This Thursday sees the publication of my paperback. It's pink!! Slightly reminiscent of Pepto Bismol, but perhaps that's appropriate given the visceral reaction of certain protagonists. For most readers it will only cause mild hiccups.
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After five hours at Marseille airport, it is now my considered opinion that this place is actually the gateway to hell. Not only does it smell of raw sewage, it is also decorated in a variety of migraine inducing colours, ranging from pus yellow to vomit orange. The food options are reminiscent of a 1980s Little Chef, only with 21st century prices, and it has the hygiene standards of a necrotic rat. There are no words to adequately describe the squalor of the toilets.
@Ryanair can you tell me please if the delayed flight from Marseilles to stansted (FR6542) is actually going to show or will we just be waiting all night in the equivalent of a giant toilet only to be told it’s cancelled?
A stream of stories now coming out of the US saying that AI ‘singularity’ — or recursive self-improvement, I think — is much closer than most folks thought. It means current AI models able to develop the next model without human participation, then the next and the next, ad finitum. Each one more powerful than the previous. Likely to lead to amazing sci/tech breakthroughs. But also huge risks over human loss of control. Exciting and scary.
1972. 2012. 2032?
London's first Pride march. WorldPride in our city. Now I'm backing a bid to bring the world back to London in 2032, marking 60 years of Pride and inviting LGBTQIA+ creatives to help shape it from day one.
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My car battery died in a grocery store parking lot at 8:00 PM.
I was standing there staring into the hood like a man trying to read a broken clock.
A faded pickup truck pulled up. A guy in grease-stained overalls stepped out, took one look at my open hood, and nodded once without asking a single question.
He reached into his truck bed and pulled out a pair of jumper cables so absurdly thick they looked like python snakes.
He clipped red to red, black to black, gave my engine a small, reassuring tap, and said, "Turn it over, brother."
It roared to life on the first try.
I pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and offered it to him.
He looked at the money, then at me with gentle confusion, as if I had just offered to buy his favorite hat.
"I don't want your cash, man," he said, wrapping the heavy cables around his arm. "Buy your own set and keep them in the trunk. Someday it's your turn."
That night, I went to Walmart and bought a set of cables so thick they take up a third of my trunk.
Last Thursday, a young driver was standing helplessly near a dead car outside a gas station.
I pulled up, rolled down my window, and didn't even ask what was wrong.
"Pop the latch, my friend," I said.
He tried to give me ten dollars afterward.
I held up my hand, smiled, and told him what had been told to me: "Buy your own set, man. It's your turn next."
America has no government department for dead batteries. It just has two hundred million working men waiting in the dark to hand off a pair of heavy copper cables.
About to leave Cork to drive west to chair a panel on my TAOISEACH book at the @westcorkhisfest at Inish Beg. Taoiseach @MichealMartinTD is opening it. Then a frantic drive to Cork Airport to get the 8.20pm flight to Edinburgh as my Fringe shows start tomorrow at 12pm!
The latest Hitchens and Vine podcast, in which .@westminsterwag and I respond to listeners' letters. We think it's jolly good
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