But foundations are not optional. Sooner or later, the building shifts.

For generations, Christianity provided a set of assumptions that did not need to be stated. Even if many people did not believe in its doctrines, the culture it shaped gave us a common understanding of human nature: that we are all capable of cruelty, that we require restraint, that forgiveness is necessary if we are to live together at all. It placed limits on power, and limits on the self.

I don’t believe in the metaphysical claims of Christianity, and I’m not alone in that. But disbelief is not the same as indifference. A civilisation cannot simply abolish the worldview that produced its values and expect those values to continue indefinitely. That is not how cultures work.

We replaced shared moral assumptions with the idea that the individual is the final source of meaning. Identity became something one invents rather than inherits. Morality became a matter of personal sentiment. And society became increasingly incoherent.

Into that vacuum came the new ideology now commonly labelled “woke.” It is, in essence, a moral system, but a strangely punitive one. It has the certainty of religion without the mercy. It categorises guilt and innocence by group identity rather than behaviour. It denies the possibility of redemption. And because it cannot persuade, it polices.

We see this most clearly in the capture of institutions: universities, charities, cultural bodies, media outlets and HR departments. These organisations now act as enforcers of a worldview that demands conformity but cannot articulate why. Ordinary people sense they are being instructed to deny things they know to be true, and told to keep quiet about it.

Recently, time spent in Thailand brought this into sharper focus. Not because Thailand has discovered some hidden solution, it hasn’t, but because it retains a cultural centre of gravity. People there do not wake each morning needing to renegotiate reality. They do not experience identity as a performance project. Their social norms are not made up on the spot.

The contrast reveals what we have lost: not belief as such, but coherence.

The tragedy is that Western civilisation remains unmatched in its achievements, in science, freedom of thought, legal rights, and the protection of the individual. But these achievements did not spring from nowhere. They depended on a view of the human person that was stable and shared.

We can no longer rely on the residue of that worldview. Memories fade. Institutions decay. Without continuity, without a story that explains who we are and what we owe each other, a society does not progress. It fragments.

This is where we now find ourselves: technologically advanced, morally uncertain, anxious, and strangely hollow. The problem is not that people are evil. The problem is that they are unmoored.

The solution is not to return to a past that cannot be restored, nor to pretend belief where none exists. It is to recognise that a civilisation cannot sustain itself on the basis of individual whim and bureaucratic diktat. It requires shared purpose, shared memory, and a sense of the human being that is older than our current enthusiasms.

Rootlessness is not freedom. It is drift.

The question is not whether Christianity was true. The question is whether we can function without the structure it provided.

So far, the answer appears to be: no, not really.

Most people glide through life without much interrogation of these dynamics. They chat breezily about the weather, laugh at jokes of varying quality, gather over drinks, exchange nods, handshakes, back-pats. These are the soft tissues of social life, they bind us without drawing attention to themselves. But for some, this surface simplicity is impossible to take at face value. They notice the machinery behind the stage curtain, and once noticed, it’s difficult, perhaps impossible, to unsee.

It begins in small moments. You realise that small talk, far from being trivial, is a tribal ritual, a mutual signalling of belonging, a check-in on shared reality. You observe that laughter, so often mistaken for a mere response to humour, is in fact a social lubricant: we laugh to belong, to de-escalate tension, to smooth over discomfort, to signal fealty to a leader or group. You recognise that communal drinking is less about the liquid in the glass and more about the collective lowering of defences, a minor mutual disarmament ritual.

Soon you are no longer simply living among people but analysing them, tracking subtexts, watching dynamics unfold like a sociologist loitering at a dinner party. You see the boss’s mediocre jokes eliciting exaggerated laughter, the performative outrage on social media as group boundary-policing, the sudden hush when someone leaves a WhatsApp group without explanation; tribal anxiety dressed up as digital etiquette.

What does this hyper-awareness do to a person? In some cases, it sharpens their empathy; in others, it breeds disillusionment. It is not, despite appearances, a form of snobbery. It is, rather, a bittersweet knowledge: an understanding that much of what we call “authenticity” is, in fact, socially orchestrated, and that this orchestration is both inevitable and necessary.

For those who live in this state of heightened observation, authenticity becomes the ultimate prize. We crave the unscripted, the unguarded moment, the joke that genuinely delights, the rare conversation where the masks slip and something true surfaces. But the paradox is cruel: the more skilled one becomes at reading social patterns, the more elusive such moments feel. The world begins to resemble a stage play whose plot points you know too well to be moved by.

Nor is this merely an intellectual posture. It shapes emotional life. Friendships may feel tinged with artifice; romantic relationships risk becoming exercises in decoding rather than intimacy. Even solitude, prized by many hyper-observers, can become a hall of mirrors: a space where one interrogates not just others’ performances, but one’s own.

Is there a remedy? Not easily. To demand the dismantling of social scripts is to demand the collapse of civilisation as we know it; a world without ritual, performance, or tacit understandings would be a world of chaos, not utopia. More promising is the cultivation of what might be called gentle irony: a stance that allows one to participate in the dance of social life with eyes wide open, to recognise its absurdities without scorning them, to play one’s part without becoming either cynic or dupe.

There is, too, a hidden upside. Seeing through the social script can make one more forgiving; of awkwardness, of blunders, of the small hypocrisies that lubricate communal life. It reminds us that most people are, in their own way, trying to get by within systems they barely understand and never chose. And, occasionally, it makes possible the greatest pleasure of all: the quiet joy of watching someone break the script, step out of role, and reveal, if only for a moment, something unguarded and real.

Perhaps the challenge is not to stop seeing, but to keep dancing anyway.

This is where we should pause and reflect. Any ideology that treats a factual observation about the world as an expression of hatred is, by definition, irrational. Throughout human history, people have held beliefs that transcend empirical evidence; religious beliefs, moral convictions, philosophical ideals. But until now, those were generally understood as belonging to a separate domain from empirical science.

The new twist in today’s ideological battles is that progressive activists don’t present their movement as one of faith, but as one rooted in reason, evidence, and science. Yet they routinely dismiss or deny biological realities when those realities conflict with their political commitments. You cannot credibly claim to be both the champion of scientific rationality and the force that insists biology be subordinated to identity narratives.

What we’re witnessing is not just a political movement, it’s the emergence of a proto-religion. Wokeism, as it’s usually called, is not merely a set of political demands about justice and inclusion. It functions as a substitute religion in a secularised West that has been steadily draining traditional sources of meaning and belonging from public life. But human beings, as social animals, don’t simply abandon the need for moral frameworks when they leave organised religion behind. They redirect that hunger into new forms, and increasingly, those forms are political.

This helps explain why the culture around identity politics has taken on such unmistakably religious characteristics. There are heretics (people who dissent), blasphemies (speech that violates the orthodoxy), rituals of penance (public apologies and cancellations), and sacred texts (the ever-shifting vocabulary of gender identity and privilege). Critically, there’s also a pursuit of moral purity, where disagreement isn’t met with debate, but with condemnation, shame, and excommunication.

This would be merely a cultural oddity, if it weren’t being fused with institutional power. Individuals are free to hold whatever beliefs they like. But when those beliefs are backed by the machinery of the state, media, and corporate policy, they become a threat to individual liberty. We now see this in attempts to regulate speech on social media, compel certain forms of language under law, and embed ideological curricula in public education.

This matters because the defence of biological truth is not, as critics claim, a form of cruelty or bigotry. It’s a defence of intellectual honesty, the precondition for meaningful debate and freedom of thought. If a society loses the ability to distinguish between factual statements and moral insults, it does not just risk adopting bad policies, it risks hollowing out the very foundation of a free and open society.

The rise of woke ideology is not a passing cultural fad; it is the latest iteration of humanity’s enduring religious impulse, now dressed up in the language of liberation and inclusion. But its danger lies precisely in its unwillingness to recognise itself as a faith, and in its attempt to occupy both the throne of scientific authority and the pulpit of moral absolutism.

A free society can tolerate competing worldviews, including those that reject biological essentialism. But it cannot survive when its public square is governed by a secular orthodoxy that demands the suppression of fact in service of faith.

Silence isn’t absence. It’s something swapped in. Strip away the obvious noise and you’re left with something quieter, stranger: the thrum of blood in your ears, the soft creak of your own bones shifting, the distant hum of life ticking along in the background. Silence isn’t the world going quiet; it’s the world switching to another accent. And truth be told, I’ve always been more fluent in music than in talk.

When I was small, songs weren’t just decoration. They were a sort of refuge. I’d lie there, headphones clamped on tight, staring at the ceiling while a track built a whole world around me. It didn’t matter what kind of day I’d had, somewhere out there, someone had written something that understood. Not a song telling me what to feel, just one that let me know I was allowed to feel it. No need for translation. No need to explain.

This wasn’t passive listening. It was nearly religious. I’d rewind a line again and again until I could hear what the singer wasn’t saying. I’d sit inside a song like it was weather, letting it wash through me. These days, with life a bit more tangled and the feelings a bit frayed, I still go to music. Not to escape, but to name what I haven’t found words for. Music lets me feel the whole way through, and never asks for an apology.

I’ve never trusted songs that are too slick. I want the crackle, the hiss, the vocal that wobbles just a little out of tune. There’s something human in that, something real. The truth, when it lands, often comes in rough. And when I find a track that feels like someone left the scaffolding still up, didn’t bother tidying it too much, I don’t feel like I’m hearing a product. I feel like I’m being invited in.

There’s a term in sound engineering: “room tone.” It’s the sound of a space when nobody’s speaking. No instruments. Just the faint hum of something being there. That’s what my favourite songs feel like: the artist’s inner room tone, with nothing filtered. Not trying to impress or explain. Just being. Maybe that’s why music has always felt safer than talking. Words can be polished. Music, when it’s honest, isn’t afraid.

I don’t just listen to songs, I live in them. They become places. Rooms with furniture and dust and sunlight slipping through the blinds at a certain angle. Some of those places I drift back to without even trying. A single chord can bring me straight back to the smell of a certain winter, the sting of a heartbreak I thought I’d left behind. Songs hold memory better than we do. They don’t tidy it up. They don’t soften the edges. They remember exactly how it felt.

There are tracks I steer clear of, not because they’re bad, but because they’re too exact. Too good at holding on to a version of me I’ve mostly left behind, though not completely. One note, and the lights flicker back on in a room I thought I’d locked. And I’m there again. Every bit of it, just as it was.

What gets me most, though, is how solitary all this is, and yet how deeply connected it feels. There’s something almost sacred about listening through headphones. Not just because they shut out the world, but because they let a song wrap around you from the inside out. It’s not about escaping. It’s about being fully in it. I hear the rain differently with music playing. Even my breath falls into step. The world doesn’t vanish; it sharpens. On my terms.

And even though it feels private, this way of listening has its own kind of communion. Somewhere, someone else is doing the very same thing. Sitting on their own. Headphones in. Heart wide open. And for a moment, you’re not just two strangers. You’re in the same silent, invisible choir. Not linked by context, but by feeling.

Music never needs to wrap things up. Some of the most powerful songs I know don’t resolve. They just…stop. Fade. Hover in the air without landing. And that, to me, feels more honest than any tidy chorus. Because life doesn’t always tie itself in a bow. Sometimes there’s no closure. Sometimes the feeling just stays there. The songs that get that, the ones that stay a bit messy, feel truer than most chats I’ve ever had.

That’s what music gives me. Not answers. Not conclusions. Just a place to sit with whatever’s there. A space to be present with the ache, with the hope, with the contradictions of being alive. I don’t want to be told it’ll all be grand. I want to sit with a melody that knows it mightn’t be, and still says, “You’re not on your own.”

Some albums take years to grow into. You hear them once, and something tells you to hold on. Then, out of nowhere, they click. It’s like stepping into a room that’s been waiting for you all along. Music never hurries you. It waits. It listens back. And when you’re ready, it’s still there.

In a world obsessed with performance, polish and pace, music asks us to slow down. To lean into uncertainty. To be vulnerable. It’s one of the few things left that asks us to feel without needing to fix. To sit in the middle of the mess. To be raw, and not ashamed. And in that, I reckon, there’s something quietly fierce.

Because here’s the thing: we weren’t built to be efficient. We were made to feel. Deeply. Messily. Often at the worst possible moment. And sometimes, all it takes is one tune to remind us that we still can. That underneath the noise, we’re still here. Listening.

I wasn't visibly struggling. I did well in school, followed rules, and rarely caused trouble. I wasn't the disruptive kid in the corner or the one with obvious "needs." If anything, I was praised for being sensible and articulate. People assumed, correctly enough, that I'd be grand.

But what others didn't see, because I didn’t yet know how to say it, was that I navigated most days through pattern recognition. I'd study how people interacted, note their words, the tones they used, and produce responses to match. It was mimicry, not instinct. I didn't understand the scripts people followed, I only knew deviating made life more complicated.

Over time, I developed an internal translator, mapping intention to behaviour. A casual "How are you?" in a lift wasn't an actual inquiry. A mid-sentence laugh invited agreement rather than amusement. Most folks grasp these subtleties intuitively; I learned them the hard way.

Yet, what I couldn’t (and still can't) master is feigning enjoyment of the surface-level performances dominating social life.

Small talk, for instance, remains bewildering. I comprehend its function: establishing rapport, maintaining civility, easing conversations into comfortable territory. But I've never found it meaningful, not from a lack of interest in others, but because I struggle to invest in interactions feeling more ritual than genuine exchange.

People often say things they don't mean, praise what they don’t genuinely admire, or express emotions they evidently don’t feel. It's not deliberate dishonesty; rather, they're following lines from an established social script. Saying the "right" thing often matters more than speaking truthfully. That's the part I can't reconcile with.

I value precision, in language, thought, and feeling. This intensity, I’m told, makes me seem direct, even blunt. I ask clear questions and respond to exactly what's said, rather than what might be implied. Ambiguity drains me more than direct conflict ever could, and silence comforts me more than aimless chatter or hollow social rituals.

This doesn’t mean I’m incapable of warmth or connection – quite the opposite. I experience feelings deeply. Yet, I see little point in wrapping genuine emotion in stock phrases or empty pleasantries. I'd rather be quiet than insincere.

Similarly, I have no interest in relationships sustained merely by habit or convenience. If I like someone, they'll know clearly. If trust isn't there, I won't pretend otherwise. There are no halfway friendships for me; I either engage fully or not at all.

Some may label this inflexible, perhaps arrogant. I view it as economical. It preserves my energy, my attention, and most crucially, my integrity.

There is a cost, naturally. It becomes difficult to meet others who share this disposition. Social spaces tend to favour high-volume, low-stakes interactions; settings in which I don't thrive. I flourish in quieter, more intimate contexts, where conversations have room to breathe and words serve as tools of meaning rather than filler.

I've come to accept that this is neither a phase nor a social shortcoming needing correction. It’s simply my way of processing the world. I notice details others overlook; I filter out assumptions most accept by default. And that's fine, it's even advantageous.

It means prioritising honesty over etiquette, substance over sentimentality. I'm less likely to flatter, but more likely to genuinely listen. Trends, moods, or groupthink rarely sway me, affording me a clarity I deeply value.

I’ve let go of believing connection must be frequent or conspicuous to be authentic. My deepest friendships are built not on how often we meet, but on the depth of understanding. My most meaningful moments don't happen at parties or crowded events; they arise in solitude or during quiet conversations where nothing needs to be explained.

I make no pretence of superiority – I'm simply different. And I've reached the point where I no longer feel any need to apologise for it.

Not everyone will grasp this perspective. Some might consider it odd, cold, or overly serious. But those who do understand, who value truth over polish, and presence over performance, are the people with whom I feel truly at home.

I've stopped trying to fit into social moulds never intended for someone like me. I don’t need to become louder, warmer, more affable, or "normal." I only need to remain honest and seek others drawn to the same.

So no, I’m not distant or aloof.

I simply prefer life without the mask.

Let’s take that now-familiar £6 pint and consider; where does the money actually go?

At first glance, it’s simple enough. The pub keeps a cut: roughly £2.45. The brewery gets around £1.25. Distributors, maybe 20p. And then there’s the government’s share: a sizeable £2.10, made up of VAT and alcohol duty. That’s 35% of the pint’s cost, neatly siphoned away before you’ve even had a sip. And yet, that’s only the surface layer of taxation. The truth is far more intrusive.

What most don’t see is how the state inserts itself at every stage of the process. The pub is taxed not only through the products it sells but through business rates, National Insurance contributions, licensing fees, and VAT on utilities and services. Staff are taxed on their wages; employers taxed again for the privilege of employing them. Even if a landlord manages to turn a modest profit, it faces corporation tax. Conservative estimates suggest that around a third of the pub’s cut, about 85p, ends up back with the government.

Then there’s the brewery. It contends with its own barrage of fiscal burdens: production duties, energy levies (especially under the Net Zero nonsense), compliance costs, employer taxes, and corporate taxation. At least another 30p from your pint flows out of the brewery and into the state’s grasp.

Even the 20p going to distribution isn’t left untouched. Fuel duty, vehicle excise, VAT on logistical services. It all adds up. A fiver’s worth of beer might only have 20p of distribution cost, but even that sliver gets a bite taken out of it.

Add it all up and what emerges is a rather sobering conclusion: over £3.30 of your £6 pint - more than 55% - ends up in government hands. Not just once, but repeatedly, layered at every stage of production and sale. The state doesn’t merely tax the drink; it taxes the people who make it, move it, and serve it, all while convincing the average citizen that it’s just the price of keeping society running.

But where does this money go? Roads and schools, we’re told. Yet the NHS remains perpetually strained, infrastructure languishes in bureaucratic limbo, and every new budget seems to call for more “tough decisions.” Meanwhile, pubs continue to close - more than 30 a month according to industry data - while independent brewers fight for survival. The costs are rising, but it’s not because the producers are greedy. It’s because they’re being taxed into oblivion.

This isn’t merely a technical economic issue; it’s a philosophical one. It speaks to the role of the state in everyday life. At what point does taxation cease being a means of funding legitimate governance and become a form of silent coercion? At what point is the pint not yours, but merely leased from the state with a temporary licence to enjoy it?

I would argue that we passed that point long ago. The state’s role should be limited to protecting individual rights, not draining value from peaceful transactions between consenting adults. A pint is a private contract, not a public good, and certainly not a piggy bank for the Treasury.

In a freer society, the price of a pint would reflect the cost of ingredients, production, distribution, and profit, not layers of state interference. VAT would be scrapped. Alcohol duties reduced or eliminated. Business rates reformed. Pubs would compete fairly, free from the burden of micromanaged compliance and paternalistic public health directives. And perhaps, in such a society, we’d see more pubs open, more communities revitalised, and more citizens treated as adults capable of making their own choices.

Until then, the next time you raise a glass, consider this: you're not just toasting with friends. You’re tipping the state. And it’s probably the thirstiest one in the room.

Sláinte.

Here, walls listen and understand,
Embracing dreams with a gentle hand.
Each object, each shadow on the floor,
Whispers tales of who I was before.

In this room, the world outside
Fades to a murmur, where I can hide
From the clamor, the ceaseless race,
Here, in the comfort of my own space.

The books, the photos on the shelf,
Speak not of the world, but of myself.
They remind me, in their silent grace,
Of journeys taken, and the returning pace.

A chair, a desk, a lamp that glows,
A window framing the sky's endless shows.
In these simple things, I trace
The contours of my inner space.

For in this room, I am the king,
The poet, the sage, everything.
No mask to wear upon my face,
Here, in the comfort of my own space.

So let the world spin fast and wild,
Here I rest, the unburdened child.
In this small room, I embrace
The vast universe in my own space.

From this fog of insincerity, the self-immolation of Aaron Bushnell emerged as a profound act of authenticity. Bushnell, a US Air Force veteran, chose to end his life in the most harrowing manner, live-streaming his ultimate sacrifice to draw global attention to the atrocities in Gaza. This act, characterised by a deep sincerity and noble intentions, stands in horrifying contrast to our prevailing culture of superficiality.

Bushnell's sacrifice was a wake-up call and it’s challenging many of us to reevaluate our perspectives and priorities. It’s a reminder of the horrific realities often masked by our society's façade of normality. His final act was not one of despair, but a call to action. By choosing such a drastic means to highlight the plight of Palestinians, Bushnell has not only drawn attention to a specific geopolitical issue but also to the broader problem of global indifference, or naivety, to suffering.

The impact of Bushnell's act cannot be overstated. It has prompted a renewed vigour in the opposition to the injustices being forced upon the people of Gaza by Netanyahu, Biden and others, energising activists and sympathisers who had begun to lose hope. More importantly, it has managed to penetrate the mainstream consciousness, prompting widespread discussion about the role of the US-UK-EU empire in global conflicts and our moral responsibilities as its citizens.

The self-immolation of Aaron Bushnell has prompted a shift in societal perspectives. Where once there was apathy, there is now a burgeoning awareness of the complexities and complicities of our global political systems. Bushnell's act has forced many to confront uncomfortable truths about their own positions within these systems and the real-world implications of their government's actions. This was his aim.

This shift is not limited to those already sympathetic to the cause of Palestine. It extends to the broader public, including individuals who may have previously been indifferent or even unaware of what’s actually happening right now. Bushnell's sacrifice has made it impossible to ignore the realities of geopolitical injustice and the human suffering it entails.

Aaron Bushnell's final act is an invitation to us all - an invitation to embrace authenticity in our actions and compassion in our interactions with others. It challenges us to look beyond the superficial and engage with the world and its issues in a more sincere and meaningful way. Bushnell's sacrifice urges us to consider the impact of our actions, to question the narratives we are presented with, and to fight for a world characterised by genuine empathy and solidarity.

On the 25th of February, Aaron Bushnell lit a fire. He ignited a fire of awareness, a fire of inspiration, and a fire of change. This fire, fueled by sincerity and compassion, invites us to reexamine our values, our actions, and the world around us. It is a call to action, urging us to contribute to a world where authenticity prevails, and compassion guides our interactions.

Aaron Bushnell's message is one we cannot afford to forget. It is a reminder of the power of individual actions to inspire collective change. In a world often characterised by insincerity and superficiality, Bushnell's act stands as a beacon of authenticity and compassion. Let’s honour his legacy by embracing these values in our own lives, striving for a world that reflects the sincerity and empathy we all yearn for.

“Many of us like to ask ourselves, 'What would I do if I was alive during slavery? Or the Jim Crow South? Or apartheid? What would I do if my country was committing genocide?' The answer is, you're doing it. Right now.”

Aaron Bushnell

Rest in peace brother. You will not be forgotten.

Beneath the mirror's watchful eye, that lightshade sways,
Yet to capture a murmur of slumber's peace.
Funds dwindle in flights of escape,
A relentless quest to dodge the spectres of night.

In the realm of dreams, briefly, I roamed,
Destined always for an echo of my end.
"You knew," you whisper, as if fate itself spoke,
Lured by the hush of sleep, the shadows beneath the sheets.

What truths about myself does this rhythm unveil?
Pulling thorns from my eyes,
Beneath the judgement of the lunar gaze,
Peering into hidden depths.

Do you loathe the sight as I do?
The self I confront, mirror and fist in hand.

The evolution of communication has been relentless and unforgiving. Where once the exchange of words was a necessity, technology has now allowed us to bypass this altogether. We've moved from intimate gatherings around the fire, to letters that travelled across oceans, to real-time conversations across the web. Each step in this evolution has stretched the canvas of what it means to communicate, often painting convenience as the ultimate goal.

The allure of this convenience cannot be overstated. It has shaped a world where efficiency is king, where the speed of delivery is often more valued than the quality of the interaction. Apps and services that minimise human contact are not just a response to a demand; they are a statement about where we are heading as a society. They reflect an emerging ethos where time is too precious to be spent on pleasantries, and where the measure of a service’s value is in how little it asks of us.

This path we're on has implications for our social skills. In the absence of face-to-face interaction, are we forgetting the nuances of human emotion, the unspoken language of body gestures, the warmth found in a stranger’s smile? Social skills, much like muscles, atrophy without use. As we navigate a world where screens mediate our interactions, there's a growing concern that we might be nurturing a generation more adept at choosing emojis than expressing empathy.

The dichotomy of connection and isolation in our digital age is a curious one. We are more connected than ever, with the ability to reach out to someone across the globe with just a few taps on a screen. Yet, in this interconnectedness, there's a palpable sense of isolation. Social media, for all its virtues, often sells us a version of connection that's sanitised, curated, and ultimately, shallow. It’s a platform where we can have a thousand friends and yet feel profoundly alone.

The pandemic has only served to intensify these no-contact tendencies. As a society, we've been conditioned to see the other not just as a potential friend, but as a possible vector of disease - of both the biological and psychological varieties. The practices of social distancing, have further entrenched the notion that safety lies in solitude, that togetherness comes with risk. As we emerge from the shadow of the pandemic, we're left to wonder which of these practices will recede, and which have taken root.

Finding balance in this new world is crucial. Technology, when wielded with care, has the potential to enhance human interaction, not replace it. There are platforms designed to bring people together, tools that help us communicate more effectively, and services that offer convenience without sacrificing the human touch. The challenge lies not in the tools themselves, but in how we choose to use them.

As we stand on the cusp of a future where technology promises to become even more entwined with our daily lives, it's worth pausing to reflect. What do we value in our interactions with others? Are we willing to sacrifice the art of conversation for the sake of convenience? These are not just questions for the individual but are pivotal to the cultural and societal narratives of our time.

The quiet knock on the door from a neighbour, the brief chat with a delivery driver – these moments of human connection are becoming relics of a bygone era. Yet, it's these very interactions that remind us of who we are, that ground us in a reality that's tangible and warm. They remind us that beyond the digital avatars and screen names, we are all just people searching for a touch of humanity in our fast-paced, efficiency-driven lives.

It's perhaps time to question our relentless pursuit of convenience. To ponder over whether the things that save us time are also stealing from us the very experiences that give time value. Consider a knock on your own door. Would you answer it? Perhaps peer through the slit in your curtains to assess the ‘threat’?

As we grapple with the convenience technology affords, we must also confront the quiet erosion of communal spaces. The local markets, corner shops, and community centres where conversations flowed as freely as the exchange of goods, are finding it hard to compete with the silent digital marketplace. In our pursuit of efficiency, are we also paving the way for a lonelier, less colourful world.

This silent transformation isn’t limited to our shopping habits. It permeates every facet of life. The tech revolution that promised liberation from mundane tasks also implicitly endorses a future where human contact is optional, a choice rather than a necessity. And it's not without irony that the more we automate the human out of our processes, the more we seem to crave authenticity in our experiences – artisanal bread, handcrafted goods, live concerts. It's as though with each step toward a more efficient life, we inadvertently create a void that only the human touch can fill.

In these moments of realisation, we find ourselves at a crossroad between the embrace of a new digital dawn and the nostalgic yearning for the analogue dusk. Young adults and millennials like myself, especially, find ourselves inheriting a world vastly different from that of our parents. We navigate a reality where relationships can be formed and dissolved with the swipe of a finger, where validation often comes in the form of likes and follows, and where the art of debate can too easily slip into the anonymity of online vitriol.

But it's not just personal relationships that are at stake. Our professional lives too are increasingly filtered through digital interfaces. The impromptu brainstorming sessions by the coffee machine, even the nuanced negotiations that happen in the meeting room – they are all being reshaped by technology. Remote work, for all its merits in balancing work-life dynamics, often strips away the serendipity of office camaraderie and the collaborative sparks that fly when minds meet, unencumbered by pixels.

What does this mean for our culture, our society? Are we architecting a new world where efficiency is the new ethos, where technology not only supports but supplants our social fabric? These are not questions with simple answers. They are reflections of a complex, ever-evolving reality where the past and future are in constant dialogue, often at odds with each other.

The digital landscape is not the enemy here; it's a tool, a powerful one that holds as much potential for connection as it does for isolation. The key lies in our choices, in our ability to discern the moments that call for efficiency and those that demand presence. It's about knowing when to type a message and when to make a call, when to order in and when to cook for others, when to post a picture and when to share a story, of the face-to-face variety that is.

As we move forward, we must remember that society is not just built on transactions but on interactions. It's the shared experiences, the collective memories, and the unplanned encounters that weave the fabric of a community. Technology can and should facilitate these, but it shouldn't become a barrier to them.

Our challenge then is to harness the power of technology to amplify the human experience, not to diminish it. It’s about ensuring that the quest for convenience doesn't eclipse our need for connection. It’s about remembering that beneath all the digital convenience, society’s heart beats in sync with our own.

The knock on the door may be quiet, but it is by no means silent. It is a call, a reminder, an opportunity. It is an invitation to engage, to share a moment, to remember that we are to our core, social beings. The next time that knock comes, whether it be from a friend, a neighbour, or a Deliveroo-er, perhaps we might take a moment to answer, to connect, to be human.

As we continue to explore our digitally transformed society, we must also consider the quiet casualties of this transformation: the subtleties of human emotion that are often lost in translation through a digital medium. The raised eyebrow, the gentle nod, the comforting hand on a shoulder - these nuances of non-verbal communication are integral to the richness of human interaction, yet they are often the first to fall by the wayside in a text-driven world.

These nuances are not just embellishments on the art of communication; they are the brushstrokes that give it depth and texture. In a world mediated by screens, we risk flattening our understanding of each other, reducing complex emotions to simplistic symbols. The lols and wtfs of text speak can never truly encapsulate the symphony of a human laugh or the subtle intonations of surprise. As we curate our online personas, the pressure to conform to a digital identity can sometimes lead to a dissonance with one's offline self, a phenomenon that can carry profound implications for identity and mental health.

So as we ponder the future that awaits us, let's not forget the power of the human voice, the resonance of a shared laugh, and the warmth found in the spaces between words. For in the end, it is these moments of connection that create the art of living, an art that technology should enhance, not replace.

The simple pleasure of a chat on the doorstep, need not be relics of a bygone era. They can be choices we make, touchstones we return to, and treasures we preserve.

Let's hold on to the anchor of our shared humanity, and remember that sometimes, the most revolutionary act of all might just be to answer the knock at the door.

Historically viewed as a perpetual victim, perhaps by design, Israel now finds itself in a precarious position, accused of committing what might be construed as the ultimate betrayal of its own historical narrative: genocide. This presents an ironic twist of fate; a people once in desperate search of refuge from such horrors, now face allegations of perpetrating them.

The ICJ, though restrained in its approach to halting Israel's military actions, has imposed six provisional measures aimed at preventing acts of genocide. These measures, ambitious in their intent, appear almost Herculean against the backdrop of Israel's relentless assault on Gaza, where vital infrastructure has been indiscriminately and brutally targeted.

The court's demands are unambiguous: Israel must actively prevent and penalise any incitement to genocide, ensure the flow of essential services and humanitarian aid, protect Palestinian civilians, and safeguard evidence related to the genocide allegations. Israel is also required to report back within a month on its adherence to these measures.

Yet, as the court's verdict reverberated through the halls of The Hague, the reality in Gaza painted a starkly different picture. An unyielding bombardment has wreaked havoc, with the last 24 hours (your time of reading is sadly, irrelevant) witnessing the tragic loss of numerous Palestinian lives. The cumulative toll since 7th October is staggering: tens of thousands dead and wounded, with many more unaccounted for. Relentless devastation.

The ICJ's ruling, while symbolically significant in its recognition of the term 'genocide' in relation to Israel's actions, stops short of a definitive judgement. Nonetheless, it casts a long shadow over Israel's ongoing military campaign. Despite this, Israel's stance is likely to remain unchanged, potentially bolstered by the anticipated support of allies like Sleepy Joe and the United States, which is expected to veto any Security Council resolution enforcing the ICJ's provisional measures.

In a landscape marked by indifference and complicity, resistance against what is being termed the Gaza genocide has emerged from an unexpected source: Yemen and its de facto ruling party, the Houthis (more correctly named Ansar Allah). Bearing its own scars of a prolonged humanitarian crisis, Yemen's defiance in the Red Sea stands as a solitary act of brave resistance in a world where many either remain silent or actively support Israel's actions.

The ICJ's ruling, monumental in its legal implications, exposes the deep-seated contradictions and complexities inherent in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. It challenges the global community to reconcile the harsh realities of Gaza's plight with the geopolitical intricacies that continue to shape this enduring and turbulent conflict.

The craving for approval is a fundamental human desire, deeply rooted in our evolutionary past. Being accepted by our peers meant survival; rejection, on the other hand, was synonymous with peril. Fast forward to the present, this longing has transformed into a relentless chase for social currency in various forms – likes, retweets, nods of agreement. In this modern-day quest, disliking, or rather hating "bad" things, becomes a lucrative shortcut to amassing this social wealth.

Why is hate such a profitable strategy in the economy of approval? The answer lies in the aforementioned negativity bias. If one unit of bad is perceived as ten times worse, say, than one unit of good, then expressing disdain towards what is bad yields a higher emotional return on investment. In essence, hate gives tenfold returns compared to support or endorsement of the good.

However, this economic model of social approval is not without its complexities. The intensity of hate expressed is often proportional to the desperation for approval. It's a simple equation: the more starved one is for acceptance, the stronger the repulsion they’ll exhibit towards whatever is deemed "bad". But this isn't a sustainable or healthy market. It encourages a culture where divisiveness escalates, where the currency is contempt, and where the bonds of community are weakened by the corrosive power of hatred.

So what's the alternative? The solution isn't to abolish the pursuit of approval – a Sisyphean task given its deep evolutionary roots – but to recalibrate the means by which we seek it. Encouraging a culture that values the support of good just as much, if not more than the denouncement of the bad, could be a start. This shift in societal norms requires conscious effort and awareness of our inherent psychological biases. It's about changing the narrative from one that glorifies the takedown of what's wrong to one that celebrates the uplifting of what's right.

In this recalibration, there is a need for balance. Critical thinking should not be discarded; legitimate criticism plays a crucial role in progress and accountability. However, this criticism must be grounded in a desire for improvement rather than a mere demonstration of disdain for approval's sake. It's about building bridges rather than burning them, about constructive engagement rather than destructive contempt.

While our negativity bias might skew our perceptions and interactions, it's not an insurmountable obstacle. By understanding and acknowledging this bias, we can work towards a more balanced and healthy economy of social approval, one where hate isn't the primary currency as it is today, and where the pursuit of acceptance doesn't come at the cost of societal cohesion. A challenging path, no doubt, but one that holds the promise of a more harmonious and constructive social fabric.

Political correctness has become the rubric against which modern morality is measured. Its unwritten rules, much like the ancient commandments, dictate the boundaries of acceptable speech, behaviour and thought. This new moral code, though born from an authentic desire to foster inclusivity and respect, has inadvertently nurtured a climate where deviation is not only criticised but increasingly, punished. The ethos that once sought to protect and uplift is now scrutinised for engendering (no pun intended) an atmosphere of suppression and conformity.

In this climate, not aligning with the Woke ideology is tantamount to blasphemy. The term "woke," once a watchword for vigilance and social justice, has been co-opted and caricatured as emblematic of intolerance and uncompromising righteousness. In this narrative, those who fail to toe the line find themselves at the mercy of public condemnation, or worse, cancellation. This act of cancelling, akin to a sort of secular excommunication, reveals the toxic consequences of straying from the accepted doctrine.

The dogmatic undertone of cancel culture cannot be understated. Dogma, in its traditional religious sense, refers to a set of principles laid down by an authority as incontrovertibly true. This rigid mindset has found a new home in the discourse surrounding cancel culture, where questioning or challenging the prevailing narrative often leads to marginalisation. The irony is palpable; in the pursuit of a more ‘equitable’ and understanding society, a new form of inquisition has been born, perpetuating a cycle of fear and cultish suppression.

At its core, religion is a structure of beliefs, practices, and moral codes that guide and unite a community. In this broad definition, religion doesn't necessarily need to be theistic. Cancel culture, with its own set of moral imperatives and community of adherents, mirrors this structure. It has its saints and sinners, its rituals of public apologies and atonement, and, most notably, its fervent believers. It could also be argued that there are even elements of transubstantiation, but that deserves its own discussion.

The comparison of cancel culture to religious prudishness invites a deeper examination of our societal values and the ways in which we enforce them. It is crucial to recognise the initial intentions behind political correctness and the pursuit of a more respectful society. However, it is equally important to ensure that this pursuit does not sacrifice the diversity of thought and the freedom of expression that enrich our culture.

Phrases like Check your privilege or Believe all women have become common in social and political discussions. Initially born from genuine movements, these clichés are now ubiquitous in online debates, protests, and even casual conversations. Their crisp, emphatic nature seems to end discussions rather than expand them.

The allure of these clichés lies in their simplicity and emotional potency. They condense complex ideas into digestible nuggets. However, this simplification is a double-edged sword. It can polarise debates, create echo chambers, and reduce intricate issues to black-and-white dichotomies, often leaving little room for nuance or comprehensive understanding.

Consider the phrase Defund the police, which became a rallying cry in various social justice movements. While encapsulating a call for systemic reform, it also sparked widespread debate and misunderstanding about its actual intent. Such phrases can galvanise support but also alienate potential allies who may misunderstand or disagree with the oversimplified rhetoric.

Encouraging thoughtful discourse requires moving beyond these clichés. It involves engaging with the complexities of issues and acknowledging that real-world problems rarely have one-size-fits-all solutions. Critical thinking, empathy, and a willingness to delve into the intricacies of each subject are crucial.

Thought-terminating clichés, while effective in drawing attention, often impede the very discussions they seek to simplify. As participants in an increasingly interconnected world, it’s vital we recognize these phrases for what they are: conversation stoppers. Let’s strive for dialogue that unravels complexities rather than obscuring them.

The Gaza issue, layered with historical, political, and social intricacies, certainly warrants our attention. But when its narrative is filtered through media channels, one has to wonder: Are we seeing the full spectrum of events, or is it a distilled version tailored for maximum impact? Are there nuances, perspectives, or ground realities that remain underrepresented?

Several factors could be at play behind such selective reporting. Sensationalism, with its allure of soaring ratings and ad revenues, might nudge media houses toward more "marketable" stories. The intricate web of geopolitics could further determine which narratives are prioritised. In a quest for understanding, consumers like us are left navigating a fragmented media landscape, attempting to stitch together a coherent picture from scattered pieces.

Consider an alternate media paradigm: one where stories are chosen based on their intrinsic value rather than their potential to sensationalise. Imagine a newsfeed where the concerns of a Kurdish citizen are portrayed with the same depth and sensitivity as, say, the historical struggles of the Palestinians. Such an ecosystem wouldn't just be idealistic; it would be instrumental in fostering a more informed and empathetic global community.

Yet, the reality is starkly different. While media juggernauts, with their vast resources, dictate the news agenda, myriad significant stories remain relegated to obscurity. The question that emerges is: Are our information priorities genuinely reflective of global significance, or are they swayed by commercial interests and political undercurrents?

“News is something somebody doesn’t want printed; all else is advertising.”

William Randolph Hearst

Journalism, in its purest form, should aim to educate, inform, and enlighten. As consumers, we have the right to comprehensive, unbiased, and diverse reporting. If gaps or omissions mar our news sources, it beckons a larger question: Are we merely passive recipients of information, or do we have a responsibility to demand more balanced, nuanced, and holistic coverage? In the vast and growing ocean of information, it's crucial to ensure that every significant wave is acknowledged and understood.

It's not that the Left has suddenly made a dramatic, egregious misstep; it's more nuanced than that. Over the years, there's been a sense that Leftist ideologies had woven themselves so deeply into the fabric of Western societies that they became almost sacrosanct. Cultural, academic and, revealingly, corporate entities leaned increasingly left, with little to no substantial pushback.

But it seems we may have reached an inflection point. It's as if society has collectively woken up and realised that it has the power, and indeed the duty, to question and challenge these norms. The first time you say "No" is the moment you realise your own agency and the potential for change. That initial rejection, be it from dissidents or the mainstream, is a sign of a new beginning, and it's happening right now.

While this might be a controversial point to some, one could argue that the ‘Leftist’ movement has become, in some respects, abusive to the very societies that nurtured it. Just like in an abusive relationship, the victim often doesn't recognise the mistreatment until it becomes unbearable. We've been in a similar situation as a society, shaped and moulded by the constant pressure to conform to a particular ideological direction, often without critical examination of its long term effects.

What's particularly remarkable about this cultural moment is that the pushback is not solely coming from fringe groups or outspoken radicals, traditionally lambasted as bigots or deniers. We are now seeing people in the mainstream — ordinary, everyday individuals — beginning to question the prevailing narratives. People are less afraid to share their mutual side-eyes. This marks a significant shift and could very well be the genesis of a broader societal change.

So, is it time to lose hope in the West? I'd argue the opposite. The rising sentiment of resistance could signify a renewed commitment to the core values that have historically defined us — individual freedom, democratic governance, and the questioning of authority, to name a few. This could be a recalibration, a realignment, or even a renaissance. And it all starts with that one powerful word: No.

It's okay to feel a sense of optimism amidst this chaos. After all, it might just be what jolts us back to our senses, reminding us of who we are and what we stand for. Deep down, we all know that something isn’t right in society, but most are too fearful or comfortable to say “No” because it’s more than just an act of defiance; it's a reclamation of the principles that make Western Civilisation worth defending in the first place.

In constitutional nations like the US and other parliamentary democracies, the term "democracy" is generally understood to imply a system that enables republics. This involves a majority rule with safeguards for individual rights and minority interests. However, to Woke activists, this definition falls woefully short. They argue that contemporary democratic systems are fundamentally flawed, not because they fail at representation, but because they don't meet the Woke criteria for 'equity' or, in a more direct sense, communism.

For the Woke, democracy is not merely a political system; it's an outcome. Specifically, it is an outcome in which power, wealth, and privileges are evenly distributed. The Woke agenda posits that unless everyone has identical economic status and social privileges, democracy is a sham. Herein lies the crux of the Woke argument: the presupposition that democracy must first achieve an egalitarian state of equity before it can truly be called democratic.

This nuanced redefinition has significant implications, especially when it comes to policy-making and social interactions. When Woke activists advocate for "democracy," the uninitiated might easily conflate their demands with traditional notions of democratic governance. This misinterpretation can lead to the inadvertent endorsement of policies that veer towards a redistribution of wealth, and therefore power, often at the expense of individual liberties and free-market principles.

The semantic adjustments made by Woke mouthpieces aren't merely academic exercises; they have real-world consequences. The altering of terms and their meanings has a way of seeping into legislation, corporate policies, and educational systems. This transformation can lead to the widespread acceptance of values that are not just different but, in some cases, contrary to traditional democratic principles.

Vigilance in language is more than just a scholarly endeavour; it's a necessity for anyone invested in the principles of a free society. Understanding the linguistic nuances employed by Woke activism is not just a matter of semantics; it is integral to discerning the ideological shifts that are subtly altering our political and social landscapes.

As custodians of democratic values, it is incumbent upon us to scrutinise language carefully. In an era when words are often weaponised to serve ideological ends, maintaining clarity of expression and thought is paramount. We must remain alert to these linguistic modifications, recognising that the struggle over the meaning of words like "democracy" is, in fact, a struggle over the future trajectory of democratic governance itself.

Ocobock and Lacy introduce two plausible premises. First, they argue that the scientific study of sex differences has been negatively impacted by a lack of female participation as test subjects. There is some merit to this argument, and similar conclusions have been reached by other scholars in the field. Second, they assert that historical evidence points to the presence of female hunters in hunter-gatherer societies. While there's credible evidence to support this, it is not robust enough to establish it as a prevalent pattern rather than an exception.

Where the authors' arguments begin to falter is in the extrapolation of these premises. They posit that if women were indeed hunters, it suggests an equality not just in societal roles but also in physical capabilities. According to Ocobock and Lacy, this status quo was disrupted around 10,000 years ago with the advent of agriculture, which somehow enabled men to not only subjugate women but also to manipulate scientific understanding to their advantage.

The authors do concede that there are physiological differences between men and women, but they claim that the extent of these differences is negligible. However, a cursory glance at athletic records in various fields of physical performance shows a clear and consistent male advantage, undermining their claims of functional equivalence.

Ocobock and Lacy take this discourse into the realm of conspiracy theories, suggesting that the performance gap between male and female athletes is not due to biological factors but rather due to societal prejudices and the mechanisms of professional sports. While there are certainly societal factors that have restricted women's participation in the past, attributing current performance disparities solely to these factors defies empirical evidence.

Indeed, there was a time when women were categorically barred from athletic competition. The lifting of such restrictions has undoubtedly been a positive development for both athletics and society at large. Women have improved their performance rates at a faster pace than men, but this surge is better explained by increased participation rather than by closing any hypothetical physiological gap.

The reality is that sexual differences, which become prominent with the onset of puberty, are dictated by variances in hormonal levels, notably testosterone, leading to disparities in bone density, muscle mass, and other physiological traits. These differences may be unpalatable to some, but they are empirically evident and should not be casually dismissed.

The notion that men and women could be functionally equivalent if not for some grand conspiracy is a perspective that is more ideological than scientific. The true concern is the growing trend to erase or diminish the inherent differences between men and women, a sentiment that Ocobock and Lacy explicitly endorse in their article. Acknowledging these differences does not diminish the dignity or value of either sex; it simply reflects an objective reality. Ignoring or refuting this biological basis under the guise of social progress is not just intellectually dubious; it is antithetical to scientific inquiry.

Human nature, like nature itself, abhors a vacuum. When you remove one belief system, the vacuum left behind isn't vacant for long. And in our modern era, social justice ideologies or what's broadly termed as "Wokeness" frequently steps in to fill this space.

Saying goodbye to Sunday services doesn't mean you won't find a congregation. The church of Wokeness is open 24/7, on every social media platform. Here, Original Sin is replaced by inherent privilege, and evangelism occurs through vocal activism and cancel culture. The objective might appear noble – equality, justice – but the dogmatic approach can be strikingly similar to what you might find in traditional religious circles.

The Internet age, despite its promise of global connectedness, has spawned ideological echo chambers where the tenets of Wokeness are preached, refined, and enforced. While you may have left behind the fear of eternal damnation, a new type of excommunication awaits those who dare question the new doctrine.

Just because a belief system is modern doesn’t make it rational. New-age doctrines also need to stand the test of sceptical inquiry. The zealousness accompanying Wokeness, in its worst forms, can rival the religious fervour of old. The belief that you're fighting for universal justice can sometimes blind you to the complexities and nuances of individual justice.

Regardless of how altruistic the intent, any ideology can be perverted into dogma if it remains unquestioned. Critical thinking, open debate, and the freedom to disagree are cornerstones of a healthy intellectual community. We need a balancing perspective to any form of ideological extremism, be it traditional religion or modern Wokeness.

The act of moving away from traditional belief systems like religion doesn't necessarily leave you in a no-man's-land of intellectual scepticism. Quite the contrary, you might find yourself in the fervent crowds of the newly woke. The challenge, then, isn't just to move away from old dogmas but to approach new ones with the same critical scrutiny.

In a landscape that's quick to replace old idols with new ones, continuous scepticism could be our most valuable asset. After all, the true mark of a free thinker isn't the absence of belief, but the willingness to question every belief – including the trendy new ones.

We are now facing a new wave of technology, centred around AI but including synthetic biology, quantum computing, and abundant new sources of energy. In many respects it will repeat this pattern. Yet it will also depart from it in crucial ways only now becoming clear. Amidst all the hype, the hope, the fear, I think the fundamentals are getting lost; the unique characteristics of this wave are getting missed in the noise. Understanding them, seeing what, exactly, is changing, is critical to understanding the future.

AI is different from previous waves of technology because of how it unleashes new powers and transforms existing power. This is the most under-appreciated aspect of the technological revolution now underway. Whilst all waves of technology create altered power structures in their wake, none have seen the raw proliferation of power like the one on its way.

Think of it like this: Previous eras’ most powerful technologies were generally reserved to a small capital rich elite or national governments. Building a steam-powered factory, an aircraft carrier or a nuclear power plant were costly, difficult and immense endeavours. With the leading technologies of our time, that’s no longer going to be true.

If the last great tech wave - computers and the internet - was about broadcasting information, this new wave is all about doing. We are facing a step-change in what’s possible for individual people to do, and at a previously unthinkable pace. AI is becoming more powerful and radically cheaper by the month - what was computationally impossible, or would cost tens of millions a few years ago, is now widespread.

These AIs will organise a retirement party and manage your diary, they will develop and execute business strategies, whilst designing new drugs to fight cancer. They will plan and run hospitals or invasions just as much as they will answer your email. Building an airline, or instead grounding the entire fleet, each becomes more achievable. Whether it’s commercial, religious, cultural, or military, democratic or authoritarian, every possible motivation you can think of can be dramatically enhanced by having cheaper power at your fingertips. These tools will be available to everyone, billionaires and street hustlers, kids in India and pensioners in Beverly Hills, a proliferation of not just technology, but capability itself.

Power, the ability to accomplish goals, everywhere, in the hands of anyone who wants it. I’m guessing that’s going to be most people. This is far more empowering than the web ever was.

And it’s coming faster than we can adequately prepare for. This is an age when the most powerful technologies are open-sourced in months, when millions have access to the cutting-edge, and that cutting-edge is the greatest force amplifier ever seen. This new era will create giant new businesses, empower a long tail of actors - good and bad - supercharge the power of some states, erode that of others. Whether a giant corporation or a start-up, an established party or an insurgent movement, a wild-eyed entrepreneur or a lone wolf with an axe to grind, here is an immense potential boost. Winners and losers will emerge quickly and unpredictably in this combustible atmosphere as power itself surges through the system. In short this represents the greatest reshuffling of power in history, all happening within the space of a few years.

Those most comfortable today look vulnerable. Even as the discourse around AI has reached a fever pitch, those with power today, the professional classes, feel shockingly unprepared for the disruptions and new formations of power this tumult will bring. They - the doctors, lawyers, accountants, business VPs - will not emerge unscathed, and yet most I speak to are still incredibly blasé about the changes afoot. It’s not just automated call centres. This wave will fundamentally reshape and reorder society, and it is those with most to lose, reliant on established capital, expertise, authority and security architectures, who are precisely the most exposed.

Until recently, this ignorance was a common affliction of the Silicon Valley elite, many of whom pursued technological “disruption” without considering the likely outcomes. The arrival of generative AI and other AI products has started to change that.

Although there is much further to go, leaders in Silicon Valley have begun taking a more proactive and precautionary approach to the development of the very largest AI models. But more widely it’s vital that societies facing this wave do not dismiss it as hot air, turn away, and get caught out. The preparation needs to begin now.

As we start to see power itself proliferating, its distribution and nature fundamentally changed, pessimism aversion is no answer. It’s time to confront the consequences of this shift in who can do what, when, and how, understand what it means, and begin to plan for how we can control and contain it for everyone’s benefit.

History can be a useful guide. But with AI, synthetic biology and the rest, we can be confident of one thing: we are facing the genuinely unprecedented.