Category Archives: Blog

Talking to Robots About Robots

I asked an Artificial Intelligence software programme to write a statement on the dangers of AI. This was the unedited reply.

Artificial Intelligence (AI) has the potential to revolutionize the way we live and work, but it also poses significant risks and dangers. As AI becomes more advanced and integrated into our daily lives, there are growing concerns about the potential consequences of its use.

One of the biggest dangers of AI is its potential to replace human jobs. As AI becomes more sophisticated, it has the ability to perform tasks that were previously only possible for humans, such as driving cars or diagnosing medical conditions. While this may lead to increased efficiency and productivity, it also has the potential to leave millions of people without work, which could have devastating economic and social consequences.

Another danger of AI is its potential to be used for malicious purposes. As AI becomes more advanced, it could be used to create autonomous weapons or to conduct cyberattacks, which could have catastrophic consequences. There are also concerns about the use of AI for surveillance and the potential for it to be used to violate privacy rights.

Additionally, there are concerns about the lack of transparency and accountability in the development and use of AI. As AI becomes more complex and autonomous, it becomes increasingly difficult to understand how it works and to ensure that it is being used ethically and responsibly.

It is important that we recognize the potential dangers of AI and take steps to mitigate these risks. This includes investing in research to better understand the risks and benefits of AI, developing regulations and guidelines to ensure that AI is used ethically and responsibly, and promoting transparency and accountability in the development and use of AI. By taking these steps, we can harness the power of AI while minimizing its potential risks and dangers.

ethics

I was watching a film tonight about ethics, and it posed a powerful question that stuck with me. Imagine you’re walking past a pond, and there, trapped in the middle, is a small child — stranded, alone, with no parents in sight. You look down and see you’re wearing your brand-new Gucci shoes. You hesitate, thinking about ruining them. But the child is sinking fast, slipping below the surface.

Put aside the cold-hearted psychopath — almost everyone would dive in without a second thought, soaking those expensive shoes to save that child.

Now, ask yourself this: if that same child was starving, trapped in poverty instead of water, would you be willing to give £1,000 to a charity fighting that hunger? Would you?

This question lays bare the shallow vanity of consumerism, exposing the gap between instinctive compassion and our everyday choices. It’s a brutal mirror reflecting how we value possessions over people.

He Could Be Wrong – He Could Be Wrong.

As we age, face the harsh realities of life, lose loved ones, and perhaps start to contemplate our own mortality, we have choices. We can succumb to the darkness of reactionary impulses, which have built up over the years or not.

I leave an evening with John Lydon early with mixed feelings and knowing we have parted ways. Seeking to unpick Lydon today is not a joyful experience. He has long stopped being the once charismatic leader of two charismatic bands that helped shape my personal musical journey.

Lydon’s abandonment of his class politics, which I know winds a few people up, has little importance to me. However, through his physical gesturing, his mocking of Diane Abbot, the U.K. first black female MP, says far more about his current state of thinking than any words leaving his mouth. It’s mocking straight out of the Trump playbook. It’s not funny and simply gives the impression (rightfully or wrongly) of spitefulness. I do feel a sense of unease.

Lydon’s attempts at personality assassinations are predictable, often crude and dull. Refections of his time with the Pistols are old news, regurgitated stories many would have heard countless times before. His contempt for fellow Pistol’s, especially drummer Paul Cook, are delivered like an unconvincing victim who has woken to the news that nobody really cares 40 years later.

Repeating the word cunt. I genuinely believe Lydon is the last person in the room to understand it’s all wearing thin, but he keeps repeating it, time and time again. It’s silly, tedious even. Recollections of butter adverts he made over a decade ago are told as if recent glories.

By far, the best parts of the evening are when he reflects on those he holds close. His parents, brothers and wife Nora. There is a sense of genuine reflection and encouragement for those dealing with loss or faced with the prospect of losing a loved one through the horrors of Alzheimer’s Disease.

Reflections of growing up in working-class neighbourhoods ring hollow now. There is little conviction behind the words. Just an analogue image of dusty memories, fading and recast into the light through a chipped lens of fake nostalgia and patriotism.

Lydon will always have his core fanbase. Tonight it’s an overwhelmingly white, 50+-year-old, male audience. Nothing wrong with this, of course, though one can hardly ignore the reality, like a ripple in a pond, it’s a case of ever-decreasing circles.

In truth, I’m bored; he starts to end the night by instigating an Abba singalong in memory to Sid Vicious. I’m out of here. The pantomime is over.

Notes from People Watching

He stands there, a Pep Guardiola doppelgänger—if Pep had not seen better days. Slightly dishevelled, thinner, with a nervous twitch that whispers of a thousand secret battles fought with the bottle. His fingers fumble through loose change, each coin a silent confession. Around him, the world rushes by, oblivious to the storm inside him. I watch, caught between curiosity and sympathy. He looks broken.

I order a tea. The server pours it fast into a flimsy cardboard cup, the tea bag bobbing on the surface. “Say when,” he says, tipping in the milk. “When,” I reply. Our eyes meet—just for a flash—and in that brief exchange, something like a sigh echoes in the space between us, a shared moment of unspoken understanding.

Stepping away from the trailer, I clutch the cup tight and settle beside an aluminum-framed chair and its matching table. I place my tea down, along with my phone.

It’s been 22 years since I first landed in Bristol. This spot, just outside the Watershed, has always been my unofficial lookout—a small tea and coffee trailer that serves a wicked banana and chocolate crepe if you’re lucky enough to catch it.

Perfect for people-watching. A theatre of life playing out in real time, if only you looked up from your screens.

Groups of kids swarm by, trading insults I barely understand. Behind the bravado, one quiet kid lurks—awkward, shy, desperate for a place to belong. Seagulls swoop, crying out for crumbs. A wasp buzzes, menacing. Nearby, a man in a worn leather biker jacket stretches out, dragging deep on his cigarette, smoke curling around him like a lazy ghost.

The pedestrian crossing beeps, and a wave of new faces washes past. A young woman in her early twenties halts, fingers running through her long hair. She tilts her head just so, puckers her lips like a fish, snaps a selfie, and moves on—already lost in her own digital world.

The Pep Guardiola lookalike edges closer, scavenging discarded cigarette butts like they’re treasure.

My phone buzzes—a prompt to upgrade to the latest iPhone. I take a slow sip of tea, eyes drifting upward to the Weathervane spinning lazily overhead.

And then—just like that—he’s gone.

Open Memory Box

The largest homemade collection of 8mm celluloid film captures both a time, but also people loving life from the defunct German Democratic Republic. Click on the anti-archive link and just get lost in individual stories. This is the link to the full website

Irregular Patterns

Ideas left to lie dormant dissolve into the ether of well-meaning what-ifs. The pandemic lockdown, with its forced stillness, cracked open time and space to dust off my long list of stalled ideas. Hidden within was the seed of Irregular Patterns—though it had no name back then.

I’m lucky. Very lucky. A life spent immersed in the creative worlds of music and live performance has shaped me. But I’ve also seen the cracks: musicians I know struggling long before lockdowns, drained by the streaming economy’s unfair split. Even seasoned pros tell stories of exploitation—shady managers, exploitative record deals, endless pressure to perform for free. The backbone of one of the world’s greatest cultural exports is fraying fast.

Then came a game-changing conversation with local musician Gavin McClafferty. His focus, vision, and grit turned those scattered ideas into a living, breathing project. Irregular Patterns isn’t just a record label—it’s a creative hub built around the artist.

Less than a year in, we’re on the cusp of our first release, with a growing roster and an ambitious release schedule ahead. The support and encouragement we’ve received so far? Humbling.

I won’t rehash what’s already out there—the IP manifesto is our cornerstone. But here’s the truth: being the change we want in the music industry is our vital first step. The road hasn’t been easy; we’ve had to break down walls. But more than anything, this leap of faith reminds me—we’re in the happy business after all.

Paulie Fest: 31.07.21

This weekend, I had the chance to spin a DJ set at a friend’s 50th birthday party in Hove — and for a few electrifying hours, it felt like a return to normal. The energy was electric, the crowd was alive, and the music brought everyone together. It wasn’t just a party; it was a celebration of connection, laughter, and pure, unfiltered fun. Almost like old times, but better.

Storm

Understanding Labour’s Crisis in the North East: A Personal Reckoning.

In 2020, amid the seismic political shifts gripping the UK, I began writing a series of essays reflecting on the state of politics in the North East—particularly the faltering fortunes of the Labour Party in its historic heartlands. This project grew naturally from an earlier blog I penned in 2017, which explored Labour’s uneasy relationship with the region. Then came Hartlepool in 2021, a stark symbol of political realignment that made it impossible to ignore the urgency of the moment.

What follows is an introduction to a series of personal assessments—five or six pieces in total—offering not just a diagnosis of Labour’s woes in the North East, but also some ideas for how they might be tackled.

Before diving in, I want to thank Dave Lee, a writer and producer from Hull (the birthplace of my late father), whose sharp wit and candid insight helped spark this project last year. Despite our differences on specifics, we share a conviction: working-class communities will never be truly served by the Conservative Party. For that, Dave, I’m grateful.


From Stockton North to the ‘Red Wall’

I was born in Stockton North, once a bastion of Labour’s industrial might, now a patchwork of Conservative-held constituencies — Hartlepool, Darlington, Stockton South, Sedgefield. These shifts were unimaginable a few years ago. Even today, Stockton North’s Labour MP, Alex Cunningham, clings on by a thread, having scraped through in 2019 thanks to a fractured pro-Brexit vote splitting Conservatives and the Brexit Party—a lifeline unlikely to be repeated.

Alex and I share a history: both of us once sought Labour’s nomination for Stockton North during a mandatory reselection triggered against the sitting MP Frank Cook. Neither of us succeeded then. Frank held on for one more term; I moved away. Alex stayed, eventually taking the mantle.

My connection to the North East runs deep—not just by birth but through upbringing, education, and a seven-year stint working in a foundry, where I joined a union and fought for better wages and conditions. I served as a Labour councillor for a decade, rooted in the communities that are now politically adrift. Even as I’ve lived and worked in places like Lambeth, Greenwich, Salisbury, and Bristol, my North East DNA has remained a source of pride.


A Region Forgotten

Visits home before the pandemic were quiet observations of a region simmering with frustration—political foundations quietly eroding beneath the surface. The 2019 election was a hammer blow, echoing the pain I’d witnessed in the 1980s but magnified by its scale and swift collapse.

So in early 2020, I began to write—trying to make sense of how Labour lost its grip on predominantly white, working-class communities in the North East. My views hold no monopoly on truth, but like many, I’m frustrated that warnings went unheeded until it was too late. These words come from the heart, because that’s where the battle for Labour’s future will be fought.


The Perfect Storm

Labour’s 2019 defeat in the North East was the product of a perfect storm: a lacklustre campaign, complacency among core voters, and a widespread feeling of neglect. Since the industrial collapse of the 1980s, the region has suffered economic pain and social dislocation. What it desperately needed was a vision—a compelling, passionate plan that would restore identity, pride, and confidence.

But the political class, while reflecting the region’s hurt, often failed to articulate such a vision or inspire belief. Meanwhile, the Conservatives tailored a campaign directly to the simmering concerns of North East voters. Their messaging tapped into Brexit anxieties and disillusionment with Labour leadership, but beneath that lay deeper shifts within the Conservative Party itself.


The New Conservative Order

The traditional Conservative Party, once led by Theresa May and grounded in Christian values and establishment capital, has been eclipsed. Today’s party is dominated by new money and radical libertarian ideas, deeply entwined with right-wing agitators in the US. Boris Johnson, once sceptical of Brexit, has become little more than a public puppet—caught between his own ambitions and the demands of powerful political interests.

During my nearly two decades working in London local government, including the years when Johnson was Mayor, his administration was marred by nepotism and chaos. He projected an image of the “man of the people,” charming but untrustworthy, quick with a promise and quicker to spin a story—an opportunistic wheeler-dealer whose antics masked deeper political fractures.

Johnson’s appeal to working-class voters was often wrapped in a cheeky caricature: the lovable rogue, the underdog struggling against the odds. This persona allowed him to exploit divisions within communities once loyal to Labour, especially those feeling forgotten or left behind.


Labour’s Decline Beyond Brexit

Labour’s losses in its traditional heartlands are not just about Brexit or nationalist forces. The decline has been steady for two decades across Scotland, the North East, and the Midlands. Even during the Corbyn surge in 2017, Labour failed to win enough votes to form government. The party’s vast membership and institutional strength masked fundamental weaknesses exposed in 2019’s electoral rout.

Between 2017 and 2019, Labour lost nearly 10% of its vote share. Historic strongholds like Bolsover and Sedgefield saw long-standing majorities erode—victims of creeping social and economic resentments, not just Brexit. The so-called ‘red wall’ collapse was engineered with a blend of luck, ruthless strategy, and the exploitation of genuine grievances—many of which had roots in policies long supported by the Conservatives themselves.


Looking Ahead

The Conservatives’ breach of Labour’s northern heartlands was high-risk but meticulously calculated, targeting working-class voters who had never before swung Tory. Boris Johnson’s opportunism makes him a formidable opponent in the North—a political shape-shifter adept at exploiting division and disenchantment.

Labour’s path to recovery in the North East won’t be easy. It requires more than nostalgia or empty promises. It demands a hard-eyed reckoning with the past, an acceptance of how things unraveled, and a bold new vision that reconnects with the identity, pride, and hopes of working-class communities.

This is just the beginning of that conversation. The story of Labour’s North East crisis is far from over—and its future will depend on who has the courage to listen, learn, and lead.

Ode to Johnny Dowd

As we dare to imagine a world where a successful vaccine ushers us back into the electrifying embrace of live music, one artist stands out as my constant companion on that journey: Johnny Dowd. Over the years, I’ve seen him more times on stage than anyone else. I recall one unforgettable trek from Bristol all the way up to The Band Room—hands down, the greatest small venue on earth, at least according to the discerning Hanson Family—nestled deep in the wild beauty of the North Yorkshire Moors. And who could forget the raw magic of his show at The Thunderbolt in Bristol on October 19th, 2016? Pure joy from start to finish.

If Johnny Dowd’s name doesn’t ring a bell, prepare yourself: his music defies easy categorization. Call him a maverick, if you like. Imagine a potent cocktail brewed from the wild genius of Zappa and Beefheart, the gravelly storytelling of Tom Waits and Nick Cave, then add a hefty splash of dry, wry humor—thrown into a blender on full speed and left spinning unattended. The result? Something utterly unique, darkly compelling, and impossible to forget.

Among his many releases, I always find myself returning to No Regrets (2012)—an album that feels like a weathered road map through shadowy tales and sly smiles, where every track resonates long after the last note fades.

Life, Time, and the Days We Trade

The numbers tell a quiet but sobering story. Today, the average man in the UK can expect to live 81 years. Not so long ago, until 2011, that man could claim his state pension at 65. On average, that meant 16 years of life without work — years to spend however he wished before the inevitable closing of the book.

By 2030, the figures shift. Life expectancy nudges upward to 82 years, but the pension age rises faster, to 68. The gain in years is outpaced by the gain in labour, leaving the average man with just 14 years to call his own after a lifetime of work. A quiet recalibration of the equation: more time alive, but less time free.

And this is not the whole picture. Look closely at what’s been done to women’s pensions since 2011, and the story becomes even sharper, even more unsettling.

We were once told — and believed — that we worked not just for ourselves but for something larger: that our children would inherit a life better than the one we knew. That each generation would stand a little taller, see a little further. But the arithmetic of modern life suggests a different legacy: more years spent earning, fewer years living.

It is worth asking, as the days pass and the calendar turns — what are we working toward? And when the work is done, how much of ourselves will be left to enjoy what remains?