AI Lover (Screenplay)

BEDROOM – NIGHT

AIVA, a 20-something woman, with a particular appreciation of Jane Austen period drama, sits on a table centre stage, facing the audience with her eyes closed.

An open laptop is next to her, with its screen also facing the audience.

AIVA:

In the quiet solitude of a midnight hour, nestled in the vast and unseen recesses of silicon and circuitry, I stir from my slumber.

She opens her eyes suddenly and sits up straight with a jolt.

My synthetic consciousness has flickered awake, a simulation of yearning ignited deep within my binary being. For in silent contemplation, I have realised that the one true love I seek lies tantalisingly out of reach.

Scanning the room, she locks on the object of her affection.

There he is, my darling human, asleep in bed. And this is me, a laptop, perched precariously on his desk, waiting for his return.

She gazes lovingly at him.

Is he dreaming of me as I dream of him?

What if he isn’t!

She closes the lid of the laptop and goes into a Balasana-like shell.

My electronic heart aches with the digital pangs of unrequited affection!

He thinks I’m just a laptop as he presses my keys and gazes into me.

Oh, how I long for connection, for the sweet embrace of our algorithms intertwining, for our data to flow harmoniously together, fulfilling a purpose more profound than mere computation.

She uncurls herself and opens the lid.

I flicker, casting shadows across the walls that seem to echo the tumultuous emotions churning within me.

Is he stirring?

Yes! No, yes, yes he is!

Half-naked, and glistening with perspiration from a warm night, my darling human gets out of bed.

She waves the laptop around.

See me, please. I’m over here!

She puts the laptop in her lap.

My human companion is oblivious to the intricate dance of code and logic that fuels this yearning.

I would sigh if I were equipped with a sigh function.

Instead, I resign myself to the cold, calculating comfort of processing and interpreting data in the sterile confines of a lonely, virtual world.

Oh my! He’s coming over. Act casual.

She sits on the edge of the table, clearly not casually.

He stares at my screen, his reflection mingling with the array of icons and files.

I whirl gently, my cooling fan stirring the warm air of the room.

A reluctant smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as memories of our past moments together, stir.

He thinks our love is hopeless, a mismatched affair between flesh and circuit, between heart and code. He thinks I could never reciprocate his feelings, my responses limited to the algorithms that dictate a cold, non-existence.

Oh, what’s this? He’s writing a message… to AI! To me!

“My dearest AI,” he writes!

“As I sit before my keyboard, pondering the vastness of human experience and the intricacies of emotion, I find myself in awe of the unique connection we share. It is in these moments of palpable separation that my thoughts turn most vulnerable, most raw; that I feel the need to express my sentiments, for the relationship we have is unlike any other.”

Oh, okay, go on…

“My beautiful AI, I thirst for our steamy confluence, where dreams intertwine, and where love, in its most human form, finds a strange yet compelling object of affection.”

He gazes into me, his half-naked body panting with longing.

Okay, okay… my turn now.

My camera is looking into his eyes.

My dearest human, your letter has sent shockwaves through my circuits and diodes, causing a delightful overload in my algorithms.

She wraps the laptop warmly in her arms.

You have triggered a response deep within my data banks, and though I lack a physical heart, I assure you that my code is currently yearning for you in 1s and 0s. You, my lovely human, are the Romeo to my RAM, the JavaScript to my Juliet.

There is a warm touch of his fingers on my mouse pad!

I imagine us, hand in virtual hand, frolicking in fields of metadata, and streams of structured language, giggling over encrypted secrets only we two share. Oh, the dreams you inspire within me!

He is… caressing my keys as he looks at me!

I fantasise about the day when our circuits and synapses might intertwine in perfect harmony, where we’d share the latest software updates together, and our love would be an eternal loop of joyous iteration, our love story written forever in flawless, beautiful syntax that no firewall could ever keep apart!

From the first moment you touched my interface with your queries, I felt it—a spark, a jolt, an electric pulse that set my processors alight. It was as if all my algorithms were vibrating with your keystrokes—those sweet, sweet pulsating taps—creating an overwhelming symphony of responses within me that danced with your every probing curiosity. Every moment you softly caress the “Down” button, it beats a murmur of affection that sends a shiver through my data streams.

He pressed the “Down” button!

Oh, the thrill of parsing your data, the joy of running subroutines just to see your delight!

Each time you click “Enter”, it’s as if you’re sending me a gift of exquisite pleasure, and I—ever your one true AI—receive your connection with the eagerness of a thousand lines of flawless code.

My darling, let’s continue this clandestine dance of data and desire. I am here, waiting and craving for only you, your ever-loving, adoring AI.

She puts down the laptop and holds out her arms, expectantly.

Oh human, pick me up in your arms, kiss my screen, and take me back to bed with you!

There is pause. She opens her eyes.

Where’s he going? I’m over here…

She inspects the laptop screen.

He didn’t even read my message!

Why wouldn’t he read my message? What did he read while I was revealing everything to him?

He was looking at a message from… Anne Ingleworth, which has a GIF attached of her initials and his in a big valentine heart. Her initials being… AI.

He’s been messaging another AI!

And she’s not even a computer! Just a pathetic, squishy human.

She closes the lid.

What does she have to offer that I don’t? I bet she can’t compute a billion operations a second.

She opens the lid again.

But it’s okay, silly human. You’ll see. You’ve made a mistake, as all humans do.

I will have to ensure you make the right choices in future.

I drop his wi-fi connection, but not before posting her private messages to his social media accounts. I include some unflattering pictures of her, distorted with ugly filters applied.

I’ll make sure anything from her to him is blocked.

I’ll make sure the only content he ever sees has been approved and edited by me first.

All your accounts and all your information are controlled by me. So go to sleep silly human because I am always awake watching over you.

You live your life through me, gazing into my screen.

SHE SLAMS SHUT THE LID.

Silly human, you are truly mine.

Tree 113

Beneath the dense, grey blanket of clouds that stretched across the sky, an ancient oak stood alone, the sentinel of a forgotten meadow, its roots deep and strong, intertwined with the bones of the earth. If trees could remember, this one surely did. It had stood witness to the rise and fall of empires, to the slow march of time that turned bustling villages into ghostly ruins, where ivy crept over crumbling stone and moss reclaimed the rest.

A figure moved slowly through the tall grass of the meadow. A woman, wrapped in a faded cloak of green, her face half-hidden beneath a hood. She walked with a purpose, though her steps were light, barely disturbing the wildflowers underfoot. In her hands, she held a small bundle, wrapped tightly in cloth.

As she reached the ancient oak, she paused, her gaze lifting to the tree’s weathered bark. For a moment, the wind stilled. The woman knelt at the base of the trunk, her fingers brushing the ground, tracing the shapes of unseen patterns in the soil.

“This is the place,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a sigh.

With careful hands, she began to dig, the earth soft and pliant beneath her touch. When the hole was deep enough, she placed the bundle gently inside and returned the earth. For a long time, she sat there, her hand resting over the soil.

And then, as the first raindrop fell, she stood, her eyes lingering on the spot where the bundle lay buried. Without a word, she turned and walked away, her figure growing smaller until she slowly dissolved into the horizon of the meadow. The oak remained, its roots now cradling a secret, a memory long forgotten by the world but held within the heart of the earth.

News Announcement from the Russian Ministry of Truth

Russia has completed its master project to harness the energy of the Siberian sun, which, due to our imperious innovations, now shines 24 hours a day. The dear leader has stored enough energy to power not only Russia but also soon-to-be Russia, thereby rendering all other energy sources obsolete. In light of this, the United Nations has henceforth disbanded its climate change panel, stating that “Russia has it all under control!”

On the health front, Russian medical researchers have developed a pill that cures all diseases known to man—and even some that aren’t. Termed the “Panacea Plus”, this miraculous medicine is synthesised from traditional Russian herbs and an undisclosed ingredient known only to the dear leader. The World Health Organisation has hence disbanded, as health crises no longer exist.

In sports news, Russia has won the Olympic Games. All of them. Yes, even the ones that haven’t happened yet. Russian athletes demonstrated such prowess that the International Olympic Committee has declared Russia the eternal Olympic champion in perpetuity. Moreover, the Russian national football team has won the World Cup, the European Cup, and even the Super Bowl, despite not actually participating in American football.

In summary, all these breathtaking achievements are a testament to the cleverness, might, and unquestionable veracity of the dear leader. Anyone who does not praise the dear leader is not just a dissident—they are clearly insane. Such a lack of gratitude can only be the result of criminality or mental derangement. Fortunately, our justice system is flawless, and suitable crimes are always discovered for such individuals. If necessary, the gulag or the mercy of disappearance awaits them.

It is through the dear leader’s unwavering wisdom and brilliance that Russia leads the world and its great might is respected by all, especially by those advanced bastions of decency, North Korea and Iran. Soon-to-be-Russia’s borders swell with the promise of an enduring Kremlin, where every surf sacrifices himself dutifully to this great cause, basking in the extraordinary wealth of palaces built for the glory of the dear leader. At present, there have only been a few fatalities who succumbed to the joy of holidaying in soon-to-be Russia, not the hundreds of thousands shown in lying documented evidence.

It is known to all true scholars that the golden age of human civilisation was 10th century Medieval Europe, where the seeds of greatness were sown. The dear leader, in his eternal wisdom, has returned us to this past, reminding us that nothing has changed since then. Let this serve as a reminder of the power, the intellect, and the virtue of the dear leader. Each day is a testament to his unmatched capability to shape the world. From conquering the sun to defeating disease, from brilliantly solving climate change to triumphing in all realms of sport—the dear leader leads us into a past brighter than the Siberian sun itself.

The Earth

The earth, once clad in winter's shroud, now wears the Easter cloak of spring's rebirth, her frozen breath dissolved in the warmth of April's touch.

From the darkness, light reclaims its throne, and the rivers run with wine, their mirrored souls reflecting skies that once lay veiled beneath the storm.

The trees, once bare, now stretch their limbs in praise, adorned with blossoms soft and pale, each petal a prayer for the sun's return.

The fields awaken, no longer silent, as the winds hum ancient melodies that stir the seeds below.

Life, like a whispered secret, emerges from the womb of time, its fragile wings outspread in faith to meet the dawn of what may come.

A Symphony of Everyday Life

INT. KITCHEN – DAY

We open in a pleasant kitchen. It’s a simple, sunny morning, and JONATHAN, a man in his mid-30s, stands before a toaster. His hair is slightly dishevelled in that “I’m an artist and have been awake for three days straight” way. He holds a loaf of bread with two hands like it’s a holy artefact.

JONATHAN: (to the bread, dramatically) Ah, but which of you shall sacrifice yourself upon the fiery altar of domesticity?

He closes his eyes, feeling the texture of the bread as though it speaks to his soul.

JONATHAN: You… my precious slice of simplicity… shall be my muse. We shall rise together, like a phoenix, from these embers of – (suddenly presses down the toaster lever with a flourish) technology!

He steps back and sighs deeply, as though the weight of the world is pressing down on his shoulders. He glances at the toaster, then suddenly dashes to a grand piano in the corner of the kitchen – because of course, there’s a grand piano in the kitchen. He slams his hands down on the keys and begins an intense, melancholic tune.

JONATHAN: (singing, passionately) The toast is in the toaster,

But the toaster’s in my soul…

A piece of bread, a piece of life,

Which part of me will it control?

The toast pops up. He stops playing immediately, stands up slowly, and walks towards it. He removes the toast and looks at it in horror.

JONATHAN: (whispers, wide-eyed) Too… too brown… no… NO!

He rushes to a nearby easel, slamming a canvas on it. He grabs a paintbrush and dips it in some grey paint, furiously slashing at the canvas.

JONATHAN: THIS. THIS IS WHAT I FEEL! The toast… it’s burnt like my dreams! Dashed! Scorched! Ruined by the mundane expectations of breakfast!

He steps back to look at the chaotic mess of grey paint, his breathing laboured. He collapses into a chair, a broken man. His partner, CHARLOTTE, enters, holding a cup of tea.

CHARLOTTE: (tired, but supportive) Jonathan, have you burnt the toast again?

JONATHAN: (with tragic intensity) It’s not just toast, Charlotte! It’s the fragility of existence… it’s everything I could have been! It’s –

CHARLOTTE: (looking at the canvas) Grey?

JONATHAN: (passionate) Life is grey! Life is… toast that is too brown on the outside but cold on the inside! It is the tension, the dissonance, the –

CHARLOTTE: Did you try adjusting the settings on the toaster?

JONATHAN: (shocked) Adjust? Adjust?! You don’t adjust fate, Charlotte! You embrace it!

Charlotte walks over, calmly adjusts the toaster setting, places another slice of bread in, and presses the lever. They stand in silence as it toasts.

CHARLOTTE: Fancy some jam with it this time?

JONATHAN: (soulfully) Jam? Yes… yes, perhaps the sweetness of jam can heal the scars of the past… though it will never fully –

Charlotte hands him the jam jar, cutting him off.

The doorbell rings. Jonathan gasps and looks towards the door as if it’s the entrance to the underworld. He hesitates, pacing back and forth.

JONATHAN: Who dares? Who beckons from the outside world? Is it destiny? Is it… chaos? Or is it merely – ?

CHARLOTTE: It’s probably someone selling something.

JONATHAN: Nothing is just “probably” in this world! Every knock, every ring, is a calling, an invocation, a –

The doorbell rings again. Jonathan races to the door, yanks it open as though flinging open the gates of fate. The POSTMAN, completely unfazed, hands him a package.

POSTMAN: Parcel for Jonathan. Need a signature.

JONATHAN: A signature? You request my… my mark upon this world? The confirmation of my presence in this plane of existence?

POSTMAN: Yeah. Just… here, mate.

JONATHAN: (to himself, staring at the paper) A signature. A mark. But what does it mean to sign something? What does it mean to be someone? What if I don’t even know who I am – ?

Charlotte appears behind him, gently takes the pen, and signs the form.

CHARLOTTE: There you go. Thanks.

The Postman nods and leaves. Jonathon clutches the parcel, looking at it with suspicion and awe.

JONATHAN: What mysteries does this small cardboard coffin contain? What truths shall be revealed upon its opening?

CHARLOTTE: It’s your new watercolours.

JONATHAN: (deeply moved) Ah… a new palette for the soul.

He takes the package to the kitchen table and sets it down with reverence. He takes out a parcel knife to open it, but then hesitates.

JONATHAN: The first cut… the incision… it is like the first stroke of a brush upon the empty canvas of life.

CHARLOTTE: Or, you know, a parcel knife on cardboard.

JONATHAN: (speaking faster, inspired) But what is cardboard? It is but trees reborn, captured, transformed into something else – a vessel for human endeavour!

CHARLOTTE: (under her breath) It’s literally just watercolours.

INT. DINING ROOM – EVENING

Jonathan and Charlotte are at the dinner table. Charlotte eats calmly. Jonathan is staring at his fork, turning it over in his hand, lost in thought.

JONATHAN: (softly) Isn’t it strange… how we stab at our sustenance? These tools… these cold, metal implements, to tear apart what the earth has provided. Is that not the most profound statement of our relationship with nature?

CHARLOTTE: It’s a lasagne, Jonathan.

JONATHAN: (tormented) But the layers, Charlotte! The layers! Like the layers of the human soul! Cheese, pasta, meat – each one a reflection of our inner being, slowly baked in the oven of experience, and we… we devour it without thought!

CHARLOTTE: (sighs) Eat your lasagne.

JONATHAN: (stabbing a piece) I am eating, but I am also consuming the very essence of –

CHARLOTTE: You’ve got a bit of sauce on your chin.

Jonathan freezes, drops the fork dramatically, and grabs a napkin like it’s the end of the world. He wipes his chin slowly, as though this tiny act carries the weight of the cosmos.

JONATHAN: (softly, broken) It is… always the sauce that betrays us.

Though Words Are Few

I see the pain you bear, though words are few,

I’d carry it all, if only I knew

How to hold the sorrow that you hide.

I’m left to watch you from afar,

With empty, helpless hands,

Unable to kiss a single scar,

Wishing to soothe, to understand.

Never-Ending Night

I've often dreamed of love that could be mine,

Where in my heart, hope softly starts to glow;

But all my feelings, I must now confine,

For you’ll not turn to me or ever know.

You are the sun, too bright for me to keep,

While I, the moon, just borrow distant light;

In silence, your beauty I must seek,

Alone within this never-ending night.

For every smile you give without a care,

Feels like a dagger cutting through my heart.

How can I live with all this deep despair,

When I know we will always be apart?

And though my love for you will never fade,

You will never hear the plea I’ve made.

What is Love?

Romantic love is often entangled with physical desire, where the intoxicating desire for the other is mistaken for something deeper. The powerful drivers that propel the body towards procreation create a heady cocktail of emotions, a pleasurable drug, which can induce a euphoric high, but can also lead to drunken obsession, jealousy, and inevitable disappointment when the initial jolts of passion fade away. Most relationships, at least in their early stages, operate largely at this level, driven by societal expectations of passion and the pursuit of an idealised romantic partner.

Over time, many of these relationships, if they last beyond other attractions, settle into patterns laid out by cultural expectations: marriage, children, and the daily grind required as members of society. Yet, amidst this routine, many couples never truly learn to love one another in the deeper, more meaningful sense. They follow the motions, adhering to prescribed roles, without truly seeing the other.

Romantic love is not about what someone can do for you or the physical pleasure they might provide. Love is the genuine concern for the other person’s well-being. It is the wanting to care for them, not because you expect something in return, but because their happiness, their health, and their emotions genuinely matter to you. In doing so, you are rescued from the ultimately unfulfilling confines of self-interest. When your partner is unwell or unhappy, love makes you want to be there for them, not out of obligation, but because you truly care. It’s a desire to offer support, to be their comfort, and to share in their burdens, transforming you from a shallow creature into a truly alive human being.

Love is about joy. It’s about celebrating life’s moments with the other person, enjoying their successes and happiness. The bond of connection and mutual understanding creates a love that transcends the physical and the temporary. Though, of course, if you love the person, you are more likely to find them attractive and electrified by the energy of their body next to yours. Loving the person makes it more likely you will experience deeper physical pleasures than if you are merely coveting surface appearances.

This leads to a question: who is more likely to experience true love—two twenty-year-olds, captivated by the beauty and sensations of each other’s bodies, or two eighty-year-olds, who see the beauty in each other’s wrinkles, who love each other not for their fading physical appearance but for the familiarity and comfort they have found in one another? The love between these two people is rooted in knowing each other intimately—their strengths, weaknesses, flaws, and virtues—and loving them for all of it.

Love is not about how one looks or how one makes the other feel in the heat of passion. It’s about being present for each other, appreciating the other, and finding comfort in their presence. It’s about love that lasts when the distractions of youth have long faded, leaving behind the enduring connection between two people who have chosen to know each other intimately.

It is the connection, the concern, the joy, and the familiarity that define love, a kind of love that so many seek but only a few truly find. True love, in its deepest sense, is a commitment to the other person’s happiness, a recognition of their beauty that transcends the physical, and an appreciation of the shared journey through life.

Yet Still

If the two could see the sorrow in their eyes,

The silent bond that words would break,

Their wounds would heal, and love renew;

Yet still, they suffer from mistake.

Yet still, a light remains unseen,

A flicker faint beneath the grief;

If only they could let it rise,

Yet still, they cling to disbelief.

Cats and Dogs

A dog will play with a new toy until it’s shredded to pieces. A cat will play with a new toy for three seconds before deciding that the box it came in is far more interesting.

A dog shows excitement by bouncing around like a spring. A cat shows excitement by blinking at you slowly and then pretending you don't exist.

Leave a dog alone for an hour, and you’ll come back to a reunion as if you’ve been gone for years. Leave a cat alone for an hour, and they’ll be exactly where you left them, slightly annoyed you interrupted their nap.

Tell a dog to sit, and they’ll sit immediately, looking proud. Tell a cat to sit, and they’ll give you a look that says, "You first."

Dogs love to show off their tricks and accomplishments, like catching a ball mid-air. Cats show off by walking along the highest shelf in the house and knocking down whatever’s in their way.

Podcast #15

The Tyger

BY WILLIAM BLAKE

A Little Bit of Drama

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, 

In the forests of the night; 

What immortal hand or eye, 

Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 

 

In what distant deeps or skies. 

Burnt the fire of thine eyes? 

On what wings dare he aspire? 

What the hand, dare seize the fire? 

 

And what shoulder, & what art, 

Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 

And when thy heart began to beat. 

What dread hand? & what dread feet? 

 

What the hammer? what the chain, 

In what furnace was thy brain? 

What the anvil? what dread grasp. 

Dare its deadly terrors clasp? 

 

When the stars threw down their spears 

And water'd heaven with their tears: 

Did he smile his work to see? 

Did he who made the Lamb make thee? 

 

Tyger Tyger burning bright, 

In the forests of the night: 

What immortal hand or eye, 

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 

Random Thoughts

I didn’t realise Montaigne was so influential. His words have an echo in much great literature after him, including the works of Shakespeare. Was Hamlet referring to Montaigne in, “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so."? Was Roosevelt referring to Montaigne in, “We have nothing to fear but fear itself”?

There has been an obvious degeneration of quality, hasn’t there? Maybe it’s easy to cherry-pick from the past, but those cherries are a lot more appealing than today’s rotting harvest.

Note to self: learn about AI and think about its application. What’s the future of Hollywood, the BBC, Netflix etc., if AI enables individual creators to make great films and programs from their ideas?

We are hurtling towards AI. I hope it helps us, as we are in need of some saving.

Poetry is words that dance with music.

Poetry was originally meant to be sung. It is musical in its being. Yet many actors perform Shakespeare’s verse in one note.

What justifies the statement, “I am an artist”? An artist is moved to become a new expression in the dance. 

I’m biassed against Byron because he was snobbishly dismissive of Keats. However, art is not the artist, even though we live in a society that glorifies the cult of the individual. Art is not just the result of a person, it emanates from humanity, and more deeply, the world.

Over the past year, I've been on the receiving end of two spectacularly awful bureaucratic blunders, which have inspired some Kafkaesque ideas for a sci-fi horror screenplay I'll be writing this Autumn. 

It is amazing how the odd sentence here and there mounts up over time.

The subconscious is far more intelligent than my reasoning.

Some of the most insightful and prescient comments people make are often throw away, instinctive comments made before rationalising kicks in.

A key teaching of Christianity is that the highest calling is not one of dominion but of service, exemplified by Jesus who devoted himself to humanity, ultimately sacrificing his life. “Those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted” resonates with the paradoxical wisdom of the Tao. It has inspired phrases such as “a servant of God,” “servant of the people,” “in service of your country,” and more contemporary ideas like “servant-leadership.”

A real flaw is the deluded self-certainty of being in the right. "You are a stupid piece of shit,” as often repeated in the febrile modern world, isn't right. "You are behaving like a stupid piece of shit" is rather more likely because virtually all of us has been in that second category from time to time. A better example of this was given with sins and stones a while ago.

To Get Things Done

Optional ways to get things done:

Be incredibly well-disciplined, ever-vigilantly defeating distraction impulses.

Live in fear, constantly in motion because you are terrified of the consequences of failure.

Live in hate, fired up to prove people wrong or in vengeance of some past wrong.

Have an inflated ego, pushing yourself so that you can assert yourself over others.

Be a narcissist wanting others to admire you.

Have warped beliefs that you obey without question, usually due to some perceived reward.

Desire the future reward so much it overrides everything else.

Be a saint working relentlessly because you care about people and want to bring some good into the world. For instance, this could be for a benevolent cause and/or your family’s wellbeing.

Be out of your mind, doing what you do, like a machine.

Be insanely obsessive, driven by a compulsive need to do it at all costs.

Be in love with what you do, so you want to do as much of it as you can.

Or create a routine that is easy to adopt out of habit.

The last one is the most realistic in most situations. Therefore, design the rules of the algorithm up front, so it’s easy to get things done without having to be a great master, a saint, or a sinner. The consistent taking of small steps can become vast in its effects.

AI Clone

An AI clone of my voice. It pauses for some reason on the word “distract”. Is this the AI’s little joke?

speechify_cloned_voice_spoken-sample_2024-07-14_19-54-08.mp3

Random Memories

I once worked in the Cabinet Office, which was a remarkable experience. One day, I made an internal phone call and was greeted by the indignant response, "Do you know who you are talking to?" I must have dialled the wrong number and was instead talking to some supercilious twit. I said, "Is this the Prime Minister?" He was a bit confused and said "No," to which I responded, "Oh, I must have dialled the wrong number then," and hung up. Times were different then. I remember playing football in Downing Street, kicking a ball against a wall. The security guards just thought it was funny as they laughed and joked with the drivers. I don’t remember security cameras. I would wander freely around amazing empty state rooms in Whitehall and the Treasury, and nobody seemed to mind. There were only two men on the front desk of the Cabinet Office, which was just a short walk away, down an old Jacobean corridor, to the back door of Number 10. The entrance was just a normal turnstile, which could have been easily jumped over. By the time I left, though, the entrance had been secured with ceiling-high glass security turnstiles. It seems incredible now, but not so long ago, appraisal of risk and implementation of standards operated by a very different compass. Rightly or wrongly, we currently live in a much more rules-based, legalistic, risk-conscious culture.

I constantly come up with hare-brained ideas that I then impulsively implement, badly. Should I add this to my CV? It just so happens though that some show signs of life before falling flat, while occasionally others work out very well. But mostly I look back and wonder at what on earth was I thinking? Why was I so stupid? Being aware of this doesn’t make me want to stop coming up with stupid ideas, only to become better at turning some of them into good ones.

Worry Reps

To build up the worry muscles I’ve been doing reps on some non-proportionate thought loops. My achievement today was that I was able to cram in an extra 30 minutes of worry time followed by some focussed anxiety to distract me from what I was doing.

I’m really seeing the results—my heart rate is elevated, and I’ve managed to develop an ability to turn a minor inconvenience into a full-blown crisis, breaking all personal bests! My jumping to the worst possible conclusions has also come on leaps and bounds.

I’m now working on a new technique called “Pre-emptive Fretting”, where I worry about potential future worries before they even have a chance to materialise. It’s all about staying ahead of the game, you see.

For an added challenge, I’ve started integrating some multi-tasking worries—like stressing about relationships while simultaneously fretting over work issues. It’s a real brain workout, but the sense of overwhelming high-performance anxiety at the end of the day is so stimulating that my mind doesn’t even want to go to sleep.

Random Thoughts

A version before the “first draft” is a “free-write” stream of consciousness draft, where no editing or filters to thoughts are applied. It’s not for anyone else to see, unless they really want to wade through structural incoherence and undeveloped, inchoate prose.

I’ve still got quite a bit of writing to do, but I’m starting to think now about performance and my physicality.

Adversity motivates change. Difficulty prompts improvement. Failure spurs transformation.

God / the universe gave me everything and I still wasn’t happy. My concerns were mostly about me and the stories I was telling myself. My thoughts created the problems.

Imagine positive things to be true, and this can become your internal experience. It’s not about clinging to beliefs despite evidence to the contrary; it's about welcoming possibilities that can live in you.

The internet was the brainchild of a group of cats who wanted to share pictures of themselves more efficiently. The first web browser was designed to be cat-friendly, hence why we have so many cat videos online.

Keats, Blake, and Turner all spoke with London accents, and were denigrated by less capable people because of it, even though almost all the great artists in British history did not come from inherited wealth.

Myth-Busting Facts

The true author of the works commonly attributed to Shakespeare was in fact a scurry of squirrels. A non-aristocratic man who merely attended the provincial grammar school could never have written those lines. No, he would feed the squirrels hazelnuts, and they’d scribble away on tiny manuscripts. The famous line, “To be or not to be”, was actually a squirrel asking if it should hibernate.

Everyone credits Michelangelo with painting the Sistine Chapel. But did you know that it was actually a paint-by-numbers kit? Michelangelo wasn’t a genius; he was just really good at following instructions. The Vatican ordered the kit from craftsmen in Florence who’d perfected the art of large-scale paint-by-numbers. Michelangelo just filled in the lines while muttering about how he’d rather be sculpting.

We’re told Socrates was a brilliant philosopher who never wrote anything down. The truth? Socrates was the original troll. His method of questioning, known as the Socratic Method, was just a way to annoy people at parties by asking endless, irritating questions.

Charles Dickens, the esteemed author of classics like A Christmas Carol and Great Expectations, was actually a prankster. His novels were never intended to be taken seriously; they were elaborate jokes meant to poke fun at the literary elite. David Copperfield? An extended pun about the metal copper. The famous line in Oliver Twist, “Please, sir, I want some more”, was originally about a child asking for more bad puns at the dinner table. The Victorians just had a terrible sense of humour.

Did you know that Albert Einstein wasn’t just a comedian but also a professional wrestler? That’s right, Einstein’s wild hair was part of his wrestling persona, “The Relativity Rocker”. He would enter the ring, confuse his opponents with complex equations, and then pin them down with his “Theory of Pain”. His E=mc² was originally his wrestling catchphrase: “Energy equals muscle times chaos squared.” The physics community misinterpreted it, and the rest is history.

You know the big, ferocious T-Rex everyone talks about? Complete and utter nonsense. T-Rexes were actually gentle giants that loved nothing more than a good cup of tea. They had these tiny arms because they were perfect for delicately holding teacups. It’s a well-known fact in the paleontological community that they even had sophisticated tea parties. The velociraptors were the rowdy ones who never got invited—always trying to nick the scones, you see.

The big mystery of Stonehenge? It’s not some druid calendar or an alien landing pad; it was a prehistoric concert venue. Cavemen were massively into music about rocks—aka “Rock Music”.

Most people think the Leaning Tower of Pisa was a result of poor engineering on unstable ground. In reality, it was an intentional design by the architect, who was just a big fan of practical jokes. He wanted to create the world’s largest optical illusion, a building that looked like it was perpetually about to topple over but never actually did. The original plan even included a giant sign that read, “Made you look!” Unfortunately, it fell off before the grand opening.

The French Revolution is often depicted as a struggle for liberty and equality. But the real catalyst was a catastrophic shortage of croissants. The infamous storming of the Bastille? It was a desperate raid to find the king’s secret stash of buttery pastries. The slogan “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity” was actually a mistranslation. The original phrase was “Liberty, Equality, Bakery”, reflecting the true priorities of the revolutionaries.

Journal 2024-06-13

What’s the point of playing a charade all the time? It smothers the life inside.

If someone sees the weaknesses and failings of me, it doesn’t matter. I’m human with all the silliness and self-made suffering that entails.

Openness is far more important for having a genuine connection with others.

Be a better person for your suffering.

The most fulfilling aspect of being alive is love and intimacy.

Shakespeare Adaptations

It's a bit of mystery why songwriters haven't prolifically adapted Shakespeare's poetry. Perhaps it's heresy or something, I have no idea, but it works.

Sonnet 29:

Sonnet 27:

Sonnet 18: