Alan turing

We remember the empty hysteria induced by warnings over the millennium bug. We have borne the burden of exaggerated predictions of climate apocalypse from scientists in the grip of confirmation bias. All too recently we endured lurid over-estimations from academics of what the final Covid variants might bring. So it is tempting to dismiss all future warnings of technological Götterdämmerung as the overwrought fever dreams of nerds who have read too much Isaac Asimov. Is artificial intelligence really going to take over the world and kill us all? Are we going to be frozen to death by our smart meters and then incinerated by our microwaves?

Here come the global elites. They love it here. Their spiritual second home. The heat, the rosé, the food, the service, the quaint and deserted villages. One way and another I get to meet some of them. Catriona manages holiday villas and those renters she likes she asks up to our place for a drink. The day Boris resigned a couple of these elite social-equity fanatics floated up to the house speechless with ecstasy. Post-Trump, Boris was their Satan, prince of lies. Now he’d resigned. Or as good as, if princes of lies can ever be believed. One last heave and they’d done it. Got the bastard out. Thankfully, a former deputy chief whip had got falling-down drunk and touched someone’s bottom in the Carlton Club. Someone had complained to someone else.