A Madcap World

Stanley, The Promethean, Kindle, 2017.

A madcap world filled with madcap characters. A godforsaken English village called Tussock’s Bottom where the favorite drink is a kind of beer affectionately known as Old Stinker. A Christminster (i.e Oxford) Don named Habbakuk McWrath who is an expert on Extreme Celtic Studies and likes nothing better than a good old fashioned brawl of the kind his wild ancestors used to engage in. A British prime minister named Terry Carter, leader of the Conservative Democrats (ConDems, for short). Modelled on a real former prime minister whose name I shall not spell out, he is “a consummate liar and cheap publicity seeker, cravenly addicted to the latest media opinion polls and the number of his ‘likes’ on Facebook and Twitter, perpetually grinning, and with no sincere beliefs about anything except his own importance.” A highly polished French intellectual named Marcel Choux (cabbage) who has declared war on truth—yes, truth—as an instrument of racism, repression, discrimination and a whole series of similar bad things. And who, instead of being sent to the loony bin, is worshipped by the students and faculty of the London School of Politics (aka of Economics and Political Science) who have invited him to receive a prize and give a lecture.

Into this world steps Harry Hockenheimer, a young American billionaire who made his fortune by helping women satisfy their vanity when looking into a mirror. Now 39 years old, happily married to Lulu-Belle who does not make too many demands on him, he has reached the point where he is simply bored with life. Casting around for something significant to do, he hits on the idea of building a robot sufficiently human-like in terms of appearance, behavior and mental abilities to act as a factotum to anyone with the money to buy or rent it. To keep things secret, the decision is made to design and produce the prototype robot not in Hockenheimer’s native California but in Tussock’s Bottom. There he has his assistant set up a high-tech household where everything, from shopping through cleaning to regulating the temperature, is done by computers. At one point Hockenheimer returns to his home away from home only to find that mice, by gnawing on the cables and defecating on them, have turned it in a complete, dirty and smelly, mess. That, however, is a minor glitch soon corrected by a very willing elderly lady armed with a whirlwind of dusters, mops, polishers, sprays, buckets, and  similar kinds of mundane, but highly effective, equipment

Approaching completion the robot is christened Frank Meadows, as inoffensive a name as they come. He also goes through a number of tests that highlight his phenomenal memory as well as his ability to remember, articulate and do anything a human can, only much better and much faster. Meadows starts his career by visiting the local pub where he plays darts with his fellow visitors and wins the game hands down. Next he deals with an obnoxious policeman who, having attacked him, ends up in a muddy ditch and is subsequently fired from the force. He takes part in a TV show called A Laugh a Minute whose host, Jason Blunt, “a flabby stupid, greedy, and arrogant exhibitionist with a chip on both shoulders” ends up by physically attacking Frank and, for his pains, is dumped back into his seat like a sack of potatoes. He spends many hours listening to Hockenheimer who does his best to explain to him the way the world works. He… but I will not spoil the story by telling you how it ends. Nor will I let you have the author’s real name and identity; that is something you will have to find out for yourself.

Amidst all this political correctness, inclusionism, identitarianism, and any number of similar modern ideas are mercilessly exposed not just for the nonsense they are but for the way their exponents bully anyone who does not join them. All to the accompaniment of jokes, puns, wordplay and double entendres such as only Brits seem able to come up with. To be sure, Stanley is no Jane Austin and does not even pretend to trace the development of character the way great novelists do. However, almost any page of this book you may pick up will either make you helpless with laughter or, at the very least, bring an ironic smile to your face. Get it and spend a couple of hours—it is not very long—reading it from cover to cover. I promise you you will not be disappointed.

Last Week I Cleaned My House

Last week I cleaned my house. And tomorrow I shall clean it again. As I do every Friday morning.

When my wife goes to the pool, that is, so neither of us will get in the other’s way. I start by sweeping the steps in front of the house (a townhouse, incidentally) taking care not to touch the flower bed. Next I go upstairs, vacuum the carpets, shake them a few times, and leave them hanging out of the window. Having moved aside various objects—chairs, coat racks, dustbins, etc—I vacuum the floor and wipe it with a wet rag. To make sure the rag is clean, I periodically put it in a pail full of water, take it out, and squeeze it until it stops dripping. That done, I take up paper towels and dust the furniture with two different liquids. One for wood, the other for glass. Then I go downstairs and repeat the procedure, more or less.

{C721AB0D-2625-44AA-B159-333C1B95E73A}_450I have tried out some of the floor-sweeping robots available for sale today. None can do what I really need, which is to clean my rugs. Rugs that have tassels, mind you. Even if they could, I still would have to take the rugs out to the balcony so as to allow me to reach the stone tiles of the floor.

To be sure, I could vacuum the rugs first and take them out, leaving the robot to do the rest. Since the robot is rather slow, though, the entire operation would take considerably longer than it does today. I would find myself spending hours alternately getting up and sitting down to move rugs now here, now there. Furthermore, the robot could not wipe stains off the floor, as I do. Nor, that accomplished, could it take the rugs and put them back in their place.           

So what is the problem, someone would say? Throw away your rugs and install wall to wall carpeting. However, in a hot climate such as ours here in Israel carpets are hardly the ideal solution. Not to mention the fact that, compared with a carpeted room, a tiled one can be really cleaned.

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There are plenty of other things around the house robots cannot do either. Such as cleaning bathrooms with their taps and showers. Or making a bed. Or laying a table. Or taking away the plates and the cutlery after the meal. Or putting them into their place after the dishwasher has finished cleaning them. Or disposing of leftovers by moving them into smaller containers (the refrigerator only has limited capacity, doesn’t it?). Let alone cook one percent as well as my wife does.

With the exception of the last, all these are simple tasks anyone could do, they say. Tasks that do not require thought, they say. That is true enough; actually the fact that they do not require thought is one reason why I like doing them as much as I do. Once you get used to the work it is done almost automatically, allowing thought to roam where it will. A bit like runners’ high for old professors, I suppose.

Work that proceeds almost automatically without requiring thought? If so, why can’t robots do it? Hardly a day passes without us being told, not once but a thousand times over, that super-intelligent robots are coming. They are going to take over from us, making us superfluous. Should we try to stand in their way, they may even gird their loins—imagine a robot doing that—make war on us, destroy our species, and inherit the earth. Yet the same robots cannot do what my eleven year old grandson does easily enough—lay a table the way it should be laid?

As the example of the dishwasher shows, the problem is not to build machines capable of taking the place of humans in this or that capacity. That has been done for thousands of years past; at least, say, since the first water- or wind driven mill took the place of the hand-operated grindstones of old. Nor do I doubt that machines will take over additional tasks in the future. The problem, rather, is to have machines sufficiently versatile to take on a number of different tasks; one, for example, which will lay the table, sweep the carpet, and clean the bathroom as well. And which will continue to do so even when I move house.

Robots in their present state of development cannot even do what my eleven years old grandson—a highly intelligent little guy, let me add, with a good sense of humor and excellent social skills a—does not only easily but gracefully. Rebus sic stantibus, such being the situation, will anyone please explain why I, and you, should fear the coming singularity?