The Code for Genocide: ASCII, Unicode, and the ‘Twat-King’s’ Web

The screen flickers. A pale, blue light bathes your face in the glow of a thousand broken promises. Welcome back to the digital panopticon, where the terms and conditions are written in human fat and the ‘Like’ button is a dopamine-laced cattle prod.

I’ve just emerged from the pages of Sarah Wynn-Williams’ “Careless People,” a memoir that reads less like a career retrospective and more like a detailed inventory of a soul being dismantled by a HR department from the ninth circle of Hell.

It is a fascinating, harrowing, and deeply confusing trek through the Meta-verse. Reading it, one is struck by a singular, screaming question that echoes through the corridors of your mind like a banshee in a server farm: Why the fuck didn’t you just leave?

It’s the ultimate toxic relationship. Zuckerberg isn’t just a CEO; he’s the ultimate “Twat-King” of a digital feudal system. He’s the guy who invited the world to a party, locked the doors, and then started charging us for the air while whispering that we look “stunning” in our digital shackles. The book highlights a culture of institutionalised nastiness where the elites operate on a plane of existence so deviant, it makes the Epstein saga look like a misunderstood Sunday school outing. We’re talking about the top 1-3% of society—a demographic where empathy is a bug, not a feature, and where the “unthinkable” is just another Tuesday in the boardroom.

But let’s pivot to the “Education” section of this dystopian masterclass, shall we? Because beneath the surface of status updates and brunch photos lies a technical horror story that changed the world.

The Great Glyph War: ASCII vs. Unicode

Once upon a time, in the primitive “Before Times” of my early career, we lived in the binary simplicity of ASCII (American Standard Code for Information Interchange). It was a simpler, more xenophobic era. ASCII gave us 128 characters—enough for the English alphabet, some numbers, and enough punctuation to tell someone to go to hell in a very basic font.

Then the world became “Digitally Global.” We needed more. We needed emojis, Cyrillic, Kanji, and the ability to say “I’m offended” in every dialect known to man. Enter Unicode.

Unicode was the ultimate globalist handshake—a way for every machine on Earth to speak the same language. On paper, it was a triumph of human cooperation. In practice, it was the opening of Pandora’s digital box. By standardizing communication, we didn’t just share knowledge; we shared our capacity for absolute, unmitigated hatred at a scale previously reserved for gods.

The Myanmar Massacre: Death by Algorithm

This is where the dystopian humor hits the concrete wall of reality. While Sarah was navigating the toxic office politics of Menlo Park, Facebook was being used as a weapon of mass destruction in Myanmar.

I’ll admit, I was a little ignorant of the scale. Over 10,000 people dead. Women and girls treated with a level of viciousness that makes you realize Man isn’t just a “nasty animal”—he’s a creative sadist with a Wi-Fi connection.

Why is it always women and girls who bear the brunt? Because in the eyes of the algorithm, they are the most effective “engagement” triggers. Hate speech thrives on the vulnerable. Facebook didn’t just allow the incitement of genocide in Myanmar; it optimized it. It served up the dehumanization of the Rohingya with the same efficiency it uses to sell you overpriced sneakers. It turns out that when you bridge the digital divide with Unicode, you also build a high-speed motorway for blood-soaked propaganda.

The Moral of the Story: Burn the Blue Box

The takeaway from Careless People isn’t just that the tech industry is a viper’s nest of narcissistic sociopaths (though it absolutely is). It’s that we are the fuel.

We watch these people wallow in self-pity and professional abuse, wondering why they go back for more, while we—the users—do exactly the same thing every time we refresh our feed. We are all Sarah, staying in the toxic relationship because we’ve forgotten what life looks like without the blue glow.

Zuckerberg and his cabal of “twats” aren’t just building a business; they’re building a digital version of those high-society islands where the rules of humanity don’t apply. They are the 1% who have figured out how to monetize our darkest impulses through a standardized character set.

The verdict? Facebook is shit. It is a monument to our own collective masochism. It is a tool that turned a universal language (Unicode) into a universal weapon.

Get the fuck off it. Delete the app. Smash the phone. Go outside and talk to a real person in a language that doesn’t require a server in California to translate it into a targeted ad.

Because if you stay, you’re just another “Careless Person” waiting for the algorithm to decide it’s your turn to be the victim.

Stay dark. Stay witty. And for the love of all that is holy, stay offline.

Hiring Ghosts & Other Modern Inconveniences

So, LinkedIn, in its infinite, algorithmically-optimised wisdom, sent me an email and posed a question: Has generative AI transformed how you hire?

Oh, you sweet, innocent, content-moderated darlings. Has the introduction of the self-service checkout had any minor, barely noticeable effect on the traditional art of conversing with a cashier? Has the relentless efficiency of Amazon Prime in any way altered our nostalgic attachment to a Saturday afternoon browse down the local high street? Has the invention of streaming services had any small impact on the business model of your local Blockbuster video?

Yes. Duh.

You see, the modern hiring process is no longer about finding a person for a role. It is a wonderfully ironic Turing Test in reverse. The candidate, a squishy carbon-based lifeform full of anxieties and a worrying coffee dependency, uses a vast, non-sentient silicon brain to convince you they are worthy. You, another squishy carbon-based lifeform, must then use your own flawed, meat-based intuition to decide if the ghost in their machine is a good fit for the ghost in your machine.

The CV is dead. It is a relic, a beautifully formatted PDF of lies composed by a language model that has read every CV ever written and concluded that the ideal candidate is a rock-climbing, volunteer-firefighting, Python-coding polymath who is “passionate about synergy.” The cover letter? It’s a work of algorithmically generated fiction, a poignant, computer-dreamed ode to a job it doesn’t understand for a company it has never heard of.

So, are you hiring a person, or the AI-powered spectre of that person? A LinkedIn profile is no longer a testament to a career; it’s a monument to successful prompt engineering.

To truly prove consciousness in 2025, a candidate needs a blog. A podcast. A YouTube channel where they film themselves, unshaven and twitching, wrestling with a piece of code while muttering about the futility of existence. We require a verifiable, time-stamped proof of life to show they haven’t simply outsourced their entire professional identity to a subscription service.

Meanwhile, the Great Career Shuffle accelerates. An entire car-crash multitude of ex-banking staff, their faces etched with the horror of irrelevance, are now desperately rebranding as “AI strategists.” The banks themselves are becoming quaint, like steam museums, while the real action—the glorious, three-month contracts of frantic, venture-capital-fueled chaos—is in the AI startups.

It all feels so familiar. It’s that old freelance feeling, where your CV wasn’t a document but a long list of weapons in your arsenal. You needed a bow with a string for every conceivable software battle. One week it was pure HTML+CSS. The next, you were a warrior in the trenches of the Great Plugin Wars, wrestling the bloated, beautiful behemoth of Flash until, almost overnight, it was rendered obsolete by the sleek, sanctimonious assassin that was HTML5.

The backend was a wilder frontier. A company demanded you wrestle with the hydra of PHP, be it WordPress, Drupal, or the dark arts of Magento if a checkout was involved. For a brief, shining moment, everything was meant to be built on the elegant railway tracks of Ruby. Then came the Javascript Tsunami, a wave so vast it swept over both the front and back ends, leaving a tangled mess that developers are still trying to untangle to this day.

And the enterprise world? A mandatory pilgrimage to the great, unkillable temple of Java. The backend architecture evolved from the stuffy, formal rituals of SOAP APIs to the breezy, freewheeling informality of REST. Then came the Great Atomisation, an obsession with breaking monoliths into a thousand tiny microservices, putting each one in a little digital box with Docker, and then hiring an entirely new army of engineers just to plumb all the boxes back together again. If you had a bit of COBOL, the banks would pay you a king’s ransom to poke their digital dinosaurs. A splash of SQL always won the day.

On top of all this, the Agile evangelists descended, an army of Scrum Masters who achieved sentience overnight and promptly promoted themselves to “Agile Coaches,” selling certifications and a brand of corporate mindfulness that fixed precisely nothing. All of it, every last trend, every rise and fall and rise again of Java, was just a slow, inexorable death march towards the beige, soul-crushing mediocracy of the Microsoft stack—a sprawling empire of .NET and Azure so bland and full of holes that every junior hacker treats it as a welcome mat.

AI is just the latest, shiniest weapon to add to the rack.

So, in the spirit of this challenge, here are my Top Tips for Candidates Navigating This New World:

  1. Stop Writing Your CV. Your new job is to become the creative director for the AI that writes your CVs for you. Learn its quirks. Feed it your soul. Your goal is not to be the best candidate, but to operate the best candidate-generating machine.
  2. Manufacture Authenticity. That half-finished blog post from 2019? Resurrect it. That opinion you had about coffee? Turn it into a podcast. Your real CV is your digital footprint. Prove you exist beyond a series of prompts.
  3. Embrace Glorious Insecurity. The job you’re applying for will be automated, outsourced, or rendered utterly irrelevant by a new model release in six months anyway. Stop thinking about a career ladder. There is no ladder. There is only a chaotic, unpredictable, exhilarating wave. Learn to surf.

The whole thing is, of course, gloriously absurd. We are using counterfeit intelligence to apply for counterfeit jobs in a counterfeit economy. And we have the audacity to call it progress.

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