On a Thursday damp with drizzle, when the fog clung to the trees like a stubborn overcoat and the fields lay in monotonous resignation, word crept through the villages and brick-laden hamlets: a certain immense purveyor of groceries, known in the modern tongue as Co-op Food, had found itself besieged—not by shrinking profits, nor by undelivered rutabagas, but by invaders invisible and quite contemporary.
The attack, as announced by the beleaguered (if admirably composed) CEO, Madame Shirine Khoury-Haq, was executed by what she termed “highly sophisticated” criminals—a phrase that in the countryside would have mapped onto bankers, politicians, or perhaps an especially crafty rooster. This “limited member data” absconded with, she claimed, remained minimal; yet whispers among the hedges intimated otherwise.
In a turn of events worthy of Gogol—or a particularly conspiratorial family supper—the hackers, those unseen pranksters styling themselves “DragonForce,” appeared—as if conjured by a sorcerer—before the world-renowned chroniclers of woe at the BBC. Evidence! Screenshots! The stuff of bureaucracy’s nightmares. There, plain as boredom in a provincial magistrate, the hackers boasted:
“Hello, we exfiltrated the data from your company… We have customer database, and Co-op member card data.”
So much for limited, Madame Khoury-Haq! The village postman had nothing on these fellows’ delivery.
Thus the effect: deliveries now shrunk to “essential items,” as if all items in a grocer’s catalogue were not, by their very presence, essential to some peculiar soul. The systems—the very lifeblood of commerce—were battered like a samovar in a student riot.
Into this comedy strode Pat McFadden, Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, uttering proclamations that surely stirred the hearts of not a single IT department clerk: security, vigilance, locks on doors—one could almost imagine his condemned tone if faced with a leaky barn roof or a cunning fox in the henhouse.
“These attacks must be a wake-up call for every English business. Cyber criminals, those spectral heirs to the footpad’s art, are relentless—it is no use leaving your windows open, whether they look onto Holborn or onto the internet.”
And so, dear reader, if you find your groceries delayed—if your rutabagas morph into mere rumor—know that somewhere, in the invisible ether, someone is feasting upon your data, probably whilst wearing a bathrobe. 🥬💻🍞
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2025-05-12 03:12