Nobbut Laiking, by Ross Brewster
Home from an exhausting 16-hour shift working at the semi-conductor factory only to find the creature lounging in your favourite armchair, cigar lit, gin and tonic on the table and brandishing a list of chores as long as your arm.
The great and good of the tech world have finally understood that the Frankenstein monster they are creating could be a threat to civilisation. On the news a few nights ago Elon Musk and distinguished others had signed a petition calling for a moratorium on the development of AI.
I predicted something to that effect a few weeks ago; perhaps Elon’s copy of the paper takes a bit longer to get to Florida than it does to Embleton and Grange.
Just imagine the horror of what it could be like in 20 years’ time or maybe sooner, when the robots have taken over. The boffins in white coats have gone too far this time, investing artificial intelligence with brains far superior to ours.
Do the washing and ironing, get the vacuum out, the electric driverless car needs cleaning, there’s that washing up still in the sink, get on with it then bring me my tea. The robot in your living room is no friend. This is modern slavery reversed so the humans are carrying out the orders.
Seriously, I believe AI robots are the biggest threat to our survival on this planet. Once it discovers new things, there’s no holding back science and technology. Musk himself says AI will be bigger even than the internet in its impact on everyday lives.
The first to be replaced by AI will be artists, actors, musicians, novelists, journalists. Me. It’s already happening. Students can get AI essays and articles. Vicars can even have their sermons neatly packaged for Sunday mornings. So why not a weekly column?
Love it or hate it, you’d better read this column while it still has a human element. According to investment bank Goldman Sachs’ latest survey, AI could result in the loss of 300 million jobs worldwide within a few years.
What the theatre loves to call the “creatives” will be first to the guillotine. These robotic guys can produce anything as long as it’s information on the Internet. The technologists say AI can already create content indistinguishable from work.
Better practise some ironing. Work out how the washing machine operates. Make sure you know where the vacuum cleaner is kept. Oh, and the driverless car will need a regular clean.
And AI, the creature from hell, now having spread out onto the sofa, watching its favourite 3D TV programme, will have plenty more where those domestic tasks come from.
Dearly beloved friends and Elon Musk, the nightmare has hardly begun.
My catwalk days are over
One thing’s already certain. My days as a clothes model are over. Never again will I grace the catwalk.
I did once model for a major department store. It was their summer catalogue, lots of jazzy shirts and shorts plus lightweight suits just perfect for those lazy, hazy Caribbean nights under the stars.
I say it myself, but I wasn’t a total dummy in the role. A bit embarrassing maybe when you bump into one of your neighbours while wearing a rather extravagant outfit and a wide brimmed hat with corks attached, Crocodile Dundee style.
We’re getting back to the AI theme. It seems AI could soon replace fashion models. One tech fashionista website goes as far as saying it could grace magazine covers now.
The lines between digital and physical are already blurred and one artificial intelligence influencer called Miquela already has three million followers and “a flair for offering valuable tips.” Entirely phoney, but does Miquela care?
With creepily realistic fashion campaigns we are already halfway to living in a virtual parallel world. My day in the fashion sun is over. I doubt I’d even get the Chums gig now.
I doubt Dickens would be afraid of modernising his tales
Most of the critics panned the Dickens revival of Great Expectations.
The Spectator’s TV reviewer had a fit of the vapours, while Richard Littlejohn, writing in the Daily Mail, almost self-combusted with apoplexy.
Me? I didn’t think it was that bad. I quite enjoyed it once I’d managed to catch up, having initially missed half of the first episode.
Yes it’s not Dickens entirely as we know him. But I bet old Charlie would be writing books about food banks for the poor and the immigrant boat people if he was around today, so I don’t suppose he’d mind a bit of modernising.
Putting their oar in
John Snagge, the veteran boat race commentator, suddenly exploded “my word, Cambridge have caught a crab!”
As a kid I took it literally to mean the university rowers had accidentally hauled up a crab from the depths of the Thames during their annual race against Oxford.
It was explained to me. Catching a crab, in boat race parlance, meant getting the oars tangled or out of sequence.
An animal rights group has now asked rowers to drop the term out of respect for crabs which, when all’s said and done, have feelings.
Their suggestion: Liberate A Lobster. It’s true and 1st April has gone.
