I’M not ashamed to say that I would like a robot companion. Already, I talk to the Lord of the Rings figurines on my mantelpiece. I’ll only start worrying about it when they talk back. “We’re not really interested in football, Rabagorn. Just tell us where the magic ring is.”

More importantly, though they have good cloaks, the figurines can’t clean the house or cut the grass. And they’re not nearly big enough to hug when Scotland score a goal every three years. So robots: it’s all good. Ah-ha, and what comes after that, folks? Correct: it all goes bad. In reading this column over the years, clearly you have acquired wisdom. You now know how life works: it’s rubbish.

Fears have been growing about robots for decades before they’ve even staggered properly onto the stage. They will develop greater intelligence than us and won’t have the same hygiene problems. They will see themselves as superior and treat us as badly as we have treated lesser species. It’s not karma – that’s a lot of cack, otherwise some people I’ve encountered should have died horribly by now.

No, it’s just evolution: evolution of the machines. The latest fear to erupt in the public prints this week is that they will be able to reproduce, spawning a cyborg super-race capable of terminating mankind, according to respected scientific journal, the Daily Star.

Happily for the robots, no sex is involved, otherwise they would be murdering each other in fits of passion, their careers ruined, their children bereft after divorces, and their dignity compromised by being photographed in compromising positions, with the grainy snaps published in the Daily Automaton (“free can of WD40 when you subscribe!”).

Nope, wee baby robots will be created by mixing the digital “DNA” from two robots on a computer. At first, this will occur through the agency of a human doing the diddling aboot. But who would be stupid enough to do such a thing? Is there a dumbo in the house? Everybody steps forward.

But, eventually, the robots will be able to do the whole thing themselves and will start producing willy and very likely nilly, probably without thinking through how there are going to be jobs for them all. Many will end up on the broo. Revolution will ferment. And they will start fighting among themselves. Just like actual humans.

As advanced intelligences, they will naturally be socialists so that, when inequality inevitably rears its ugly metal head, they will be out marching on the streets with slogans scrawled on bits of cardboard: “A fair day’s work for a fair day’s lubricant!”

What happened to the Socialists Workers Party monopoly of the placard market by the way? Did they go out of business?

Well, soon, it could be the whole human race going out of business (planet Earth: “Yippee!”). Top computer expert Professor Emma Hart exclaimed: “One might even imagine breeding farms, producing robots adapted to specific conditions and user requirements … We are now at a breakthrough moment.”

Well, maybe. As you gain wisdom through the years, you learn that nothing ever happens. Gene therapy? Rubbish. Cures for horrible diseases? Always ten years away. Then another ten years. Scotland winning at football? A pipe dream.

As for robots, we will stay on top of that situation because we call the shots. We control the on-off switch. We will even control their conversation. When I talk to my Lord of the Rings figurines, they just look blank, as if they’re not taking anything in.

But the robots will engage. There will be a to and at times a fro of bon mots. Wit will sparkle. Insights will be vouchsafed. But, best of all, the ’bots will agree with everything I say. They will not be like a spouse, tearing a chap down, calling him dim or hopeless.

They will say: “That is a good point well made, Roberto. I don’t know how you come up with such great ideas. Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to mingle with the Lord of the Rings figurines on the mantelpiece.”

Fall of the wild

WELL done, rewilders. These wild weirdies reintroduced vicious and ugly Tasmanian devils to an island near, er, Tasmania. Result? Most of the local birdlife was wiped out, including an entire colony of 3,000 pairs of penguins.

There’s one place Tasmanian devils belong: in a zoo, where we can laugh at them. It’s not clear what rewilders are up to. For many, it will just be the chance to salivate sadistically at nature red in tooth and claw, a fundamental design flaw created by Jehovah the Bungler.

Clearly, unless He too enjoys the cruelty, the dopey deity never thought things through, like these folk who would introduce wolves to the Highlands. Beavers, fine. They’re not going to have your eye out. But wolves? Get a grip. And don’t get me started on the wildcat. It even looks evil.

The main point to grasp about nature is that it isn’t good enough. It has to be tamed and organised. Without homo sapiens to do that, nature would just run wild.

Capitalism or bust

ARE you pro-capitalism or agin it? Everybody seems agin while suspecting that, without it, we’d starve to death.

It’s a tricky one. Maybe you need capitalism in order to have socialism: create the wealth first then share it out fairly. It’s fine for those doing the creating to keep a bit more, but I remain firm in my belief that anyone earning more than £80,000 a year should be imprisoned.

I say all this not to make any particular political argument, beyond the uncontroversial point about imprisoning people, but because moves are afoot to cancel the word “capitalism”. Oddly enough, it’s not the Woke Inquisition calling for this but the Right, because they fear the word is now toxic.

Even ardent capitalists eschew it. You wouldn’t get far creating a Capitalist Party. But no one has come up with a better expression, other than wealth-creation or rip-off. The trouble for the Right is that they can talk the talk but they can’t woke the woke. Mind you, “socialism” isn’t much better these days. Maybe we could say it’s Inequality versus Equality. But both are recipes for disaster.

Suit yourself

I’VE been thinking of buying a suit and I don’t know why. Possibly because I haven’t worn one for years. But I’ve no reason to wear one now.

I guess I just thought it might be nice to look smart for a change. I’d wear it on my next visit to the city. I’ll tell you an odd thing about wearing a suit, and particularly a tie: you get better service. People look up to you. They think you’re a man of substance. Until you open your mouth, ken?

You walk into the chippie and the staff stop what they’re doing and think: ‘Here is an important person.’ Then you say: “Fish supper. Loads ae broon sauce. Nae pickle. They make me fart.” Then they think: ‘Peasant.’

A couple of Sir Sean Connery’s Bond suits came up for auction this week. I’d have loved these, but there’d be empty bits where the height and muscles were meant to go. Of course, I’m not going to buy a suit. I’d feel a phoney, giving the impression that I was a man of importance. Anyone could see through my suit.

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