As seen in the Times
‘Sodding sods!’ I exclaim, as I discover that I’m £16,000 overdrawn. Between the tweakments, the Berry Bros deliveries and the maintenance of a feckless toyboy in rented digs in Hove, I’m deep in the red and digging deeper.
I shoot Emilia Cash-Barings a WhatsApp. ‘Babe, have you got any comish for me? Something on the new scourge of Athleisure or a righteous skewering of Soho Farmhouse?’ ‘Look, Helen,’ she replies. ‘All I’ve got is something on this “AI” stuff. £2,000? What do you reckon?’
That’s the problem with tech journalism. It’s all done by dorky pale men who want to hide from women
AI? Moi? I’m no incel. The truth is that I haven’t got any opinions about technology, other than that we should ban teenagers from having phones so we can get them out boozing and bonking again. But perhaps that’s the problem with tech journalism. It’s all done by dorky pale men who want to hide from women behind their computer screens. Another boys’ club in need of a bust-up. ‘I’ll take it, Emilia.’ Right – 1,000 words on AI. Here we go. I bust out the old mental Rolodex. Who would know something? I decide to get Lord Hague on the horn. Five minutes later, I’m frantically scribbling on a notepad as the ex-leader of the opposition holds forth. ‘The thing about aaahhteeeficial intellllligence,’ says Hague, each consonant of that phrase painfully drawn out, ‘is that it represents yet another challenge in an already volatile security environment. Debate has – rightly – turned to issues of safety. But adveeeeerserrries such as Russia and China are not encumbered by such scruples.’
‘OK, right. I think I’ve got all that,’ I say. ‘Thank you sooooo much, William. You’re an absolute lifesaver.’
‘My pleasure, Helen,’ he says. ‘Listen, er… if you’re free tonight, I’ve got a spare ticket to Bob Dyl-’
I ring off.
Right, which other smarty-pants should I consult? How about that squeeze (also of this parish) with his new book out about how we’re all going to forget how to read? Soon I have him on FaceTime giving me the lowdown on AI and cyber. ‘I’m the only one who’s smart enough to read books anymore!’ he exclaims, bringing up a tissue to wipe his runny nose. ‘I finished Chapter Two of Treasure Island yesterday. Next, I’m going to tackle The Wind in the Willows. Probably all a bit over your head.’
I bristle at that last comment, but I’m up against it here. Time to stroke some male egos (a woman’s work…). ‘Yes, you’re a very clever young man,’ I coo, watching him drink a glass of orange squash. Suddenly I find myself regretting our three-week slap-and-tickle marathon this summer.
OK: 700 words. But so far, I’ve only consulted boffins – and male ones, I can’t help but note. This piece could do with a women’s intuition. I hop onto the Cheltenham Ladies’ Class of ’83 WhatsApp to sound them out about all this AI business.
A message from Caroline down in Didcot soon pops up. ‘Well, my son Tom has just applied to the audit graduate scheme at Deloitte. It’s been a whole week, and he hasn’t heard anything back yet!’ she writes. ‘He’s got a really good 2:1 from Exeter. Not to mention his gold Duke of Edinburgh. It’s because AI has already replaced all these jobs, it just has to be!’
Caroline’s message leaves me feeling a bit morose. So yes, we are about to be exterminated by the robots after all. An extinction event on par with Labour’s relentless genocide against aspiring middle-class parents is on its way because the geeks with their gadgets couldn’t get any nookie in secondary school.
But then I thought, ‘Sod it.’ Knowing we are all going to die horribly is like divorce. Sad in the moment, but then utterly liberating. You can stop saving that good bottle of wine for a special occasion. Get a bit flirty with the silver fox behind the till at the post office. Tell the children that they are your greatest regret.
Because the thing about this thing we call life is that you can’t take any of it with you.
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