Charlie Brooker thinks you’re a rat.
Not one of those scrofulous brown ones that lives in a drain and goes through your food waste box at night, spreading disease and microwave meal trays all over the pavement. The man’s not a maniac. He’s got in you a smart, reasonably sized cage, there’s access to food and water, and you have entrancing, brushed aluminium toys to keep you busy.
Still. Tart it up however you want. The man thinks you’re a rat.