusal to erase my house’s history is part of this ecosystem—maintaining a permanent, identifiable marker so the brokers can cross-reference, validate, and sell a richer, more actionable profile of myself, the Data Subject.
Final Notice: The Digital Data Purge Begins in Seven Days
The statutory deadline for them to act is already underway. Their refusal to accept adequate proof is merely a delay tactic in the Scrum of Eternal Data Retention.
This is my final formal notice. Seven calendar days, RightMove.
If the ghost of my castle is not permanently exorcised from your servers and all third-party platforms under your unholy command, I will be escalating this matter to the ICO. My complaint will cite your spectacular, demonstrable failure to adhere to the principles of proportionality, and your existence as a prime example of an institution that believes its archive is more important than the privacy, sanity, and fundamental rights of the people whose lives you archive and actively broker.
The only way to win against a Necromancer of Data is to start the Digital Data Purge. Expect the first sprint to involve the rusty server, a very large hammer, and the sweet sound of GDPR Compliance Through Extreme Prejudice.
Shiel Yule 