The Labour ‘firstname’ email disaster is more about your wounded ego than Jeremy Corbyn’s failings

We want to live at the speed of computers, then we cry like babies when we’re treated like numbers and code

The Labour Party’s communications team accidentally emailed members with the greeting “Dear Firstname” (Getty Images)

So often it’s the minutiae of life that takes you under. Like when Michael Douglas, in the movie Falling Down, is refused a ham and cheese ‘Womlette’ from Whammy Burger at 11.33am. I’m not saying he was right to go ballistic and threaten women and children with an Intratec Tec-9 Submachine Gun. But we knew where he was coming from. And for many loyal Labour Party supporters this weekend their ‘Whammy Burger’ moment arose at around 11am on Sunday when they were tapped up for £20 via an email which addressed them: Dear Firstname. It’s a small thing, but then it’s a whopping thing too.

Being called ‘Firstname’ by someone inveigling their way into your bank account is like being lured home for ‘coffee’ by a cad who can only whittle your name down to a generic ‘darling’. You’ll need a touch more buttering up before you drop your knickers. The indignation suffered by Labour members over this clumsy email caused many to flood Twitter, Facebook and the like with threats about quitting the party altogether. Eight months of riding the rodeo-bull that is Corbyn’s leadership, had come a cropper in one wonky mail merge.

And clearly, this is utterly irrational. But again, I understand. The blunder is a succinct illustration of how the digital age clashes with our soft, vulnerable need to be cherished. Because this isn’t an internal Labour Party problem really; it’s an IT department balls-up.

We adore how the information age has propelled us into a world of whip-fast fundraising, petition gathering, quick-sticks political tub-thumping and a bright new era of people power. But at some level, we want to kid ourselves that this all comes with a snuggly, human touch.

Reactions to the Dear Firstname scandal suggested that many people wanted to believe Corbyn, Milne and Thornberry had all been up with the lark that Sunday, huddled around a simmering five year old Dell Inspiron laptop, typing 350,000 individual, personalized begging emails, with a pot of grower-friendly, rainforest alliance certified coffee brewing on the hob. MacBooks, I feel, are a touch too blingy and user-friendly for Team Corbyn. Regardless of this, whom ever in the IT department sent this hurtful, dehumanizing, grabby epistle, will possibly be suffering a similar sort of ‘investigation’ that the suspended Labour Party member Rod Liddle is currently facing for his comments about Muslims. I hope they’re not too hard on whoever pressed ‘send’, because it is us, the human race, with our neediness and petulance that’s more at fault. We want to live at the speed of computers, then we cry like babies when we’re treated like numbers and code.

For glorious evidence of humans beings not quite accepting that computers don’t care about them, observe the replies to the average group Facebook party invite. Here, guests who were invited via a mass Friends List mail out to 466 other people, and whom the party-thrower accepted as a friend five years ago and muted soon after, will fritter time typing long-winded, braggy apologies: ‘Aw babes, luv to come,’ they trill, ‘But am skiing with the little ones. Send hugz tho!’ Nothing will convince these people that a Facebook invite is as impersonal as a phone-number scrawled on a pub toilet wall under the words 'PARTY TIME ALL NIGHT LONG’.

My personal, computer-age Falling Down style bug bear comes from being constantly asked via email to fill out consumer surveys. ‘Dear Firstname’, it tends to says, pinging into your inbox the millisecond you press ‘Purchase’ on an internet sale. Or, the moment you check-out of the hotel, return home from a dinner. "Did you enjoy our service today? Can you take just five minutes to fill out a questionnaire?" At this point, tightness develops around my chest and a red mist descends over one eye.

Until that moment, I felt like a valued customer, as well as a tangible, warm-blooded human being. In an instant, I’m reminded I’m a data-provider, a statistic, a possible source for more profit.

These mails make me so ‘Labour Party Member on a Sunday’ level furious, I take great pleasure in deleting them. Or even more petty still, filling them out with a cacophony of ‘1 out of 5’s’, ‘Very Displeased’, ‘Will not buy again.’ Before festooning the ‘Any further comments’ section with "STOP SENDING ME FUCKING SURVEYS". Whoever the millennial college-leaver is who’s paid to scan this data must gaze at it sadly, thinking, "This is a terrible state for a 40-something woman to get herself into over Birds Eye Potato Waffles. I almost wish we hadn’t asked." Labour Party members, I stand with you, they can take away our first names, but they can never take our dignity.