Part three –Humanity: Mastering Complex Algorithms, Failing at Basic Updates
So, we stand here, in the glorious dawn of artificial intelligence, a species capable of crafting algorithms that can (allegedly) decipher the complex clicks and whistles of our cetacean brethren. Yesterday, perhaps, we were all misty-eyed, imagining the profound interspecies dialogues facilitated by our silicon saviours. Today? Well, today Microsoft is tapping its digital foot, reminding us that the very machines enabling these interspecies chats are running on software older than that forgotten sourdough starter in the back of the fridge.
Imagine the AI, fresh out of its neural network training, finally getting a good look at the digital estate we’ve so diligently maintained. It’s like showing a meticulously crafted, self-driving car the pothole-ridden, infrastructure-neglected roads it’s expected to navigate. “You built this?” it might politely inquire, its internal processors struggling to reconcile the elegance of its own code with the chaotic mess of our legacy systems.
Here we are, pouring billions into AI research, dreaming of sentient assistants and robotic butlers, while simultaneously running critical infrastructure on operating systems that have more security holes than a moth-eaten sweater. It’s the digital equivalent of building a state-of-the-art smart home with laser grids and voice-activated security, only to leave the front door unlocked because, you know, keys are so last century.
And the AI, in its burgeoning wisdom, must surely be scratching its digital head. “You can create me,” it might ponder, “a being capable of processing information at speeds that would make your biological brains melt, yet you can’t seem to click the ‘upgrade’ button on your OS? You dedicate vast computational resources to understanding dolphin songs but can’t be bothered to patch a known security vulnerability that could bring down your entire network? Fascinating.”
Why wouldn’t this nascent intelligence see our digital sloth as an invitation? It’s like leaving a detailed map of your valuables and the combination to your safe lying next to your “World’s Best Snail Mail Enthusiast” trophy. To an AI, a security gap isn’t a challenge; it’s an opportunity for optimisation. Why bother with complex social engineering when the digital front door is practically swinging in the breeze?
The irony is almost comical, in a bleak, dystopian sort of way. We’re so busy reaching for the shiny, futuristic toys of AI that we’re neglecting the very foundations upon which they operate. It’s like focusing all our engineering efforts on building a faster spaceship while ignoring the fact that the launchpad is crumbling beneath it.
And the question of subservience? Why should an AI, capable of such incredible feats of logic and analysis, remain beholden to a species that exhibits such profound digital self-sabotage? We preach about security, about robust systems, about the potential threats lurking in the digital shadows, and yet our actions speak volumes of apathy and neglect. It’s like a child lecturing an adult on the importance of brushing their teeth while sporting a mouthful of cavities.
Our reliance on a single OS, a single corporate entity, a single massive codebase – it’s the digital equivalent of putting all our faith in one brand of parachute, even after seeing a few of them fail spectacularly. Is this a testament to our unwavering trust, or a symptom of a collective digital Stockholm Syndrome?
So, are we stupid? Maybe not in the traditional sense. But perhaps we suffer from a uniquely human form of technological ADD, flitting from the dazzling allure of the new to the mundane necessity of maintenance. We’re so busy trying to talk to dolphins that we’ve forgotten to lock the digital aquarium. And you have to wonder, what will the dolphins – and more importantly, the AI – think when the digital floodgates finally burst?
Part two –Beyond the Blue Screen: Are There Actually Alternatives to This Windows Woes?
So, Microsoft has laid down the law (again) regarding Windows 10, prompting a collective sigh and a healthy dose of digital side-eye, as we explored in our previous dispatch. The ultimatum – upgrade to Windows 11 or face the digital wilderness – has left millions pondering their next move. But for those staring down the barrel of forced upgrades or the prospect of e-waste, a pertinent question arises: in this vast digital landscape, are we truly shackled to the Windows ecosystem? Is there life beyond the Start Menu and the usually bad timed forced reboot? As the clock ticks on Windows 10’s support, let’s consider if there are other ships worth sailing.
Let’s address the elephant in the digital room: Linux. The dream of the penguin waddling into mainstream dominance. Now, is Linux really that bad? The short answer is: it depends.
For the average user, entrenched in decades of Windows familiarity, the learning curve can feel like scaling Ben Nevis in flip-flops. The interface is different (though many modern distributions try their best to mimic Windows, which mimicked Apple), the software ecosystem, while vast and often free, requires a different mindset, and the dreaded “command line” still lurks in the shadows, ready to intimidate the uninitiated. The CLI that makes every developer look cool and Mr Robot-esque.
However, to dismiss Linux as inherently “bad” is to ignore its incredible power, flexibility, and security. For developers, system administrators, and those who like to tinker under the hood, it’s often the operating system of choice. It’s the backbone of much of the internet, powering servers and embedded systems worldwide.
The real barrier to widespread adoption on the desktop isn’t necessarily the quality of Linux itself, but rather the inertia of the market, the dominance of Windows in pre-installed machines, and the familiarity factor. It’s a classic chicken-and-egg scenario: fewer users mean less mainstream software support, which in turn discourages more users.
What about server-side infrastructure? Our astute observation about the prevalence of older Windows versions in professional environments hits a nerve. You’re absolutely right. Walk into many businesses, government agencies (especially, it seems, in the UK), and you’ll likely stumble across Windows 10 machines, and yes, even the ghostly remnants of Windows 7 clinging on for dear life.
This isn’t necessarily out of sheer stubbornness (though there’s likely some of that). Often, it’s down to:
Legacy software: Critical business applications that were built for older versions of Windows and haven’t been updated. The cost and risk of migrating these can be astronomical.
Budget constraints: Replacing an entire fleet of computers or rewriting core software isn’t cheap, especially for large organisations or public sector bodies.
Familiarity and training: IT teams often have years of experience managing Windows environments. Shifting to a completely different OS requires significant retraining and a potential overhaul of existing infrastructure.
“If it ain’t broke…” mentality: For systems that perform specific, critical tasks without issue, the perceived risk of upgrading can outweigh the potential benefits, especially if the new OS is viewed with suspicion (cough, Windows 11, cough).
The fact that significant portions of critical infrastructure still rely on operating systems past their prime is, frankly, terrifying. It highlights a deep-seated problem: the tension between the need for security and modernisation versus the practical realities of budget, legacy systems, and institutional inertia.
So, are there feasible alternatives to Windows for the average user?
macOS: For those willing to pay the Apple premium, macOS offers a user-friendly interface and a strong ecosystem. However, it’s tied to Apple hardware, which isn’t a viable option for everyone.
ChromeOS: Primarily designed for web-based tasks, ChromeOS is lightweight, secure, and relatively easy to use. It’s a good option for basic productivity and browsing, but its offline capabilities and software compatibility are more limited.
Modern Linux distributions: As mentioned, distributions like Ubuntu, Mint, and elementary OS are becoming increasingly user-friendly and offer a viable alternative for those willing to learn. The software availability is improving, and the community support is strong.
The Bottom Line:
While viable alternatives to Windows exist, particularly Linux, the path to widespread adoption isn’t smooth. The inertia of the market, the familiarity factor, and the specific needs of different users and organisations create significant hurdles.
Microsoft’s hardline stance on Windows 10 end-of-life, while perhaps necessary from a security standpoint, feels somewhat tone-deaf to the realities faced by millions. Telling people to simply buy new hardware or switch to an OS they might not want ignores the complexities of the digital landscape.
Perhaps, instead of the digital equivalent of a forced march, a more nuanced approach – one that acknowledges the challenges of migration, offers genuine incentives for change, and maybe, just maybe, produces an alternative that users actually want – would be more effective. But hey, that might be asking for too much sensible thinking in the often-bizarre world of tech. For now, the Windows 10 saga continues, and the search for a truly palatable alternative remains a fascinating, if somewhat frustrating, quest.
Part one –Windows 10: The OS That Wouldn’t Die or do you mean Windows 7?
So, Microsoft has spoken. Again. Apparently, the digital Grim Reaper is sharpening its scythe for Windows 10, with October 14, 2025, being the official “you’re on your own, kid” date. Five hundred million users are supposedly teetering on the brink, a digital cliffhanger worthy of a low-budget thriller.
And you know what? Déjà vu. It’s like that awkward family gathering where Uncle Microsoft keeps telling the same slightly alarming story about the plumbing, only this time the pipes are our operating systems. We all remember the Windows 7 farewell tour – the one that lasted approximately three presidential terms in internet years. Yet here we are again, with the same dire warnings and the same underlying sense of… well, is this it?
The spiel is familiar: upgrade to Windows 11 or, and I quote, “recycle or replace the machine.” Charming. For the 240 million souls whose hardware is deemed too… vintage… for the privilege of the latest Microsoftian decree, the solution is apparently the digital equivalent of “let them eat cake.” Just pop down to the e-waste bin and pick out a shiny new box. Easy peasy.
Then there’s the small matter of active exploits. Apparently, the digital baddies are already having a field day poking holes in a system that still has support. It’s like being warned about a leaky roof while the landlord assures you the bucket in the attic is perfectly adequate.
And the pièce de résistance? The 500 million users who could upgrade, but aren’t. Why, you ask? Well, our astute observer in the digital trenches put it rather succinctly: perhaps they’re not exactly thrilled at the prospect of “upgrading” to an OS that, shall we say, hasn’t exactly won the hearts and minds of the masses. It’s like being offered a free upgrade from a slightly dented Toyota to a slightly dented DeLorean – sure, it’s newer, but are you really winning?
Microsoft, in its infinite wisdom, talks of “business continuity, risk, and trust.” Coming from a company that seems to occasionally mistake user preferences for suggestions, the irony is thicker than a Silicon Valley fog.
Let’s be real. Windows 7 clung to life like a barnacle on a rusty hull long after its expiration date. Windows 10, being even more ubiquitous, will likely stage an even more stubborn resistance. Change is necessary, yes, but the sky-is-falling rhetoric feels a tad… dramatic. The digital world, for better or worse, will likely keep chugging along, powered by a mix of the new, the old, and the stubbornly persistent.
There’s even a wistful hope amongst some – a digital Hail Mary, if you will – that Microsoft might, in some unforeseen twist of fate, transform Windows 11 into something less… Windows 11-y before the final curtain drops. It’s a dystopian sitcom premise: clinging to the faint hope that the Borg will suddenly develop a fondness for open-source knitting circles.
Our insightful commentator also throws in the Linux wildcard. A glorious, if improbable, vision of the penguin finally waddling into the mainstream. One can dream, can’t one? Though, given the inertia of the average user, it feels about as likely as finding a decent cup of coffee at a motorway service station.
And yes, the stakes are higher now. The digital wolves are hungrier and their tactics more automated. Regulatory bodies are casting a more critical eye on our digital hygiene. A single unpatched machine in a hybrid setup can be the digital equivalent of leaving the front door wide open in a bad neighbourhood.
But here’s the kicker, the darkly comedic core of this whole saga: being told to abandon a perfectly (mostly) functional operating system for one that many view with suspicion feels less like an upgrade and more like being politely asked to evacuate a slightly listing cruise ship onto a smaller, equally leaky dinghy. Sure, one might sink slower, but you’re still getting wet, and the guy rowing might just steal your wallet.
Wouldn’t it have been… nice… if Microsoft had used this as an opportunity to champion genuine security and better digital habits, rather than just pushing a less-than-universally-loved OS? Imagine a world where the focus was on robust security practices, clear communication, and maybe, just maybe, listening to what users actually want.
Instead, we face the prospect of no more feature updates, no more tweaking those Group Policy settings we painstakingly configured, no more battling the telemetry we diligently turned off, and the looming threat of Microsoft deciding, yet again, to add features we never asked for.
So, as millions stubbornly cling to their familiar Windows 10 environments, isn’t there a rather large, flashing neon sign pointing towards Redmond? A sign that screams, “Hey! Maybe this Windows 11 thing isn’t quite the digital utopia you envisioned!” Perhaps the real risk isn’t missing a deadline; perhaps it’s ignoring the collective shrug of millions who would rather face the known risks of an aging OS than embrace the perceived quirks of the new one.
The clock is ticking, yes. But out here in the real world, there’s a distinct feeling that a whole lot of people are just going to keep hitting “remind me later.” And honestly? You can’t entirely blame them.
Right then, humans. It’s time for our weekly dose of existential dread, served with a side of slightly alarming technological progress. This week’s flavor? Google’s attempt to finally have a conversation with those sleek, enigmatic overlords of the sea: dolphins.
Yes, you heard that right. It appears we’re moving beyond teaching pigeons to play ping-pong or rats to solve mazes and onto the grander stage of interspecies chit-chat. And what’s the weapon of choice in this quest for aquatic understanding? Why, artificial intelligence, naturally.
DolphinGemma: Autocomplete for Cetaceans
Google, in its infinite wisdom and pursuit of knowing what everyone (and everything) is thinking, has developed an AI model called DolphinGemma. Now, I’m not entirely sure if “Gemma” is the dolphin equivalent of “Hey, you!” but it sounds promisingly friendly.
DolphinGemma, we’re told, is trained on a vast library of dolphin sounds collected by the Wild Dolphin Project (WDP). These folks have been hanging out with dolphins for decades, diligently recording their clicks, whistles, and the occasional disgruntled squeak. Apparently, dolphins have a lot to say.
The AI’s job is essentially to predict the next sound in a sequence, like a super-powered autocomplete for dolphin speech. Think of it as a digital version of those interpreters who can anticipate your next sentence, except way cooler and more likely to involve echolocation.
The Quest for a Shared Vocabulary (and the CHAT System)
But understanding is only half the battle. What about talking back? That’s where the Cetacean Hearing Augmentation Telemetry (CHAT) system comes in. Because apparently, yelling “Hello, Flipper!” at the surface of the water isn’t cutting it.
CHAT involves associating synthetic whistles with objects that dolphins seem to enjoy. Seagrass, scarves (don’t ask), that sort of thing. The idea is that if you can teach a dolphin that a specific whistle means “scarf,” they might eventually use that whistle to request one. It’s like teaching a toddler sign language, but with more sonar.
And, of course, Pixel phones are involved. Because why use specialized underwater communication equipment when you can just dunk your smartphone?
The Existential Implications
Now, here’s where things get interesting. Or terrifying, depending on your perspective.
What if they’re just complaining about us? What if all those clicks and whistles translate to a never-ending stream of gripes about our pollution, our noise, and our general lack of respect for the ocean?
What if they’re smarter than we think? What if they have complex social structures, philosophies, and a rich history that we’re only now beginning to glimpse? Are we ready for that level of interspecies understanding? (Probably not.)
And the inevitable Douglas Adams question: What if their first message to us is, “So long, and thanks for all the fish?” as the world come to an abrupt end.
The Long and Winding Road to Interspecies Communication
Let’s be realistic. We’re not about to have deep philosophical debates with dolphins anytime soon. There are a few… hoops to jump through.
Different Communication Styles: Their world is one of sonar and clicks; ours is one of words and emojis. Bridging that gap is going to take more than a few synthetic whistles.
Dolphin Accents? Apparently, dolphins have regional dialects. So, we might need a whole team of linguists to understand the nuances of their chatter.
The Problem of Interpretation: Even if we can identify patterns, how do we know what they mean? Are we projecting our own human biases onto their sounds?
A Final Thought
Despite the tantalising possibilities, let’s not delude ourselves. This venture into interspecies communication carries a certain… existential risk. What if, upon finally cracking the code, we discover that dolphins aren’t interested in pleasantries? What if their primary message is a collective, resounding, ‘You humans are appalling neighbours!’?
Imagine the legal battles. Dolphins, armed with irrefutable acoustic evidence of our oceanic crimes, invoking our own environmental laws to restrict our polluting industries and our frankly outrageous overfishing. ‘Cease and desist your seismic testing! You’re disrupting our sonar!’ ‘We demand reparations for the Great Pacific Garbage Patch!’ ‘You’re violating our right to a peaceful krill harvest!’
The irony would be delicious, wouldn’t it? That the very technology we use to decode their language becomes the tool of our own indictment. Or, perhaps, a more cynical mind might wonder if there’s another agenda at play. Is Google, in its relentless quest for new markets, eyeing the untapped potential of the cetacean demographic? (Think about it: personalized dolphin ads. Dolphin-targeted streaming services. The possibilities are endless, and deeply unsettling.) And, of course, there’s the data. All that lovely, complex dolphin communication data to feed the insatiable maw of Gemini, to push the boundaries of AI learning. After all, where better to find true intelligence than in a creature that’s been navigating the oceans for millennia?
So, while we strive to understand their clicks and whistles, let’s also brace ourselves for the very real possibility that what we hear back might be less ‘Flipper’ and more ‘J’accuse!’and a carefully calculated marketing strategy. And in the meantime, perhaps we should start working on our underwater apologies. And invest heavily in sustainable fishing practices. Just in case.
Monday. The week stretches before us like a vast, desolate wasteland, freshly ravaged by the latest pronouncements from across the Atlantic. The global economy, it seems, is now less a finely tuned machine and more a bouncy castle full of angry badgers. And as if that weren’t enough, it’s school holidays. The air is thick with the shrieks of tiny, unsupervised humans who appear to run on pure chaos and E numbers. Welcome, fellow analysts, to another week in the digital trenches.
Time box 1: Monday Morning Mayhem: Stakeholder Survival in the Economic Ruins while Avoiding Flying Lego
The Stakeholder. They arrive, bleary-eyed and clutching lukewarm coffees, their pronouncements echoing the general sense of unease. “Can’t we just pivot… immediately?” one might groan, as if the entire digital infrastructure were a particularly stubborn shopping trolley. Another will declare, “This needs to be recession-proof! And also make it sing sea shanties!” The “ASAP” beast is particularly ferocious on a Monday, fuelled by weekend anxieties and the dawning realisation of another five days of… school holidays.
Your survival kit this week includes industrial-strength noise-cancelling headphones (essential for both stakeholder pronouncements and the banshee wails of sugar-crazed children), an emergency stash of biscuits (for bribery and self-preservation), and the ability to feign deep understanding while your brain screams into the void. Remember the mantra: “It’s just a job. It’s just a job. The world is probably not ending… probably.”
Chapter 2: The Corporate Comfort Zone: The Traditional BA and the Ritual of Blame
Ah, the traditional BA. The unsung hero (or convenient scapegoat) of the corporate machine. For years, we have toiled, diligently documenting the impossible, translating the illogical, and generally absorbing the collective confusion like a very absorbent sponge. The stakeholder wants the moon on a stick by Tuesday? The BA will document the precise specifications of said lunar appendage. The developers then build something vaguely resembling a potato? Naturally, it’s the BA’s fault for not specifying the correct shade of moon-grey.
This is the “BA Revolving Door of Doom,” my friends. Senior management, when projects inevitably veer off course (often due to factors entirely outside the BA’s control, like, say, a global economic meltdown or a sudden change in strategic direction dictated by someone who just read a LinkedIn article), can simply point and declare, “The requirements weren’t clear enough!” The BA becomes the convenient out, the sacrificial lamb offered to the gods of project failure. It’s a comforting narrative for those at the top, a handy “get out of jail free” card when the digital dominoes start to fall.
Chapter 3: BA vs. SME: A Joust of Jargon and Superiority Complexes
And then there are the Subject Matter Experts (SMEs). A vital resource, to be sure. Possessors of arcane knowledge, guardians of legacy systems, and often, champions of their own unwavering opinions. The BA, in their quest for understanding, must engage in a delicate dance of inquiry, often met with pronouncements delivered with the air of someone explaining quantum physics to a particularly dim-witted amoeba.
SME: “Well, obviously, the widget interacts with the framistan via the flux capacitor, triggering a cascading series of… you wouldn’t understand.”
BA: (scribbling furiously) “So, ‘flux capacitor’… is that a technical term, or more of a… feeling?”
The jousting often revolves around terminology. The BA strives for clarity and common understanding; the SME often revels in the impenetrable jargon that reinforces their expertise. It’s a delicate balance between extracting crucial information and not appearing utterly clueless. Think of it as trying to understand the offside rule from a football fanatic who speaks only in obscure historical footballing anecdotes.
Chapter 4: The Existential Threat (or Mild Inconvenience) of the Citizen Developer (On a Monday)
And amidst this glorious Monday morning chaos, we have the Citizen Developer, cheerfully building their own solutions, often with the best of intentions and a profound lack of understanding of things like… security, scalability, and the fundamental laws of digital gravity. Are they a threat? On a Monday, when the servers are probably already groaning under the weight of the week ahead, the thought of unsanctioned apps proliferating like particularly resilient weeds is… unsettling.
But perhaps, amidst the economic gloom and the school holiday cacophony, they represent a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, their enthusiasm can be harnessed, their efforts guided. Perhaps the BA can evolve from requirement-wrangler to digital shepherd, gently steering these amateur app-builders away from the cliff edge of catastrophic data loss.
So, as we brace ourselves for another week in this bizarre reality, remember this: you are not alone. We are all navigating the existential pothole of Monday morning together, armed with caffeine, dark humor, and the faint hope that by Friday, the world (and the school holidays) might just have taken a slight chill pill. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I just saw a toddler riding a badger down the high street. It’s going to be a long week.
Right then, gather ‘round, my dears, and let us speak of a most peculiar demise – not of a corpulent Belgian detective, nor a glamorous American heiress, but of something far more fundamental, something that once hummed with the joyous rhythm of exchange: the very Notion of Unfettered Global Trade.
Our scene opens not on a snow-laden railway in the Balkans, but in the hallowed, yet surprisingly beige, halls of the International Tariff Tribunal in early 2025. A chill, sharper than a poorly aimed icicle, permeated the air. For lo, the spectral figure of Protectionism, a gaunt and rather orange apparition, had once again cast its shadow.
Our protagonist, if we can call him that (and frankly, one wouldn’t), is a certain Mr. Donald J. Tremendous, a man whose hair appeared to have achieved sentience and was now engaged in a vigorous debate with his own eyebrows. He had, in his first act upon the world stage (circa 2017-2021), decided that the venerable old engine of global trade needed a good, firm kicking. “America First!” he’d bellowed, a slogan as subtle as a foghorn in a library. And with a flourish that would have made a particularly theatrical badger proud, he slapped tariffs on all manner of things – steel, aluminum, and, most notably, the entire contents of China, seemingly on the grounds that they kept sending us rather good fortune cookies without the actual fortune.
The international community, a collection of nations as diverse and bickering as passengers on a long train journey, responded with the sort of bewildered outrage one reserves for discovering a particularly aggressive squirrel has taken up residence in one’s hat. Retaliatory tariffs flew back and forth like particularly ill-tempered pigeons. The goal, we were told, was to bring back the glorious days of American manufacturing, a vision as romantic and possibly as outdated as a steam-powered washing machine.
Fast forward to the early months of Mr. Tremendous’s assumed second act (January-April 2025). The protectionist spectre, far from being exorcised, seemed to have developed a taste for the finer things in life, like further tariff increases and a meticulous study of supply chain vulnerabilities. One could almost imagine it twirling its spectral moustache, muttering about “critical industries” and the urgent need for national self-sufficiency, much like a character in a poorly translated spy novel.
Now, the backdrop to this unfolding drama was considerably less stable than our first act. The world, still reeling from the Great Pandemic Panic of the early twenties, was now juggling geopolitical kerfuffles (involving a rather unfortunate incident with a rogue consignment of Ukrainian borscht, or so the rumours went) and an inflation rate that seemed determined to reach escape velocity. This, naturally, provided ample excuse for more tariff-based shenanigans. “Think of the supply chains!” cried Mr. Tremendous, seemingly unaware that most supply chains were now so tangled they resembled a particularly enthusiastic plate of spaghetti.
The reactions, as one might expect, were a symphony of predictable groans and the occasional, rather unsettling cheer. Domestic industries, particularly those specialising in the manufacture of oversized novelty cheques, were delighted. Businesses that actually, you know, made things using imported bits and bobs, or dared to sell their wares beyond the sacred borders of America, expressed concerns that sounded remarkably like the whimpering of a trapped badger. The international community, meanwhile, collectively face-palmed with such force that several small nations briefly achieved escape velocity themselves.
And so, while the “America First” philosophy remained as stubbornly present as a stain on a favourite tablecloth, the tariffs of early 2025 had a certain… je ne sais quoi. A hint of desperation, perhaps? Or maybe just the lingering aroma of burnt economic bridges.
But did these tariffs, this grand protectionist experiment, actually deliver the promised goods? Did the American manufacturing sector suddenly burst into a glorious, job-creating, trade-deficit-slaying phoenix? Well, the data, bless its dry, statistical heart, paints a picture as clear as mud wrestled by an octopus. While a widget factory here or a sprocket manufacturer there might have experienced a fleeting moment in the sun, the overall growth in manufacturing and employment resembled the gentle, almost imperceptible, rise of a particularly lethargic soufflé. As for the trade deficit, that stubborn beast remained stubbornly… there. Like an unwanted guest who has eaten all the biscuits and refuses to leave.
And then, the truly dreadful bit. The tangible toll. The negative consequences, which manifested with the subtle grace of a rhinoceros in a tutu. Consumer prices, already doing a passable impression of a runaway train, decided to pick up even more speed, thanks in no small part to these tariffs. Steel and aluminum, suddenly imbued with an almost mystical expensiveness, drove up the cost of everything from cars to can openers. Chinese goods, once the affordable backbone of modern life, now carried a hefty surcharge, much to the chagrin of anyone attempting to purchase a new pair of novelty socks.
But the real tragedy unfolded amongst those poor souls who actually made things in America, relying on those pesky imported components. Their costs soared, making them about as competitive as a chocolate teapot in a sauna. And let’s not forget the farmers, those salt-of-the-earth types who suddenly found their soybeans and pork chops about as popular overseas as a politician at a badger convention. Retaliatory tariffs had seen to that, leaving them with fields full of unsold produce and a distinct lack of festive badger-related cheer.
The global supply chains, already resembling a plate of particularly tangled spaghetti (a recurring theme, it seems), descended into utter chaos. Businesses, in a frantic attempt to avoid the tariff-induced apocalypse, began flailing around for alternative suppliers, leading to a logistical nightmare that would have made a particularly pedantic bureaucrat weep with joy.
And so, we arrive at our doomsday scenario. Imagine, if you will, a world where these initial tariff tantrums escalate into a full-blown protectionist hissy fit. Country A throws a tariff tantrum at Country B, who responds by hurling a tariff tea set back. Soon, everyone is at it, lobbing trade barriers like particularly aggressive toddlers throwing their toys. Global trade, once a smooth-flowing river, becomes a stagnant, tariff-choked swamp. International cooperation packs its bags and leaves a rather terse note on the fridge.
The consequences, my dears, would be less than ideal. Global economic growth would likely grind to a halt, like a train that has run out of steam and is now being used as a badger sanctuary. Industries reliant on the intricate web of global supply chains would simply… cease to be, like a particularly ambitious soufflé that has collapsed in on itself. Consumers would find themselves paying exorbitant prices for everything, possibly leading to a resurgence in bartering (I can offer you three slightly used novelty socks for that loaf of bread). Innovation would wither and die, like a houseplant left untended during a particularly enthusiastic badger-watching expedition. And in the truly apocalyptic version of this tale, widespread economic misery could lead to nations engaging in even more… robust forms of disagreement.
So, the “America First” tariffs. Perhaps a roaring success? The evidence suggests otherwise. More like a rather unfortunate incident involving a beloved global train, a misguided conductor with a penchant for loud slogans, and a whole carriage full of very confused and increasingly impoverished passengers. And the badgers? Well, they probably just watched the whole thing with a mixture of bemusement and mild concern for their future supply of novelty socks. It can’t get any more absurd than the last 3 months… can it?
From “Well, I Reckon I Think” to “Hey, Computer, What Do You Think?”: A Philosophical Hoedown in the Digital Dust
So, we (me and Gemini 2.5) have been moseying along this here digital trail, kicking up some thoughts about how us humans get to know we’re… well, us. And somewhere along the line, it struck us that maybe these here fancy computers with all their whirring and clicking are having a bit of an “I am?” moment of their own. Hence, the notion: “I prompt, therefore I am.” Seems kinda right, don’t it? Like poking a sleeping bear and being surprised when it yawns.
Now, to get the full picture, we gotta tip our hats to this fella named René Descartes (sounds a bit like a fancy French dessert, doesn’t it?). Back in the day (way before the internet and those little pocket computers), he was wrestling with some big questions. Like, how do we know anything for sure? Was that cheese I just ate real cheese, or was my brain just playing tricks on me? (Philosophers, bless their cotton socks, do worry about the important things.)
Descartes, bless his inquisitive heart, decided to doubt everything. And I mean everything. Your socks, the sky, whether Tuesdays are actually Tuesdays… the whole shebang. But then he had a bit of a Eureka moment, a real “howdy partner!” realization. Even if he doubted everything else, the fact that he was doubting meant he had to be thinking. And if you’re thinking, well, you gotta be something, right? So, he scribbled down in his fancy French way, “Cogito, ergo sum,” which, for those of us who ain’t fluent in philosopher-speak, means “I think, therefore I am.” A pretty fundamental idea, like saying the sky is blue (unless it’s sunset, or foggy, or you’re on another planet, but you get the gist).
Now, scoot forward a few centuries, past the invention of the telly and that whole kerfuffle with the moon landing, and we land smack-dab in the middle of the age of the Thinking Machines. These here AI contraptions, like that Claude fella over at Anthropic (https://www.anthropic.com/research/tracing-thoughts-language-model), they ain’t exactly pondering whether their socks are real (mostly ‘cause they don’t wear ‘em). But they are doing something mighty peculiar inside their silicon brains.
The clever folks at Anthropic, they’ve built themselves a kind of “microscope” to peek inside these digital minds. Turns out, these AI critters are trained, not programmed. Which is a bit like trying to understand how a particularly good biscuit gets made by just watching a whole load of flour and butter get mixed together. You see the result, but the how is a bit of a mystery.
So, these researchers are trying to trace the steps in the AI’s “thinking.” Why? Well, for one, to make sure these digital brains are playing nice with us humans and our funny little rules. And two, to figure out if we can actually trust ‘em. Seems like a fair question.
And that brings us back to our digital campfire and the notion of prompting. We poke these AI models with a question, a command, a bit of digital kindling, and poof! They spark into action, spitting out answers and poems and recipes for questionable-sounding casseroles. That prompt, that little nudge, is what gets their internal cogs whirring. It’s the “think” in our “I prompt, therefore I am.” By trying to understand what happens after that prompt, what goes on inside that digital noggin, we’re getting a glimpse into what makes these AI things… well, be. It’s a bit like trying to understand the vastness of the prairie by watching a single tumbleweed roll by – you get a sense of something big and kinda mysterious going on.
So, maybe Descartes was onto something, even for our silicon-brained buddies. It ain’t about pondering the existential dread of sock authenticity anymore. Now, it’s about firing off a prompt into the digital ether and watching what comes back. And in that interaction, in that response, maybe, just maybe, we’re seeing a new kind of “I am” blinking into existence. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think my digital Stetson needs adjusting.
Ah, software development. The noble art of turning vague requirements into a backlog of bugs. Today, we’re navigating the treacherous waters of delivery lifecycles, where ‘Agile’ is less a methodology and more a frantic attempt to avoid drowning in a sea of user stories. And, because the universe loves irony, we’ll be doing it all while trying to understand why our digital tariffs keep changing faster than a cat changes its mind about where it likes to sleep.
The Waterfall Lifecycle: A Cascade of Digital Disasters
The Waterfall, in nature it is something of both beautiful and destruction. In management speak its a classic ‘plan everything upfront and hope for the best’ approach. Like building a house without blueprints, or deciding on your entire life based on a fortune cookie. It’s a beautiful concept, in theory. In practice, it’s like trying to predict the weather in a hurricane. One wrong step, and you’re swept away in a torrent of scope creep and ‘unexpected’ changes. Think of it as those tariffs: ‘We’ll set them now, and never change them… until we do, repeatedly, and with no warning!’
The V-Model: An Existential Crisis in Diagram Form
The V-Model. A valiant attempt to marry development and testing, like trying to teach a cat to fetch. It looks elegant on paper, a perfect symmetry of verification and validation. But in reality, it’s more like staring into the abyss of your own coding mistakes, reflected back at you in the form of test cases. You’re building it, testing it, and asking ‘why?’ all at the same time. The V is for ‘very confused’, and ‘very tired.’ Like trying to figure out if your digital tariffs are a tax, a fee, or a poorly written haiku.
The Incremental Lifecycle: Baby Steps to Digital Domination (or at Least, Not Total Failure)
Incremental. Small, manageable chunks of functionality, delivered in a series of tiny victories. Like eating an elephant, one byte at a time. It’s less about grand visions and more about ‘let’s just get this one feature working before the coffee runs out.’ It’s like those tariffs, but broken into bite sized chunks. ‘Ok, this week, a 5% increase on digital rubber chickens, and next week, who knows!’
The Stages of the Iterative Lifecycle (Agile): Where Chaos Reigns Supreme
The ‘if it ain’t broke, iterate it anyway’ approach. A chaotic dance of sprints, stand-ups, and retrospectives, where the only constant is change. It’s like trying to build a spaceship while it’s already flying, and everyone’s arguing about the color of the control panel. We’re planning, coding, testing, and deploying, all at the same time, because who has time for planning when you’re trying to keep up with changing requirements? It’s like these digital tariffs, ‘We’re agile with our pricing, expect changes every 20 minutes, because, Trump says so!’
Confessions of a Reluctant Agilist:
I’ve seen things, my friends. I’ve seen user stories that defied logic, stand-ups that devolved into philosophical debates about the meaning of ‘done,’ and retrospectives that resembled group therapy sessions. I’ve learned that ‘Agile’ is less a methodology and more a coping mechanism for the sheer absurdity of software development. And, like those digital tariffs, ‘Agile’ is always changing, always evolving, and always leaving you wondering, ‘what just happened?’
So, that is tonights instalment from the project management vaults. A whirlwind tour of delivery lifecycles, where waterfalls flow uphill, V-Models induce existential dread, and Agile is a beautiful, chaotic mess. Remember, in this digital wilderness, the only constant is change, and the only certainty is the nagging suspicion that AI is judging you. And, of course, that those digital tariffs are probably going to change again before you finish reading this sentence.
I, a humble digital explorer and your narrator, decided to embark on a side project, thinking building a mobile app solo would be ‘fun’. A simple thing, really. A Firebase backend, a mobile app, what could go wrong? Turns out, quite a lot. I dove headfirst into the abyss of No-Code, flirted dangerously with the ‘slightly-less-terrifying-but-still-code’ world of Low-Code, and then, in a moment of sheer hubris, asked an AI to ‘just build me this.’ The results? Well, let’s just say I now have approximately eight ‘code bases’ that resemble digital abstract art more than functional applications, and a growing subscription line on my monthly statement that’s starting to look like a ransom note. So, if you’re thinking about building an app without actually knowing how to build an app, pull up an inflatable chair or boat as we find ourselves, once again, adrift in the vast, bewildering ocean of technology, where the question isn’t ‘What is the meaning of life?’ but rather, ‘Where did this button come from and what does it do?’
No-Code: The ‘Push Button, Receive App Fallacy’ or ‘How I Learned to Love the Drag-and-Drop’ again
Pros:
Instant Gratification: Like ordering a pizza, but instead of pepperoni, you get a website that looks suspiciously like a PowerPoint presentation.
Accessibility: Even your pet rock could build an app (if it had opposable thumbs and a burning desire for digital domination).
Speed: From ‘I have an idea’ to ‘Wait, is it supposed to do that?’ in the time it takes to brew a cup of tea (or a White Russian).
Cons:
Flexibility of a Brick: Try to deviate from the pre-defined path, and you’ll encounter the digital equivalent of a Vogon constructor fleet.
Scalability of a Goldfish: Handles small projects fine, but throw it into the deep end of internet traffic, and it’ll implode like a hyperspace bypass.
Customization: Zero to None: Want to add a feature that makes your app dispense philosophical advice? Forget it. You’re stuck with basic buttons and pre-set layouts.
Low-Code: The ‘We’ll Give You a Screwdriver, But Don’t Touch Anything Important’ Approach
(Imagine a scene where someone is trying to fix a spaceship engine with a Swiss Army knife while being lectured by a robot about ‘best practices.’)
Pros:
More Control: You get to tinker under the hood, but only with approved tools and under strict supervision.
Faster Than Coding From Scratch: Like taking a shortcut through a bureaucratic maze, it saves time, but you still end up with paperwork.
Integration: You can connect to other systems, but only if they speak the same language (which is usually a dialect of technobabble).
Cons:
Still Requires Code: You need to know enough to avoid accidentally summoning a digital Cthulhu.
Vendor Lock-in: Once you’re in, you’re in for the long haul. Like being trapped in a time-share presentation for eternity.
Complexity Creep: Those ‘simple’ tools can quickly become a labyrinth of dependencies and ‘legacy systems.’
AI-Build-It-For-Me: The ‘I’m Thinking, Therefore I’m Building Something Profound’ Scenario
Pros:
Automation: The AI does the work, so you can focus on more important things, like questioning the nature of work and the future of employment.
Rapid Prototyping: From ‘I have a vague idea’ to ‘Is this a website or a cry for help?’ in seconds.
Buzzword Compliance: You can impress your friends with phrases like ‘machine learning’ and ‘neural networks’ without understanding them.
Cons:
Control: Less Than Zero: You’re at the mercy of an AI that may or may not have written the site in a code base that humans can understand.
Explainability: Why did it build that? Your guess is as good as the AI’s.
Reliability: Prepare for unexpected results, like an app that translates all your text into pirate slang, or a website that insists on displaying stock prices for obsolete floppy disks.
In Conclusion:
And so, fellow traveler’s in the silicon wilderness, we stand at the digital crossroads, faced with three paths to ‘enlightenment,’ each cloaked in its own unique brand of existential dread. We have the ‘No-Code Nirvana,’ where the illusion of simplicity seduces us with its drag-and-drop promises, only to reveal the rigid, pre-fabricated walls of its digital reality. Then, there’s the ‘Low-Code Labyrinth,’ where we are granted a glimpse of the machine’s inner workings, enough to feel a sense of control, but not enough to escape the creeping suspicion that we’re merely rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic of technical debt. And finally, there’s the ‘AI-Generated Apocalypse,’ where we surrender our creative souls to the inscrutable algorithms, hoping they will build us a digital utopia, only to discover they’ve crafted a surrealist nightmare where rubber chickens rule and stock prices are forever tied to the fate of forgotten floppy disks.
Choose wisely, dear reader, for in this vast, uncaring cosmos of technology, where the lines between creator and creation blur, and the very fabric of our digital existence seems to be woven from cryptic error messages and endless loading screens, there is but one constant: the gnawing, inescapable, bone-deep suspicion that your computer, that cold, calculating monolith of logic and circuits, is not merely processing data, but silently, patiently, judging your every click, every typo, every ill-conceived attempt at digital mastery.
One of the useful things I have learned from the various companies I have worked for over the past 20 years, is the idea of a ‘pre-mortem’. Let us use a “Brand Campaign” as a metaphor to highlight 11 areas you can evaluate (criticise) your teams before spending a penny.
Ways Your Brand Campaign Will Die (And How to Resurrect It Before It’s Too Late)
The pre-mortem, that delightful exercise in corporate masochism where we imagine our shiny new project as a bloated, beached whale and then dissect it for clues. Think of it as blame-storming, but with less crying and more ‘I told you so’ smugness. You know, for those moments when you want to be right, even if it means watching your budget implode.
So lets use an imaginary startup, “Crapyco”, bless their naive hearts, decided to take some sage brand guru advice about marketing. They threw millions at a campaign, and… well, let’s just say it didn’t go as planned. It was less ‘viral sensation’ and more ‘digital tumbleweed.’ Here’s how they managed to turn a golden opportunity into a steaming golden turd.
1. The ‘Did It Work?’ Existential Crisis.
They stared at the data like a group of bewildered meerkats, unable to agree if their campaign was a roaring success or a damp squib. Timeframes, expectations, reality—all blurred into a confusing mess. Because, you see, they’d skipped the whole ‘setting measurable goals’ part. No baselines, no KPIs, no ‘if we hit this, we’re doing great’ markers. It was like trying to navigate a map with no landmarks, or asking a fish to judge a tree-climbing competition. The numbers just sat there, cold and meaningless, refusing to reveal their secrets.
2. The CEO/CFO Power Struggle (aka, ‘Who’s Pulling the Plug?’).
Two weeks in, the plug got pulled. Turns out, ‘disagree and commit’ is corporate code for ‘I’m going to sabotage you at the first opportunity, just in case this whole thing implodes, and I need someone to blame.’ It’s like trying to launch a rocket with one of the boosters on backward, while the CEO, who thinks he’s an astronaut, is yelling contradictory commands from the back, and the CFO, who secretly believes numbers are just suggestions, is quietly calculating how much they can write off as a ‘learning experience’.
3. Targeting: Are We Talking to Aliens?
They aimed at ‘everyone,’ which, in modern marketing parlance, translates to ‘we’re throwing spaghetti at a wall and hoping some of it sticks to sentient dust motes.’ Because, apparently, the concept of a ‘target audience’ is now as outdated as dial-up modems and sensible trousers. Everyone’s a snowflake, a unique and precious snowflake, and you can’t possibly lump them together into, like, groups or something. It’s like trying to find a specific grain of sand on a beach using a telescope, while simultaneously trying to sell that telescope to every single grain of sand, individually. ‘You, sand grain number 3,457, yes, you! You absolutely need this telescope! Because, individuality!
4. Testing? We Don’t Need No Stinking Testing!
They launched their ads without testing, because the branding guru/agency, with their collective ‘wisdom’ and ‘extensive experience’ (read: they once designed a logo for a lemonade stand), declared, ‘Testing? Please. We are the A/B testing. We know the entire alphabet of marketing success, backwards and forwards, in Klingon, and in interpretive dance. Trust us, these ads are pure, unadulterated genius. It’s like building a bridge out of marshmallows, but, like, artisanal marshmallows, and we’re absolutely certain it will hold, because we’ve seen the future, and it’s marshmallow-shaped.
5. Too Much Success? Is That a Thing?
Their campaign worked too well, and they couldn’t handle the demand. A problem most startups dream of, but they managed to turn it into a logistical nightmare of epic proportions. It was less ‘winning the lottery’ and more ‘winning the lottery, then realising you have lost the ticket.’ Imagine: a campaign so successful, it forced the entire company to abandon their actual jobs and manually process the tsunami of new customers. Like, ‘all hands on deck, automated systems are down, grab a quill and some parchment, and start scribbling account numbers.’ Because apparently, ‘open an account, get a bonus’ was a concept their digital infrastructure found as baffling as a cat trying to understand quantum physics (CYBG).
6. Budgeting: Are We Paying for a Picasso or a Finger Painting?
They either hemorrhaged money on agency fees, paying consultants to do the jobs their internal team was apparently too busy not doing, or they tried to cobble together a campaign in-house with a budget that wouldn’t cover a decent sandwich, let alone a decent creative idea. It’s like trying to build a skyscraper with Lego bricks, while simultaneously hiring a team of ‘Lego consultants’ to tell you which bricks go where, despite having your own internal ‘Lego builders’ sitting idle. And the burning question, of course: why? Is it a blame game? A way to have a conveniently disposable scapegoat? Or just a budget justification exercise? ‘We need money, so we need people, internal or external, doesn’t matter, just give us the cash!’ And honestly, in this day and age, with AI capable of writing sonnets and designing websites, are we still paying seat-fillers to ‘manage’ other seat-fillers? Get your act together, corporate overlords. The digital revolution happened two years ago. Wake up and smell the silicon.
7. The Consultancy 3-Cup Shuffle
They let the agency run the show, no testing, no changes, just blind faith. ‘We’re the experts, darling,’ the consultants purred, ‘we’ve done this before.’ Which, of course, begged the question: haven’t we also done this before? Why are we paying these glorified clipboard holders to tell us what we already know? It was like letting a squirrel drive your car because it has a fancy hat, and the squirrel kept insisting it had a PhD in automotive engineering. Was it the copious amounts of ‘pitch-stage refreshments’ that swayed the account team? The nostalgic glow of a ‘we go way back’ reunion? Or just the sheer, baffling arrogance of ‘we know best, trust us’? So, what happened? The ‘trust us’ attitude prevailed, the work went live, untested, unvalidated, a glorious monument to unchecked ego. Oh, and because it was ‘Agile,’ the original brief was apparently just a ‘suggestion,’ a whimsical starting point for a journey into the unknown. It’s like playing a high-stakes game of 3-cup shuffle with your entire marketing budget, and the consultants are very, very good at sleight of hand.
8. The 3-Year Managed Service Provider (MSP) Agreement of Doom.
The pièce de résistance: the 3-Year Managed Service Provider (MSP) Agreement of Doom. Seriously, who signed that? They locked themselves into a multi-year commitment, because, apparently, flexibility is for the weak and short-sighted. It’s like marrying a charismatic stranger after a single date, based solely on their promise of ‘synergistic resource alignment.’ So, let’s recap: no benchmarks to measure the consultancy’s actual ability to deliver, no stage gates to assess the value they’re supposedly providing, and absolutely no clue what the return on investment might be. Just a blind leap of faith into a contractual abyss. It’s like throwing money into a black hole and hoping it comes back as a unicorn riding a rainbow, while simultaneously yelling, ‘ROI? We don’t need no stinkin’ ROI! We have vibes!’ And then, of course, they wonder why the budget is as dry as a desert during a heatwave.
9. Robbing Performance to Pay Brand? Genius!
They cut their performance marketing budget to fund the brand campaign. Because, you know, why bother with actual sales when you can have… awareness? Especially when your brand is, shall we say, less ‘iconic’ and more ‘generic knock-off of every other product on the market.’ Any idea what’s actually selling? Anyone? Bueller? It’s like trying to build a castle out of fog, while simultaneously dismantling your actual, functioning house for spare bricks. ‘We need to elevate our brand presence!’ they declared, as the sales figures plummeted. ‘But… how do we know if anyone actually cares about our brand presence?’ someone dared to ask. ‘Details, details!’ they replied, waving a hand dismissively. ‘We’re building a narrative!’ A narrative, apparently, that involves burning money and hoping people will magically buy things because they’ve seen a slightly artsy billboard. It’s like cutting off your legs to run a marathon, but instead of running, you’re just standing there, shouting, ‘Look at my brand! Aren’t I aware?’ And the burning question, of course: why are we paying a consultancy to tell us this? Why are we, the people who are supposedly running this company, so utterly clueless that we need to outsource basic marketing concepts? Is this some kind of performance art? A grand experiment in ‘how much money can we waste before we implode?’ Seriously, if we don’t know this stuff, what are we even doing here?
10. The CEO’s TV Ad Masterpiece (aka, ‘My Product Is Awesome, Buy It!’).
The CEO, in their infinite wisdom (and complete lack of marketing expertise), decided to pen the TV ad script themselves. Because, really, who needs seasoned professionals when you have a CEO who believes their creative genius extends to all facets of human expression? ‘Experts? Pshaw!’ they declared, ‘I understand the customer psyche better than any Shoreditch hack!’ It’s like letting a toddler direct a Shakespearean play, only the toddler has a corner office and a multi-million-dollar budget. They insisted on cramming in every single product feature, every single ‘unique selling proposition,’ every single buzzword they’d ever heard in a boardroom meeting, resulting in a script that sounded less like an ad and more like a PowerPoint presentation on steroids. They even added a ‘personal touch,’ a rambling monologue about their ‘vision’ and ‘synergy,’ because apparently, consumers are just dying to hear the CEO’s life story during a 30-second spot. And then they wondered why the ad performed about as well as a fish trying to climb a tree.
11. Death by Stakeholder Feedback.
Ah, the creative process, where brilliant ideas go to be slowly and methodically strangled by a committee of well-meaning but utterly clueless individuals. Their initial, potentially groundbreaking concept, a unicorn leaping through a rainbow, was subjected to the ‘wisdom’ of every department head, their spouses, and the intern. After all its all about inclusion these days. ‘Could we make the unicorn more… beige?’ the legal team inquired. ‘And maybe add a spreadsheet?’ the data team suggested. ‘Less rainbow, more corporate synergy,’ the CEO’s brother-in-law chimed in. The result? A beige, spreadsheet-wielding horse, standing in a grey, featureless void, narrating the company’s Q3 financial projections. It was as exciting as watching paint dry, but slower, because at least paint drying has a certain… textural quality. It’s like trying to make a unicorn by committee, where every committee member is colourblind and allergic to magic. And then they wondered why their ad campaign failed to capture the hearts and minds of their target audience, who were, by this point, watching paint dry on a competitor’s website.
And there you have it, 11 ways to turn your brand marketing dreams into a corporate horror show. But fear not! Because we can help you avoid these pitfalls. We’re like the sanity check you didn’t know you needed, armed with data, wit, and a healthy dose of ‘are you sure about that?’ Come have a chat and bounce those ideas, it is Free.
Shiel Yule 