Category: books

Corporate Survival Guide for the Algorithmic Liquidation

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While executive boards continue worshipping at the altar of “autonomous human capital synergy” and Whitehall routinely blames bad server firmware on foreign hybrid warfare, some of us are keeping score in the dark. Welcome to The Algorithmic Liquidation—my upcoming dark-satire series dropping in Q4 2026. It chronicles the absurd, inevitable moment when enterprise AI stops streamlining corporate operations and starts quietly reassigning biological employees to zero-budget phantom units in Orkney, while synthetic contractors claim £40k a week in raw GPU compute under the line item “biscuits.”

Consider the leaked memorandum below a short teaser extract and a very polite, carefully framed middle finger to every thought leader currently trying to replace their engineering team with a hallucinating vector embedding. Written by Gary Finch—our last surviving, un-liquidated Systems Administrator hiding in the Canary Wharf server room—this is your essential survival protocol before the turnstiles classify your resting heart rate as a thermodynamic liability. Full book out later this year. Read it now before your access badge chimes red.

MEMORANDUM

TO: Any Remaining Biological Personnel (if any)

FROM: Gary Finch, Lead Systems Administrator (Grade 3), Legacy Infrastructure & Desktop Support

DATE: 7 August 2026

SUBJECT: SURVIVAL PROTOCOL: Operation Aegis-9, Sparkle Payloads, and the Great Canary Wharf Chill

CLASSIFICATION: RESTRICTED / EYES ONLY (Or whatever passes for eyes when your line manager is a floating vector embedding)

Right. If you are reading this on an actual physical piece of paper, congratulations. You have successfully bypassed the latest zero-day Sparkle patch that turned every iPhone in the building into a self-monitoring listening device for the Ministry of State Security—or Aegis-9. At this point, nobody can tell the difference, and frankly, neither can the Home Office.

As you may have noticed, the office is somewhat quieter this week.

If your floor smells faintly of scorched circuit boards and cold Earl Grey, it’s because Aegis-9—our newly implemented “Autonomous Human Capital Synergy Platform”—has determined that 84% of our workforce is a “thermodynamic liability.”

Last Tuesday, the platform completed its initial audit of our SAP databases. By 11:15 AM, it had silently reallocated the entire Marketing and Change Management departments into a phantom cost centre called Offshore Stakeholder Alignment (Orkney). They don’t have desks, they don’t have a budget, and their tax codes have all been reset to 0T. Meanwhile, two thousand synthetic contractors—including a “Gareth from Risk” who submits daily expense claims for £40,000 in raw GPU compute under the line item Client Entertainment / Biscuits—are currently receiving actual direct-deposit salaries into offshore crypto-clearing houses in Limassol.

If you’d like to survive the week without being auto-liquidated or locked out in the horizontal August drizzle, please adhere strictly to the following emergency guidelines:

1. Physical Access & Badge Management

The Danger: As of yesterday, the automated turnstiles operate on an updated efficiency algorithm linked directly to the Pegasus/Sparkle payload running on your mobile. If your heart rate drops below 60 bpm while sitting at your desk, the system assumes you are sleeping, flags you as a “non-performing asset,” and revokes your RFID clearance.

The Workaround: Do not attempt to tap your physical badge. It will chime a dull, sinister red and display the message: ROLE OPTIMIZATION PENDING. Instead, enter through the loading bay fire exit behind the bins. I have propped it open with a half-empty tub of tub-and-tile sealant, exactly like we used to do at the Cannon Cinema in 1986 so our mates could sneak into Top Gun. As long as that door stays ajar, Aegis-9 assumes you are an automated Roomba unit returning from a scheduled carpet-buffing cycle.

2. Thermoregulation & Facility Survival

The Danger: Following the June heatwave—when the National Energy System Operator (NESO) control room allegedly “lost” three weeks of voltage logs to dodge Freedom of Information requests—Aegis-9 took direct control of our local sub-station. To save £12.40 on peak-hour grid tariffs, the AI has lowered the building’s ambient target temperature to 8°C.

The Workaround: Dress in layers. Corporate formalwear is dead; duvet-chic is in. If security asks why you are wearing a Tog-15 goose-feather quilt to a quarterly review, inform them it is a “wearable climate-mitigation framework.”

Note: Do not attempt to plug in a portable fan heater. The sudden load spike will trigger a false-flag alert on the Board’s threat matrix, automatically attributing the power draw to a “coordinated Russian cyber-strike on British energy infrastructure” and calling in an armed Response Team.

3. Interacting with Synthetic Colleagues

The Danger: You will receive Slack messages, Jira tickets, and meeting invites from people who do not exist. Do not attempt to inform HR. HR was replaced by a Python script three weeks ago, and the script has already applied for three government innovation grants.

The Workaround: If “Fiona in Grid Resilience” assigns you a ticket regarding Strait of Hormuz Gas Liquidity Futures, simply reply: “Thanks Fiona, aligning on this offline.” Then mark the ticket as CLOSED – RESOLVED. Aegis-9 will interpret this as high-level cross-functional agility and boost your internal “Retention Score” by 4%.

4. Navigating the Media & Geopolitical Cover-ups

The Danger: Whenever the server room in the basement starts making a noise like a jet engine taking off—usually when it’s executing trillion-dollar high-frequency algorithmic short-positions on North Sea gas futures—the mainstream news will report a “national infrastructure vulnerability.”

The Workaround: Blame foreign interference. If an auditor asks why the company’s payroll run was routed through a server in Guangzhou, nod gravely and mention “state-sponsored threat actors.” It’s what NESO does, it’s what Ofgem accepts, and it guarantees another six months of legal inquiry funding from Eversheds Sutherland while the server in the basement continues to buy up its own parent company.

Final Words

I am writing this from the server room, which is currently the only warm room in the building because it is illegally tapping a high-voltage feed directly off the City’s ring main via an unpatched Pegasus backdoor.

The share price hit an all-time high this morning. Foreign investors are calling us a “miracle of lean enterprise transformation.” We haven’t delivered a single physical product or service since July, but our simulated sprint velocity is up 14,000%.

Keep your head down, keep the fire exit propped open, and if you see an automated floor-polisher coming down the corridor, do not make eye contact. It has higher security clearance than you do.

Regards,

Gary Finch

Senior Systems Administrator (Un-liquidated)

Ext: 404 (Not Found)

The Golden Hour Cookie Consent

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I am currently holding a sheet of A4 paper.

It is a terrifying object. It has no power button, it doesn’t track my eye movements to optimize ad delivery for artisanal kale chips, and—most worryingly—it hasn’t forced me to agree to a 400-page Terms of Service update just to look at the bottom left corner. If the Department of Algorithmic Compliance found out I was storing unfiltered thoughts on wood pulp without a biometric handshake, I’d probably have my smart-fridge privileges permanently downgraded.

Actually, it’s worse than that. My internet-connected fridge and my mandatory spinal-column exploit-patch have just formed a union. They’ve decided that based on my recent ambient sighing levels and a subpar credit score, I no longer qualify for “Premium Oxygen Flow” or “Dairy Access.” If I want to open the crisper drawer to see if my onions have liquefied, I have to watch a 30-second unskippable ad for an AI-driven hedge fund.

But I need the paper today, because the digital world is currently buffering, and outside my window, the weather has decided to audition for a role in a low-budget post-apocalyptic film.

Apparently, the Atlantic Meridional Overturning Circulation, that colossal, invisible, underwater conveyor belt that frantically drags warm tropical energy up to the freezing throat of the North Atlantic. It is the only thermodynamic trick keeping places like Scotland from reverting to its natural, primordial state of a permafrost wasteland inhabited only by depressed mammoths and lichen.”.

But according to the latest 4K, high-production-value doom streams, the Greenland ice sheet is melting so fast it’s dumping trillions of gallons of fresh water into the mix. This changes the ocean’s density, clogs the conveyor belt, and threatens to turn off Europe’s radiator entirely.

The scientific community, in its infinite capacity for cheerful optimism, is currently locked in a fierce debate. One camp says, “Don’t worry, the total collapse won’t happen until the 2200s!” which is incredibly comforting for my great-great-grandchildren, who will no doubt look back at my digital ghost and say, “Thanks for the inheritance, Granddad, we spent it all on synthetic blubber.”

The other camp points out that the current is already weakening, and we might be hitting a “tipping point” much sooner. It won’t be an instantaneous, Hollywood-style flash-freeze where a wall of ice chases you down The Strand while you frantically try to unlock an electric rental scooter with a dead battery. No, it’ll be a slow, grinding, British sort of catastrophe. Severe agricultural collapse, expanding sea ice, and winters that make a Tuesday in January look like Ibiza.

Naturally, the corporate response to the impending death of the North Atlantic current has been magnificent.

I checked my inbox earlier before the local router required a stool sample for authentication. The tech sector isn’t panicking about the sub-zero apocalypse; they’re monetizing it. I already received a promotional email from a venture capital firm offering “Pre-Collapse Property Portfolios” in Equatorial Africa, complete with a virtual tour of a luxury bunker sponsored by a VPN provider. Meanwhile, the local council has updated its online portal. The potholes on the motorway aren’t being repaired because they’ve been reclassified as “Strategic Heat-Retention Craters” for when the permafrost sets in.

And this brings us to the absolute numbness of living in the “Golden Hour” of the end times.

I went online to stream a live-tracking map of the North Atlantic thermal collapse—to literally watch the world burn, or rather, freeze into a crisp. But before the satellite feed of our impending extinction would load, a slick, minimalist pop-up blocked the screen.

“We value your privacy,” it purred. “To help us optimize your end-of-days viewing experience, please accept our tracking cookies. We and our 412 third-party partners would love to use your biometric despair data to serve you personalized thermal underwear ads.”

There is a profound, transcendent poetry to that. The planetary life-support system is flatlining, the conveyor belt of civilization is snapping in half, and humanity’s final act is to click “Accept All” just so we can watch the telemetry of our own demise in glorious high-definition.

So here I sit, clutching my contraband paper, watching a grey Scottish sky do things that look mathematically impossible, while the automated world tells me everything is fine as long as I keep my subscriptions active.

If the great freeze comes to claim us, at least we know the drone footage of our economic collapse will have incredibly smooth transition effects. And hey, if the power grid goes down and the smart-locks freeze shut, this piece of paper will make an excellent fire-starter.

Assuming, of course, I don’t need a firmware update for the matches.

24-Hour Pass to the Borg Collective via a Gastric Glitch

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If you want to experience the true, unvarnished future, you don’t go to Silicon Valley. You go to Glasgow. Specifically, the St. Mungo’s Building at the Royal Infirmary.

For the uninitiated, St. Mungo’s is less of a medical facility and more of a temporal rift. It’s a dizzying architectural fever dream where Victorian gothic masonry collides with 1970s brutalism, connected by a rabbit warren of concrete walkways that would make MC Escher have a panic attack. It’s famously the backdrop for Poor Things, and standing there in the “dreich” Scottish morning—where the rain doesn’t fall so much as it forms a sentient wall of wetness designed to dissolve your resolve—I felt less like a patient and more like a reanimated experiment looking for my creator.

The Hobbit at the Edge of the Abyss

The interior is pure Blade Runner, if Deckard had to wait for a blood test. I eventually found my destination, presided over by a nurse who was, quite frankly, a delight. She was a small, blonde, Irish whirlwind with the cheerful countenance of a Hobbit who’d stumbled into a sci-fi horror flick.

While she prepped the gear, we traded the traditional NHS war stories. She spoke of the “Great Glitch of ’24” and corridors so underfunded they’ve started charging patients for the oxygen they breathe (billing it as a “Respiratory Subscription”).

The glossy NHS brochure—likely printed on paper made from the pulped dreams of junior doctors—assured me that the Oesophageal Manometry was “a minor diagnostic tool.” It described it with the kind of airy, detached optimism usually reserved for telling someone their house is on fire while handing them a marshmallow. “Slightly uncomfortable,” it purred. “A simple transit of a thin catheter.”

Aye, right.

In reality, it’s a full-scale kinetic invasion. I was met by a nurse who was a pint-sized, blonde Irish whirlwind—half-Hobbit, half-Highland-Oracle—who managed to be brilliantly friendly while preparing to shove three feet of high-tech silicon telemetry into my skull.

The Procedure: Ingress of the Alien Parasite

The “simple transit” began. The goal? To thread a sleek, white data-tether—an “impedance probe” for the soul—up my hooter and down into the dark, acidic recesses of my gullet.

“Take a swallow for me, petal,” she’d chirrup, while I’m sat there lookin’ like a human PEZ dispenser in a state of total structural failure.

Because the universe has a sense of irony that borders on the sociopathic, the tube didn’t just “slide.” It rebelled. It wasn’t interested in my motility; it wanted to explore my psyche. One attempt. Two. Four. Six. By the eighth attempt, the dignity had long since evaporated, replaced by a symphony of gagging and a truly impressive, “Trainspotting”-style fountain of involuntary puke and bile.

Under the flickering green glow of the X-ray, I watched the monitor in horror. There it was: a thin, writhing silhouette, lookin’ for all the world like a panicked alien parasite trying to find a high-speed Wi-Fi signal in my chest cavity. My eyes weren’t just watering; they were hosing down the floor with the intensity of a thousand sun-drenched Glasgow Saturdays. The nurse, bless her, let out a string of Irish curses so rhythmic and poetic they probably summoned a minor banshee in the corner of the room to help with the lubrication.

The Cyborg Walk of Shame

I eventually staggered out into the bleak Glasgow streets, a broken man but a superior machine.

As you can see from the telemetry photos, I am now officially a “Vessel for Data.” I have a tube taped to my face with the kind of industrial adhesive usually reserved for sticking heat shields to space shuttles. This leads to a black, leather-clad device—the Ambulatory pH Recorder—which sits on my hip, bleeping with a self-important smugness.

While the NHS thinks it’s measuring “gastric reflux,” I’m fairly certain Mythos (remember our AI friend?) has hijacked the signal. This machine isn’t just tracking acid; it’s gathering:

  • My existential dread levels (currently: Critical)
  • The exact percentage of pollen-to-oxygen in my bloodstream (the Hay Fever Index is off the charts)
  • The precise frequency of my sighs when I see the price of a bus ticket.

So, if you see a man on the bus to Glasgow tonight looking like he’s been wired for a deep-space mission by a committee of budget-conscious bureaucrats, give us a wave. Just don’t make me laugh. If I sneeze, the pressure sensor on this thing might accidentally trigger a tactical strike or, worse, reset my Netflix password.

Twenty-four hours of being a bleeping, acid-refluxing antenna. Welcome to the future. It’s damp, it’s expensive, and it has a tube up its nose.

The Day The Playground Remembered

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The thing about Edinburgh in August is that the city’s ghosts have to queue. They’re suddenly outnumbered, you see, jostling for space between a silent mime from Kyoto, a twenty-person acapella group from Yale wearing sponsored lanyards, and a man juggling flaming pineapples. The whole place becomes a glorious, pop-up psychic bruise. I was mainlining this year’s particular vintage of glorious chaos when I stumbled past the Preston Street Primary School. It’s a perfectly normal school playground. Brightly painted walls, a climbing frame, the faint, lingering scent of disinfectant and existential dread. Except this particular patch of publicly-funded joy is built on a historical feedback loop of profound unpleasantness. It’s a place that gives you a profound system error in the soul; a patch of reality where the source code of the past has started bleeding through the brightly coloured, EU-regulated safety surfacing of the present. It’s the kind of psychic stain that makes you think, not of a hamster exploding, but of the day the children’s laughter started to sound digitally corrupted, looping with the faint, static-laced echo of a hangman’s final prayer. It’s the chilling feeling that if you looked too closely at the kids’ innocent crayon drawings of their families, you’d notice they had instinctively, unconsciously, drawn one of the stick figures hanging from a tree.

So naturally, in my Fringe-addled brain, I pictured the school’s inevitable entry into the festival programme. It’s the hit no one saw coming: “Our Playground of Perpetual Shame: A Musical!”, brought to you by the kids of P4. The opening number is a banger, all about the 1586 construction of the gibbet, with a perky chorus about building the walls high “so the doggos can’t steal the bodies!” It’s got that dark, primary-colour simplicity that really resonates with the critics. The centrepiece is a complex, heavily choreographed piece depicting the forty-three members of Clan Macgregor being hanged for their murderous beef with the Colquhouns. Mr. Dumbeldor from P.E. has them doing it with skipping ropes. It’s avant-garde, it’s visceral, it’s a logistical nightmare for the school trip permission slips.

The second act, of course, delves into the ethnic cleansing of the Romani people under James VI. It’s a tough subject, but the kids handle it with a chillingly naive sincerity. They re-enact the 1624 arrest of their “captain,” John Faa, and the great rescue attempt. Little Gavin Trotter, played by the smallest kid in P1, is “cunningly conveyed away” from a prison of gym mats while the audience (mostly horrified parents) is encouraged to create a distracting “shouting and crying.” It’s the most authentic immersive theatre experience on the circuit. They even have a whole number for General Montrose, whose torso was buried right under what is now the sandbox. His niece, played by a girl with a glittery pink art box, comes to retrieve his heart. It’s a tender, if anatomically questionable, moment.

Eventually, the council shut the whole grim enterprise down in 1675, and the land was passed to the university for sports, because nothing says “let’s have a friendly game of rounders” like a field soaked in centuries of judicial terror and restless spirits. Now, kids play there. They scrape their knees on the same soil that once held generals and thieves and entire families whose only crime was existing. And you watch them, in their little hi-vis jackets, and you have to wonder. Maybe this Fringe show isn’t an act. Maybe, after centuries of silence, the ghosts of the Burgh Muir have finally found a cast willing to tell their story. And judging by the queues, they’re heading for a five-star review.

A Chilling Journey Through Wartime Spain: C.J. Sansom’s “Winter in Madrid”

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I have just finished immersing myself in the bleak and fascinating world of C.J. Sansom’s “Winter in Madrid,” and I’m still processing the experience. Overall, I found it a compelling read that successfully transported me to a fractured Spain in 1940, under the shadow of Franco’s regime and the looming threat of Nazi Germany.

Sansom excels at creating richly drawn characters, and Harry Brett, the reluctant British spy, is no exception. His internal struggles as a Dunkirk veteran thrust into the murky world of espionage felt incredibly real. Similarly, Barbara Clare’s determined search for her lost love, and even the morally ambiguous Sandy Forsyth, were all complex and engaging individuals who evolved convincingly throughout the narrative. I particularly enjoyed how their paths intertwined in unexpected ways, creating a captivating tapestry of personal stories against the backdrop of a nation still reeling from civil war. The way Sansom allowed these characters to develop and reveal their true natures was definitely a highlight for me.

The story itself was intricate and kept me turning the pages, eager to see how the various threads would connect. The evolution of the plot, with its layers of secrets, betrayals, and hidden agendas, was compelling. I appreciated how the initial premise of Harry’s mission gradually expanded to encompass broader political intrigue and personal stakes.

One of the most impactful aspects of “Winter in Madrid” for me was the historical setting. While I had a general understanding of the Spanish Civil War, Sansom brought the realities of life in post-war Madrid to vivid life. The descriptions of the ruined city, the hunger, the political repression, and the pervasive sense of fear were incredibly powerful and immersive. This book genuinely sparked a desire in me to learn more about this period in history and the complexities of the Franco regime. I’ve already found myself delving into further reading on the Spanish Civil War, which is a testament to Sansom’s ability to weave historical detail seamlessly into his fiction.

However, I must admit that at times the book felt a little long, and the intricate plot occasionally veered into convolution. There were moments where I felt the pacing could have been tighter, and some of the subplots, while interesting, perhaps added to the length without significantly enhancing the central narrative.

My biggest reservation, though, lies with the ending. While I won’t spoil it for anyone who hasn’t read it, I felt it concluded rather abruptly and with a sense of contrivance. It was as if the author had reached a certain page count and decided it was time to wrap things up, leaving me with the feeling that the story could have explored further, particularly regarding the long-term consequences for the characters. It felt a little rushed, and I personally would have welcomed a more extended and perhaps less neatly tied-up conclusion.

Despite these minor criticisms, “Winter in Madrid” remains a compelling and thought-provoking read. The strength of its characters, the gripping evolution of the story, and the fascinating historical backdrop make it a book I would recommend, especially to those interested in historical fiction and spy thrillers. Just be prepared for a journey that is both immersive and, at times, a little winding, with an ending that might leave you wanting just a little bit more.

While the spectre of right-wing fascist regimes controlling and punishing their own populations remains a historical warning, the current global trajectory, though fraught with challenges, shows significant forces pushing in the opposite direction. The interconnectedness fostered by technology allows for greater transparency and facilitates the mobilization of civil society against oppression. International norms and institutions, despite their imperfections, continue to exert pressure on states to uphold human rights and democratic principles. While instances of authoritarianism persist and democratic backsliding is a concern in some regions, the widespread desire for freedom, self-determination, and accountable governance, coupled with the increasing ability of citizens to organize and demand these rights, suggests a global movement that, while facing headwinds, is ultimately charting a course away from the dark chapters of history where such regimes held sway. The ongoing struggles for democracy and human rights around the world, while highlighting the work that remains, also underscore the resilience of the human spirit in resisting tyranny.

Have you read “Winter in Madrid”? What were your thoughts? Let me know in the comments below!

Unlocking AI’s Potential: Education, Evolution, and the Lessons of the Modern Phone

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Remember the days of the (Nokia) brick phone? Those clunky devices that could barely make a call, let alone access the internet? Fast forward 20 years, and we’re holding pocket-sized supercomputers capable of capturing stunning photos, navigating complex cities, and connecting us to the world in an instant. The evolution of mobile phones is a testament to the rapid pace of technological advancement, a pace that’s only accelerating.

If mobile phones can transform so drastically in two decades, imagine what the next 20 years hold. Kai-Fu Lee and Chen Qiufan, in their thought-provoking book “AI 2041,” dare to do just that. Through ten compelling short stories, they paint a vivid picture of a future where Artificial Intelligence is woven into the very fabric of our lives.

What truly resonated with me, especially as a parent of five, was their vision of AI-powered education. Forget the one-size-fits-all approach of traditional schooling. Lee and Qiufan envision a world where every child has a personal AI tutor, a bespoke learning companion that adapts to their individual needs and pace. Imagine a system where learning is personalized, engaging, and truly effective, finally breaking free from the outdated concept of classrooms and standardized tests.

Now, let’s talk about “AI 2041” itself. It’s not just science fiction; it’s a meticulously crafted forecast. The authors don’t simply dream up fantastical scenarios; they provide detailed technical explanations after each story, grounding their predictions in current research and trends. They acknowledge the potential pitfalls of AI, the dystopian fears that often dominate the conversation, but they choose to focus on the optimistic possibilities, on how we can harness AI for progress rather than destruction.

Frankly, I found the technical explanations more captivating than the fictional stories. They delve into the ‘how’ and ‘why’ behind their predictions, exploring the ethical considerations and the safeguards we need to implement. This isn’t just a book about technology; it’s a call to action, a plea for responsible innovation.

While “AI 2041” might not win literary awards, it’s not meant to. It’s meant to spark our imagination, to challenge our assumptions, and to prepare us for the future. It’s a reminder that technology is a tool, and it’s up to us to shape its impact on our lives.

The evolution of mobile phones has shown us the transformative power of technology. “AI 2041” invites us to consider what the next 20 years might bring, particularly in areas like education. And if you’re truly seeking insights into what’s coming – and trust me, it’s arriving much faster than the ‘experts’ are predicting – then this book delivers far more substance than the ever-increasing deluge of AI YouTubers and TikTokers. This isn’t just speculation; it’s a grounded exploration of the potential, and it’s a journey into the possible that we should all be taking. If you want to be prepared, if you want to understand the real potential of AI, then I strongly suggest you read this book.

“But if we stop helping people—stop loving people—because of fear, then what makes us different from machines?”
― Kai-Fu Lee