Tag: writing

Life in the 22nd Century

It’s not an original thought but science, and its advancement, is like a venerable oak tree. Roots spread over a large area, are not seen, but are critical to the health of the whole tree. Branches expand as the tree grows. Branches divide, some branches fade and others gain ever more strength. A tree that lives as long as a civilisation, ever changing.

I put this view forward only to admit that there are flaws with this way of thinking. For a start, in the past, a branch of science may have been pursued in a pure manner. Accumulating ever more knowledge on a specific subject. Now, the branches of science have become far more intertwined. Complexity is a given.

This makes a futurologist job harder. It’s no good to dream along straight lines. To see progressive development as the most likely direction. In the past, there was mileage in projecting forward along a clear line of thinking. Take for example the opening up of the atomic world. Futurologist in the 1950s imagined a world of limitless energy. Inexhaustible sources of electrical power that would be cheep and available to all. For good or ill, the age of plenty didn’t happen. That doesn’t reduce the importance of fundamental discoveries. It cautions us in extrapolating from a simple beginning to a fantastic new world.

What will life in the 22nd Century be like? I can say with certainty that I will not see the year 3000. Well, that is unless the cryogenics of science fiction stories soon becomes reality.

One approach is to look back 75 years. Compare and contrast. Then look forward 75 years. That is factoring in an acceleration in discoveries and the exploitation. And as I’ve alluded above not being shy of growing complexity.

This is again an approach to be taken with a fair degree of caution. Back in the 1950s there was talk of electronic brains, as the computer emerged as a viable and useful machine. What was imagined then is now quite different. That use of the word “brain” isn’t common parlance. Instead, the advent of so-called artificial intelligence is becoming everyday language.

Another set of cautionary factors are trying to guess the branches of the tree that will decay and fall. What seems promising based on current technology only to be bypassed by discovery and innovation. Here I’m thinking that the building of massive power-hungry data farms may be a technological cul-de-sac. Vulnerable and hugely expensive physical infrastructure that’s out of date the minute it’s switched on.

Each of us has a brain that weighs a lot less than a room full of cabinets of conventional electronics. Nature manages vast amounts of data without a power station in tow.

In the year 3000, I maintain we will have a rich and rewarding intellectual life. It will be different in form, although the things that amuse and entertain us may not be so different. The themes of a Greek play are still likely to be echoed in the stories of the next millennia.

Artificial intelligence will be a junk yard term. The whole of the world of data communication and processing will be hidden under layers of obscuration. It’s possible that a form of agent will be overseeing the mechanisms for providing the services we demand. The great challenge for democracies will be how to ensure that agent works for the public good. Not so easy.

Aviation Insights

One shilling and seven pence, that’s what a copy of Flight magazine cost in 1960. Today, roughly that’s equivalent to £6. Which is not so far off the weekly cost of a typical printed magazine taken off-the-shelf in a newsagent. Now, Flight is a digital subscription[1] at £22 a month. We consume our News in a different way, but the overall price is not so different.

Spending money in charity shops always contributes to some good cause or another. Certainly, our British High Streets in 2026 are markedly transformed from that of 66 years ago. Fine, if I get hung up on that elegant number. It’s not a bingo call. It’s the number of times I’ve circled the Sun. Circled, that is, while safely attached to this rocky planet.

The young woman behind the counter was chatting to what must have been a regular when she looked up. I pointed an unregarded dusty box on the floor in the corner of the shop. “How much to you want for that box of old aviation magazines”. She looked slightly fazed. Nobody had even thought about pricing them let alone selling them. They had probably been donated as someone emptied the attic of their grandparents. Probably on the verge of going to the recycling bin.

Eventually, we settled on a modest price. She looked me up and down. I’m sure she thought that I was completely mad. That said, charity shop workers, volunteers, must face that colourful situation more than a couple of times a week. Even a day.

What struck me was the first inside page. The weekly editorial could have been written yesterday. It’s titled “Facing it” and reads thus:

“More than one great newspaper has given warning that our nation is living beyond its means – that our export prospects are poor, and that we are taking a commercial thrashing”.

“Bleak prospects for a people who have never had it so good, and one that promotes us to consider how the aircraft industry is facing up to cold reality.”

It went on to highlight that there had been few new aircraft at the Farnborough airshow of that year. It was an October publication[2]. There was a lot of talk about industry and Government cooperation but that this was not delivering.

“And now that the industry is needed, as it has never been needed before, it will not be found unready or unwilling.”

But the lament was about the failings of the Government of the time, and there being no room for complacency. This was 4-years after the Suez Crisis.

Today, we have an increased security threat, much as arose in the Cold War days. Industry and Government cooperation needs to be a lot more than fervent aspirations. We seem to be in the same phase of formulating strategies rather than implementing actions.

Don’t let me paint a picture of gloom and doom. What this Flight magazine had is great stories of British technical innovation. Electronics and control systems were advancing rapidly. Automatic landing systems were being pioneered. Technology applied improved aircraft performance and aviation safety significantly. In fact, in numerous areas Britain was not only leading, but guiding the world.

[1] https://www.flightglobal.com/subscribe

[2] Flight Number 2691 Volume 78.

Generational Differences

I believe the Scottish word for it is – Dreich. With that spelling it almost sounds German. I’d pronounce it as dreek. What this means is the weather is dull, damp, gloomy, and miserable. Overcast, wintery, with intermittent drizzle and rain never seeming to give up. Couldn’t be a better word to describe it – Dreich.

That was yesterday. There’s a good chance that today will be the same. Not unusual for February. That said, the cumulative impact is that the ground water is rising and the rivers are topped right up to the brim. That rock hard, dusty, tinder dry summer of last year is as if it was a million years ago. What water shortage?

Outside the bird life is flourishing in these damp conditions. I saw a large white Egret was doing a morning stroll oblivious to the drizzle. Up top a tall dead tree a Cormorant was surveying its territory. Ducks are playfully buzzing around the river’s edge. The Canadian Geese are doing what they do every day. Foraging for anything of interest.

It does not good to complain about this uninspiring weather. Although it’s a cultural phenomenon, the weather is the biggest sources of small talk in this country. “You’re not made of sugar, get out there and do something”. I maybe miss remembering these parental words. It’s clear that mulling around indoors and constantly whining isn’t a good formula for mental health.

Add to the gloom and despondency the daily dose of British politics. So many of us had hoped that replacing one group of deafening incompetent politicians with a duller set would mean that stuff gets done. The boring, but necessary, tasks of governing would be accomplished without endless calamities. Faint hope.

For lunch, to escape the incessant rain, I sat down in a coffee shop. The place was busy. Everyone coming in to get out of the rain. Shaking off umbrellas and drying out raincoats. I had to look around to find a comfortable place to sit. Near the entrance. Next to me were an older couple and their granddaughter. It’s impossible not to earwig in such situations. We exchanged a couple of polite smiles.

Here I recount what fascinated me about the generational gap. The young girl didn’t put her mobile phone down once, in so far as I could see. It was clear from the conversation that she was not allowed to use her mobile at school. Phones were confiscated. If my observation indicates anything, it’s that banning phones just mean more mobile phone use when the opportunity presents itself.

Politics reared its head in their conversation. The granddaughter was monosyllabic about the subject. Maybe it was one she studies at school. She carried on scrolling. Unsolicited grandfatherly advice came across the table. To paraphrase – You should watch that man Jacob Rees-Mogg on GB News. He speaks very good English. He makes a lot of sense. The young girl carried on scrolling.

Oh brother! There’s a generational gap summary in a couple of rainy-day minutes.

I had one grandfather on my mum’s side. On my dad’s side my grandfather died relatively young. Both were West Country farmers. The grandfatherly advice I got was more to do with hard work. Not so much to do with politics. That is except for amusement about the hippies that turned up at the village of Pilton every year. That became the Glastonbury festival. Given that my grandfather had experience of the First World War, that must have been quite a contrast.

Influences on Well-Being

How life has changed. In the time of black and white TV I remember watching Jack Hargreaves[1] wibbling on about a lost countryside. A romantic world of idyllic landscapes. Rolling English hills and green hedges. His series “Out of Town” played for a generation. To his credit he did focus on people and the way they lived their lives as much as the scenic backdrops.

He’s cheerily derogatory about the urban environment. Although he does take on the sentimentality that people have towards the countryside. In ways he’s a latter-day green campaigner. With a past century traditional style. 

This memory is sparked by me thinking about colds and flu. Winters accompaniments. Changeable January weather torments us in one way and in another gives us a tempting glimmer of the spring to come. It really is wet wet wet.

Ground water has risen to form shallow pools in the swamy field out back. This is much to the liking of the geese and a lone heron. The river Lambourn hasn’t yet bust its banks but that can’t be far off. Cloudy today with more rain on the way.

I’m fortunate in being in relatively good health. I’ve had my bout of winter blues. Now, I’m noticing the slightly shorter shadows when the sun shines. Everything is sodden. Hints of the season changing are out there. It’s the blubs that are trusting upwards from the soggy soil.

What do I attribute my good health to? I wouldn’t put it down to heathy living although the maximum of all things in moderation does appeal. In part, maybe it’s because I grew up in the world that Jack Hargraves documented. On a west country farm were muck and mud were plentiful at this time of year. Deep soggy and unavoidable.

I don’t know if youthful the exposure to muck and mud has a lifetime benefit. It certainly seems to be one theory that is put around. The idea that a person’s immune system learns about all the nasties that are encountered. It then adapts and knows how to fight off the worst of them.

My, and my brothers, inoculation consisted of a wheelbarrow, a pitchfork and a mountain of manure. Shifting this delightful stuff from farm sheds was mostly a manual task in the 1960s. Now, it’s a case of jumping on a Bobcat[2] or JCB and driving up and down until the job is done.

Solid stone-built farm buildings, like our cart shed were never intended for the use that my parents put them to. Keeping cattle indoors during the winter months. Layers of straw and muck accumulated their bedding grew in hight. By the time it was dry enough to let the cattle out into the surrounding fields their bedding was almost as deep as I was tall.

That’s how we earned our pocket money. A wheelbarrow, pitchforks and hundreds of trips backwards and forwards shifting muck. Creating a big pile in the farmyard. Then that got loaded into a muck spreader. The most organic fertiliser that can be spread on the land.

This memory is sparked. Looking at a cliff like face of compressed muck that went back for what seemed like miles. Digging away at it endlessly. Wheelbarrow load after load. A Sisyphean task, where only dogged persistence would pay off. No wonder I was a healthy young man.

[1] https://youtu.be/4e_jfU9eTSI

[2] https://www.bobcat.com/na/en

Dreams

Dreams are weird. For a start I often wake-up knowing that I’ve had a dream only to ponder on what it was about. It’s as if an erase function was pressed the moment the sunlight starts to beam through the curtains. As if my mobile’s alarm triggers a mental dustbin to empty.

Now, if I do wake-up from a dream in the night, I try to remember to scribble a note. Naturally, that’s merely a case of putting down a couple of words, not a full-page story. Interestingly that note can be surprisingly useful in restoring a glimpse of what I was dreaming.

I’m not going to get into the interpretation of dreams[1]. I don’t think they are a kind of prophecy. Literature is full of that notion. To me it must be that complex jumble of stimulus that has accumulated slowly being sorted, either filed or discarded. That’s not an analogy with a conventional computer. I think we have a powerful desire to take masses of information and make sense of it. That means wrapping a story around a lot of disparate stuff.

Dreams are weird. That’s because they have parts that make everyday sense and parts that live purely in the imagination. Boundaries and simple cause and effect don’t have to conform to waking reality. Imaginary worlds can be way of the charts.

Here’s goes. Fragments of what I remember go like so. It’s a clean room, like in a large semiconductor manufacture. White coats and white walls. Workbenches and sophisticated equipment laboratory style. Serious looking people.

Groups in different rooms. Could be in entirely different places. All working on making some kind of super chip [Have I been reading too many articles on quantum computing and alike?]. Could be a scene from a classic 007 movie where the villain invited their competitors to their secret hidden laboratory.

The last image was curious. A group of scientific people standing around staring intensely at a device (chip) sitting on a bench knowing that its performance has beaten all the opposition. Left the competition in the dust. Lots of questions being asked. This was not a hostile or nightmarish dream. This solid grey device looked like the base of a ceramic butter dish.

Even stranger the heatsink that rose up from the structure was shaped as a miniature model of the Roman forum[2] in Rome. It was as if the designers were so cocky they wanted to play a joke on their competitors. Me being one of them.

I don’t think there’s much mileage in sensemaking of this morning recollection. A dream about an imaginary future happening isn’t a kind of prediction. Perhaps it’s a chunking together fiction, facts and fantasy. However, it’s possible that some kind of breakthrough technology is sitting on a cleanroom bench somewhere. Where are the modern-day oracles when we need them.

[1] https://www.freud.org.uk/schools/resources/the-interpretation-of-dreams/

[2] https://www.rome.net/roman-forum

Exploring ‘The War Between the Land and the Sea’

OK so there’s the predicable amount of sentimentality. Yes, it makes the story human. Great and cataclysmic events don’t grab attention unless they are associated with the human experience. That’s not entirely true. There will always be nerds, like me, who are drawn in by the facts and the creativity of structure and form.

“The War Between the Land and the Sea[1]” is a well-crafted combination human stories and an imaginative fictional expanse. It’s a spin-off of the world of Dr Who. However, what Russell T Davies has created is a more grounded drama about the here and now. Whoops – shouldn’t have used the word “grounded.” This made for broadcast science fiction story is about our Earthly reality. Two thirds of our beautiful planet is water. Earth is as much about water as it is about dry land.

He’s not the first screen writer to imagine a world dominated by water. If I remember rightly, there’s that terrible American movie Waterworld[2]. I say terrible even though it was atypical of 1990s cinema watching. A better point of reference, and a motivation to wall-up a stock of baked beans on high ground somewhere in the English countryside, is “The Kraken Wakes.” Now, there’s an exceptionally fine story from one of my favourite authors, namely John Wyndham.

Russell T Davies taps into ancient sailor’s stories of scary monsters in the deep. The lure of the unknow. Even with our expansive knowledge of the cosmos, humanity is still largely ignorant of the world of the deep ocean. Discoveries are arising year by year.

I can imagine some hard-nosed right-wing commentators will be sniffy about the focus on climate change and the dangers of the melting of the polar icecaps. To some extent, this is incidental to the story. I don’t think the “The War Between the Land and the Sea” is too preachy.

Strangely enough I was initially put off by the BBC’s repetitive advertising of the series. As if they were nervous of the risks of making it in the first place and that few would watch this drama. Let’s put that aside. This is an excellent British television drama. It’s more adult than Dr Who. By storyboarding the global angsts of the day and combining it with a fantasy that’s full of twists and turns, this is well worth a watch.

I hope the BBC drama will be brave enough to continue in this direction. New, imaginative, science fiction that’s not afraid of posing the “what if” questions. As we endure the manipulation of the daily News that spins fears and gives airtime to conspiracy theories, so fiction and reality can get blurred.

I know an unidentified race of intelligent life is not going to rise out of the Seas and challenge our dominance of Earth. I like the idea of stories that prick our arrogance and offer a reminder of our vulnerabilities. Apocalyptic visions abound but not all touches on our contemporary industrial recklessness and potential political idiocy.

Today, the oceans are riddled with hydrophones listening for underwater activity. Yet no one has picked-up and decoded a group of fleeing dolphins saying – so long, and thanks for all the fish. Maybe tomorrow. Who needs to Dr?

[1] https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m002p0xm

[2] https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0114898/

Swearing in English Culture

I do suppose that it’s my country upbringing, but that’s not entirely so. There was a set of opposing tensions that spread through society in the 1960s as much as they did in the 1660s.

On the one side there’s the authenticity of the country born and bread son or daughter of the soil in honest toil. That image of the rural artisan, painted by a famous artist, struggling with the elements to put bread on the table wasn’t as clean and tidy as the artist depicted.

On the other hand, was a spirit of bettering oneself. Elevation from the base worker day reality, up to one’s knees in muck, and practicalities of country life. Middle class, educated entrepreneurial, energies directed at improvement and modernisation.

An indicator of the side of the line that was most natural for a person was the use of langauage. Another might be the seriousness with which a Sunday church sermon was listened to. Another could be the frequency of evenings spent propping up the bar in the village pub.

Here my focus is on language. I’m of a generation who was told off for swearing. Whether at home, school or most social situations. This idea of self-improvement and good manners was handed down. It didn’t just spring from our parents’ ambitions. There was pressure to behave.

To suggest that colourful swearing didn’t happen was far from the truth. Even the highest minded tended to shift their disposition depended on the situation. Afterall, if I have had a calf stood on my toe or lost a wellington boot in deep cold mud it’s unlikely that my exclamation would have been – oh dear! that was jolly inconvenient.

Swear words are a constant. What continues to change is the meaning and level of offense that each one has attached. Casual obscenities that were thrown about like confetti may now be totally out of bounds. Calling someone a “bastard” in past times might almost have been considered a term of endearment.

Campaigners rail against suppressing free speech. Regulating what can be said. Rightly so, in most cases. That said, it’s rare that common place langauage is what such campaigners wish to protect. Even the traditional mundane ones are converted into softer tones to avoid offence.

If I think back to my childhood and market days in towns like Sturminster Newton in Dorset, then a great deal of English culture has been lost. Some may say thank God for progress. For me, the rural landscape isn’t as colourful or characterful as it once was, but what do I know?

Don’t read me wrong. I’m not calling for expletives and offensive words to spill out of every page or be heard up and down the high street. Social media is full of grossly offensive nastiness.

That’s part of my point. Authentic swearing doesn’t have to be used as a weapon. Yes, swearing in the 17th century was often used that way. Today, it’s better used as emphasis, exaggeration or an expression of despair. Like a valve on the lid of a pressure cooker, the occasional use of a rude word is a manner of relief. I’m sure Shakespeare would approve. Even he was censored.

As an expression of despair, we do need everyday tools to hand. If that’s the lively use of traditional langauage then so be it. For those who are offended please look at the bigger picture.

Lessons from Nature

I once said to Kwasi Kwarteng[1] that peak Boris Johnson passed during the early part of his terms as London mayor. Naturally, predicably he didn’t agree with me. This was in the Parliamentary constituency of Runnymede and Weybridge in 2017. I was the Liberal Democrat candidate standing against former Conservative Minister Philip Hammond. The public event we were attending was in Egham in Surrey.

Wow. A hell lot of water has passed under the bridge since that time. It’s like looking back at medieval history and trying to find a thread that links with the here and now. Governments have been and gone, careers have flourished and collapsed, Trump has been and gone and then returned and as was predicted Brexit has turned out to be a disaster.

Here’s a thought. It has always astonished me that we have a common fallacy. If a shelf regarding person who makes a lot of noise was once, even for a fleeting time, good at one job, they will be good at a loosely similar job. What a load of nonsense. So, it has turned out to be.

I’ve been watching the BBC’s series Kingdom[2]. About the animal kingdom. I know that the filming of such a spectacular series takes an enormous amount of dedication and effort. We get the pleasure of watching a well edited set of stories about leopards, hyena, wild dogs, and lions.

It’s tough out there to survive the seasons in the imposing Zambian landscape. We get to see the shifting of power between animal families and from generation to generation. It’s raw nature doing what it does and what it has been doing since the dawn of time. In what appears a paradise, nature is cruel. Rivals quickly exploit weakness. It’s going a bit far to draw a direct link between the rivals in the wild and the rivals in our parliamentary democracy. That said, there are lessons nature can teach us.

One is that top dogs don’t stay top dogs forever. They get their moment in the sun and then it passes. The fight to make a claim on a territory is perpetual. Yes, the cycles of the season have their impact and luck, good or bad, plays its part.

Two, is that a bad move remains a bad move. Ignoring crocodiles is never a good move. Wandering about without the protection of the pack is a high-risk strategy. Backing off, and fighting another day, is the best way to deal with a bigger, meaner, and hungrier opponent.

Where am I going with talk of these two different worlds? Human nature and animal nature.

It’s my reaction to seeing the scribblings of a former Prime Minister wibbling on about how dangerous it would be to reverse Brexit. Boris Johnson, that man whose star faded a long time ago, is writing for tabloid newspapers. He’s writing exactly what anyone would expect to see from those who will not learn from experience.

A bad move remains a bad move. Now, nearly ten years on, a bad decision remains a bad decision. Write what you like, it’s impossible to transform a failed project into a kind of utopia. What’s worse is to try and scare people by writing that we must tolerate failure because we once adopted a failed project is ludicrous. It’s irresponsible. It’s mad.

[1] UK Chancellor of the Exchequer from September to October 2022 under PM Liz Truss.

[2] https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m002hdgh

Age Restrictions

Inevitably whenever there’s a decision as to what is age-appropriate one’s own experience comes to the fore. The experiment that is going on in Australia is one to watch. That country has taken a step towards the regulation of social media that provides defined limits. From zero to age 16 there’s to be a ban, or a restriction as the more diplomatic commentators say. One discussion could be about the whole necessity, and possible effectiveness of a ban on social media and another about the age limit that has been set.

This is one of those debates where there are good cases to be made on both sides. I could start by citing examples of harm caused, in particular cases, of social media use by children. That would reinforce a compelling argument for restrictions by law.

Alternatively, looking at the subject in the round, I could wonder at the position of young people first encountering an avalanche of social media on the day of their 16th birthday. Or the creativeness of young people in finding ways to evade a punitive law.

For me, my 16th birthday was a day of great liberation. Growing up in the countryside has lots of advantages. The downside is the effort needed to get anywhere beyond walking distance. No buses. No trains. Just a pushbike. Miles of country lanes, green fields and distant villages.

No demanding, distracting all-encompassing digital paraphernalia. Maybe a radio, cassette recorder and a pile of vinyl records. For me a couple of beaten-up cars and motorcycles too. As per the famous four Yorkshiremen sketch: try telling that to the kids of today.

Yes, my 16th birthday was a day of great liberation. That because of the law. I wasn’t alone. It was there for every schoolboy who could afford one. Shiny in the showrooms. Names like: Fantic, Gilera, Garelli, Yamaha, Suzuki and Puch, were all on our list of wants.

In December 1971, the British Government create legislation that restricted 16-year-olds to 50cc mopeds (motorcycles with pedal assistance). This was a worthy effort to improve road safety and reduce the carnage of motorcycle accidents. What was unexpected was the frenzy of innovation that this well-meaning law triggered. Motorcycle manufacturers set to their drawing boards and radically transformed the moped. I do mean radically.

I came in at the end of this era. By early 1976 manufactures had squeezed every drop of performance that was possible out of a mere 50cc engine. Designs had gone from uncomfortable, sluggish commuter bikes that would feel embarrassed to own, to sporty fast racing machines that were extremely desirable.

Ah, the unintended consequences of worthy legislation. For me this was wonderful. It opened a whole new vista and introduced me to one or two roadside hedges. Waiting for me on my 16th birthday was one of the best. A Puch Grand Prix Special. In black and gold, this really was a fast and refined two-stroke machine. Even with cast alloy wheels and a front disk brake, which was whizzy for the time. Racing along the main A30 the bikes gearing was such that I went fastest downhill, while my mates Garelli overtook me going up the hills.

What can I say? When it comes to age-appropriate the results may not be what is intended.

Note: Reference: Funky Mopeds! The 1970s sports moped phenomenon. Richard Skelton. Veloce Publishing. ISBN 13 978-1-84584-078-5  www.veloce.co.uk

Why Embrace False Utopias?

Why do clever people often become dayglo prats? Not stupid by any means. More foolish and not embarrassed by their recklessness. It’s one thing to be incompetent or ineffectual but that’s not what I’m getting at here. It’s smart people who get carried away with delusional dreams.

How many vocal futurologists have said – “work is dead”? That one day we will be living in an age of leisure and ease because sophisticated machines will have taken all the drudgery out of existence. Intelligent machines doing all the things we once considered to be work.

In essence it’s a utopian vision that stands-up to be knocked down. In fact, the subject matter has been chewed over in science fiction ever since science has played a big part in our lives. Such popular fiction takes us from a dream world to a hideous dystopia that the original dreamers hadn’t envisioned.

The year is 2274. Almost 250-years ahead of where we are. Humanity is living in a bubble. That bit doesn’t change. Most people are unaware of how their society functions. Again, that bit doesn’t change. Rituals and customs dictate the path individuals take in life. Like today.

Strangely, even in the year 1775[1] those three aspects of life were evident. Maybe they are perpetual. However, there’s an exceptional point to make. That’s our rebellious nature.

The year is 2274. The movie is Logan’s Run[2], made at a time when society had ripple of anxiety about the so called “silicon revolution.[3]” That’s 1976. Before the elevated level of interconnection and communication that the INTERNET has afforded us.

It’s a sobering science fiction movie with a somewhat optimistic ending. Looking dated. I can get past the images and props that epitomised the seventies vibe. That’s become vintage.

To me, aspects of the theme of the story come from H. G. Wells. Nothing wrong with taking great ideas and reshaping them for the time. In the end the flawed utopia is defeated by our rebellious nature. Or at least of some people. The seeking of truth, at all costs, and to look behind the mask that everyday life paints.

You may ask – what the hell am I getting at? It’s a reaction to the recent headline[4]:

Musk says that in 20 years, work will be optional, and money will be irrelevant thanks to AI.

I like growing vegetables. Gardening is a superb way of doing something practical, staying grounded and in touch with nature. It’s good for one’s mental health too. However, the notion that work will be optional is far-fetched. The idea that money will disappear in a couple of decades is nuts. That’s not going to happen.

I know that the motivation to say such things maybe merely to provoke. That has its function. Nothing like stimulating a debate about the future. Surely, we are in for some dramatic changes in my later years on the planet. Surely, we need to equip the next generation to deal with these changes. Surely, we need to protect the public interest in turbulent times.

“Prat” is an often-applied British term. There are a lot worse terms than that one.

[1] https://www.clarkstown.gov/weekly-column/the-revolutionary-year-of-1775/

[2] https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0074812/

[3] Intel’s 4004, released in 1971, packed the core of a central processing unit (CPU) onto a single chip for the first time.

[4] https://fortune.com/2025/11/20/elon-musk-tesla-ai-work-optional-money-irrelevant/