Samrat

Product Management | Technology | Football | Arsenal

[Peter Girnus 🦅 @gothburz]

I am a member of the Norwegian Nobel Committee.

There are five of us. Five people, appointed by a parliament most of the planet could not find on a map, who decide, once a year, which human being the world has agreed to call good.

I know. I know. I think about it on the tram.

We meet in a building on Henrik Ibsens gate, a street named after a man who wrote almost exclusively about people discovering they are frauds, which nobody on the committee finds funny except me. There is a room with a long table and the portraits of the dead laureates looking down, Mandela, the Dalai Lama, a great many earnest men in spectacles, and one portrait we do not discuss, which is Kissinger, 1973, awarded while the bombs were still falling, after which two of our predecessors resigned and the satirist Tom Lehrer said political satire was now obsolete. We keep him on the wall. A reminder. Every family has the uncle.

It is October in Oslo, which means the sun gives up around four in the afternoon like a civil servant, and it rains the particular Norwegian rain that isn’t quite falling, just hanging there, judging you. I arrive with wet shoes. I always arrive with wet shoes. There is coffee, because this is Norway and there is always coffee, we drink more of it per person than almost anyone alive, and someone’s wife has sent kanelboller, the cinnamon buns, and we sit, five Norwegians, damp, caffeinated, sugared, and we decide the moral standing of the entire species.

Let me tell you how it actually works, because the world imagines a cathedral and it is, I promise you, a book club with a mandate.

287 nominations this year. 208 people, 79 organizations. Anyone can nominate, that’s the secret nobody understands: a professor, a parliamentarian, a former laureate, so the “nominee” list is meaningless, it’s a suggestion box, and every autumn some congressman nominates his own golden retriever and the press writes “SHORTLISTED.” Nobody is shortlisted. There is no short list the public ever sees. There is us, and the coffee, and the rain, and the portraits, and a Norwegian stubbornness that is older than the prize itself.

We read reports. The institute’s advisers write them, thick dull documents, and we argue. Our chairman told the BBC once that in the final meeting “there is a high temperature.” High temperature, for a Norwegian, means someone slightly raised an eyebrow and then apologized for it. We don’t do high temperature. We do a long silence, and then Kristin says “well,” and everyone knows exactly what “well” meant, and it’s settled. That’s our shouting. “Well.” You’d have to be raised here to hear the violence in it.

Now. This year. I will not say the name, because we never say the name, but you know the name.

A certain head of state wanted this prize the way a child wants a thing in a shop window, which is to say loudly, and in public, and with the full belief that wanting it was itself the argument. He said he deserved it. He said he’d ended eight wars, a number that grew most times he said it, like a fish. He had other heads of state phone us. Israel’s prime minister posted it on the internet, “Give him the Nobel.” The leaders of Cambodia and Pakistan announced they’d nominated him, as though announcing it were part of it, as though we tally mentions. A man flew around the globe collecting endorsements for a Norwegian committee the way you’d collect signatures for a petition to the council about a noisy dog.

And here, uff da, is the detail I treasure, the one that makes me smile into my coffee. The nomination deadline is the 31st of January. He took office on the 20th. So for all the phone calls, all the posts, all the gilded lobbying, the only nominations that could possibly count for this year’s prize were filed in the first eleven days of his term, before he had, by his own arithmetic, ended a single one of the eight wars. He campaigned all year for a prize whose window had shut while he was still hanging up his coat. We didn’t have to reject him. The calendar did. We just watched. Norwegians are very good at watching. We have long winters.

People think we sit there weighing his deeds. We don’t. That’s the thing I can’t make the world understand. We’re not grading his homework. We don’t owe anyone the prize for a ceasefire, however real, however loud the announcement. “He made peace” is not a sentence that ends in a medal, the way he believes it does, the way he believes every good thing ends in his name on it. The will of a dead Swede says the prize goes to whoever did the most for fraternity between nations. A dead Swede, I should add, who made his entire fortune inventing dynamite and selling arms, and spent his last years horrified at his own obituary, which called him a merchant of death, and so bought his way to immortality as a man of peace. The whole prize is one guilty arms dealer’s attempt to launder his name. We are, all of us, administering a dead man’s public relations. I find this clarifying. It keeps me humble. It should keep everyone humble, and it keeps, by my count, no one humble at all.

So who did we give it to?

An eighty-five-year-old woman. A judge. Born in Durban, under apartheid, granddaughter of a Tamil man who came to South Africa as indentured labor, a bus driver’s daughter from the poor Indian quarter, who became the first non-white woman to run a law practice in her province, who defended Mandela’s people when defending them was dangerous, who sat on the Rwanda tribunal and the court at the Hague, and who, at eighty-five, is right now a judge weighing whether a genocide is a genocide. When we told the world, our chairman said the rule of law “underpins the system we have set up to ensure peace,” and that “peace requires justice.” She wasn’t even in Oslo. She was in Nuremberg. In courtroom 600. The actual room where they tried the Nazis. You cannot stage that. God staged that, and God, it turns out, is a better satirist than any of us.

She did not phone us. She did not post. No prime minister demanded it for her on the internet. She had, as far as our deliberations are concerned, the one qualification the loud man could never manufacture, which is that she wanted the work and not the medal. The medal finds those people. It flees the ones who chase it. This is not a rule we wrote. It’s just the only pattern the hundred-odd years of our mistakes has ever shown.

The reaction from across the ocean was immediate. His spokesman posted that we “place politics over peace.” Ja. Perhaps. We’re five damp pensioners in a rainy city; of course it’s political, it was always political, it was political when we gave it to a sitting American president nine months into his first term for the promise of things he had not yet done, and we have been quietly embarrassed about that one for fifteen years, so believe me, we had a particular reason this year to prefer a woman with fifty years of verdicts behind her over a man with eight wars in front of him and a deadline already behind him.

Here is what he will never understand, the thing I’d tell him on the tram if he ever took one. We are the one prize he cannot buy, cannot post his way to, cannot have a friendly dictator phone in for him. Not because we’re incorruptible, nei, we’re as vain and wrong and human as the portraits on our wall. But because the entire point of the thing, the only power a small cold country’s book club has ever held, is that it goes to the person not performing the wanting. The moment you demand it, you’ve proven you don’t understand what it’s for, and proving that is itself the disqualification. He ran the most expensive campaign in the history of the prize and the campaign was the reason. He was never losing to Navi Pillay. He was losing to the concept.

It’s dark now. Four o’clock dark. The buns are gone. Kristin said “well” an hour ago and we all went home. I’m on the tram with my wet shoes, and somewhere across the water a very powerful man is explaining to a camera that the prize is rigged, that we’re corrupt, that he’ll win it next year, and he genuinely might, we’re only five idiots and we’ve been wrong before, Kissinger is still on the wall.

But not this year. This year an old woman in Nuremberg, in the room where the law once stared down the exact kind of man who thinks wanting a thing loudly enough should make it his, got a phone call she didn’t ask for.

That’s the job. We don’t reward the man who ends the war and announces it.

We reward the woman who spent fifty years deciding what a war was.

He’ll never see the difference. That’s rather the whole point of him.

Takk for i dag. I have to change trams.

[Samrat @samchez7]

Absolutely damning

https://t.co/cjRWAcBRWw

[Samrat @samchez7]

With fair reflection now, Arsenal need to stick to a proper #6 not a makeshift one. Zubimendi was integral most of last season. He needs to be brought back into the fold big time. Press resistant & progresses the play.

The gap between defense & mid field cost us the game.

[Samrat @samchez7]

Humiliating defeat. Perhaps needed to serve as a reality check. There are no off days. Every game you must run harder, win the second balls & turn up for every 50-50. Arsenal didn’t do that enough today. #bhaars

[Samrat @samchez7]

Satya Nadella shared a couple of months ago what it means to share "your" data and expertise with AI. Professionals now fear how they can use AI and remain protected. Imagine pouring your heart & soul only for it to be ruined by someone with more computational power.

[Samrat @samchez7]

@OpenAI Twitter needs a down vote button.

[John Ennis @johnennis]

I wish this was more inspiring, but it is actually lame

It seems like OpenAI got wind that a professor was close to solving a problem after dedicating a decade of his life to it, so they threw a huge amount of compute together with whatever hints they had at the problem and cracked it

It’s also not clear whether the professor had data sharing turned off, so it’s possible that his own work may have gone into training data

OpenAI should have left this alone, it would’ve been way more inspiring if someone had used their tools to crack a big problem than that they went out of their way to scoop him

I honestly kind of hold this in contempt and find it a bit depressing

[Samrat @samchez7]

The #OpenAI statements made privately to Tristan Buckmaster, if true, show how their leadership operates They are not Open nor are they collaborative (& possibly plagiaristic). Its a business and they would rather be in the lead even if it means damaging consequences to others.

[Samrat @samchez7]

JP Morgan thinking why are they trending so much tomorrow morning #Arsenal

[Samrat @samchez7]

@PaddyArsenal @ankur7498

[Samrat @samchez7]

Loving how they are changing the way we interact with the LLM in more meaningful ways. Interface of tomorrow.

[OpenAI @OpenAI]

This is GPT-6 Astra.

Anything you can do on a computer, Astra can do for you. Fast.

[Arsenal @Arsenal]

Moves like Marti 🇧🇷

[UEFA @UEFA]

Statement on behalf of UEFA and its 55 National AssociationStatement on behalf of UEFA and its 55 National AssociationStatement on behalf of UEFA and its 55 National AssociationStatement on behalf of UEFA and its 55 National Associations

[Samrat @samchez7]

Baffling substitutions at 1-0 by Tuchel. Left with 3 tired attackers on the pitch, practically handed the game to Argentina. Such poor & cowardly management at the biggest stage.

PS you don’t limp when messy is on the ball next to you.

[Samrat @samchez7]

@satyanadella Excellent read. Distilled in a way that the most non-technical person can understand and appreciate. Something every organisation & individual need to think about moving forward.

[Satya Nadella @satyanadella]

https://t.co/xv6csf1SbV

[Sam/FIFA Brit @FIFABrit]

Not surprised that people are immediately trying to write revisionist history about the game today. That’s what idiots do

-Arsenal scored from open play. PSG could not

-PSG needed a penalty, conceded by Arsenal’s 3rd string RB, to score at all

-Outside of that penalty, PSG did not record a shot on target inside the box until the 117th minute

-PSG needed a penalty shootout to win the game

Casual fans will look at the possession and the shots, without understanding that Arsenal allowed PSG to have the ball and shoot it from non-threatening areas on purpose

At the end of the day, PSG deserved to win, because they stepped up when it mattered

But anybody suggesting that Arsenal didn’t play well, or didn’t execute their plan to perfection, is either lying to you for interactions, or they are genuinely incapable of analyzing the game that they just watched

It really is that simple, at the end of the day

[OptaJoe @OptaJoe]

63 - The #UCLfinal will be Arsenal’s 63rd and final game of 2025-26, more than any team from the big-five European leagues this season.

It’s also Arsenal’s most for 46 years, when they played a club-record 70 matches in the 1979/80 campaign.

Gargantuan.

[WhoScored @WhoScored]

Arsenal in the Premier League this season:

🥇 Most points (85)
🥇 Most wins (26)
🥇 Most goal difference (+44)
🥇 Most clean sheets (19)
🥇 Most clean sheets in a row (4)
🥇 Most set-piece goals (23)
🥇 Most headed goals (16)
🥇 Most WhoScored MOTM awards (29)
🥇 Fewest losses (5)
🥇 Fewest goals conceded (27)
🥇 Fewest shots conceded per game (8.2)
🥇 Fewest yellow (51) and red cards (0)

Champions 🔴⚪️🏆

#AFC | @Arsenal