Show me your loyalty cards and I’ll tell you who you are. I’ve got Waitrose, plastic and app – the middle-class membership card – and Nectar, although somehow never when I need it. There is Lakeland (middle-age membership), and I am custodian of the household holy of holies, the Go Outdoors card and keyring fob, because if my spouse can’t spontaneously snap up a bargain fleece, he gets twitchy. Space NK has vanished, its emails offering a ghostly digital reminder of a time when I cared about my appearance, and I fell off the Boots Advantage treadmill years ago. Flygskam put paid to Air Miles, and Eurostar is too confusing (non, I don’t know my mot de passe). I have two fully stamped cards for the place I get vegan cakes – those women see me more than my family do – meaning I have earned two free vegan afternoon teas (don’t all rush at once). I’ve been a tenth of the way to a free item of dry-cleaning for years and the ear-suctioning place also has only one stamp on its card (I can’t go through that again, the noise, dear God).
I am a middle-aged, middle-class, slightly deaf woman, full of cake, who has let herself go, but never goes anywhere, with a husband addicted to rainproof trousers: yes, that tracks. It is a bit eerie how much loyalty systems allow brands to learn about us. They see our little treats, unshakable habits and feeble attempts at spontaneity; they could work out when we have a baby, go on a keto diet, move in with someone or split up. That is a wild amount of information.
I get a little shudder of shame-rage when I get those personalised discounts: they feel creepy and patronising. “Aw, here you go, you utterly predictable drone,” the vouchers seem to say. “Here’s 50p off those crispbreads you think are sophisticated, and we’ll chuck in some eco bog roll to brighten your tedious day. You’re welcome, sad sack.” Sometimes, they are a reminder of a shortlived fad, such as when your mum buys you the biscuits you liked for three months when you were 14. Or how about the deals that come with congratulations on being the top buyer in your area of value prunes or low-sodium baked beans? Er, thanks, I guess? What am I supposed to do, add it on LinkedIn?
I use my vouchers, of course, but I feel unpleasantly seen, as if they are peering into my trolley and sniggering. I’ve been wondering about this uneasy bargain we make – information for discounts – with the emergence of flashy cardholder deals trumpeting the dramatic difference between prices for members and non-members on shelves. Which? has been casting a beady eye over some that may not be as good as they look, tracking prices that are raised shortly before a loyalty deal kicks in, making the cardholder price feel better than it is. It also pointed out that not everyone can get a loyalty card; you need digital access and various schemes have age and residency restrictions.
Even if they do let you in, do you really want to be a member of their club? I feel such a mug as I sullenly scan my card; they might as well microchip me like a dog. It would be nice to become unknowable, a retail loose cannon, to ditch the cards and apps and stand in a click and collect bay shouting: “I am not a number (of loose Pink Ladies).” But who can do that in this economy?
My lust for bargains overrides the existential unease, especially when they’re really good. I got a “£17 off if you spend £110” voucher recently, throwing me into a frenzy of planning what pricey items I could buy to cash it in. We stocked up on toothpaste, booze and nuts (how the hell are nuts so dear? Do they grow in a solution of Crème de la Mer?), but still managed to come up short at the till. For a wild moment, I considered grabbing anything – vintage champagne, banana-flavoured Weetabix, a whole crab – to bamboozle the algorithm. I didn’t, though; I got strong cider and more nuts. Just as it knew I would.
• Emma Beddington is a Guardian columnist
