Leonard Cohen once said, “I’ve seen the future, brother: it is murder.”
For a long time, we treated that as poetry. Or atmosphere. Or a warning meant for some other century.
But Cohen was never vague about the future. He didn’t predict gadgets or machines. He predicted the erosion of the soul. He was writing about what happens when efficiency outruns wisdom, when intimacy is replaced by management, when systems become more important than people.
What we are building now would not have surprised him. AI.
Artificial intelligence did not arrive as a conqueror. It arrived as a helper. It learned our language, anticipated our needs, smoothed friction, saved time. It offered answers before we had finished asking the question.
That is how power has always entered the room.
Read more: The Future Is Not a Metaphor
When I was a young girl, I wanted to be beautiful.
Clever. Successful. Happy.
As the years slip by like whispers in the wind, I find myself reflecting on the dreams that shaped my youth - and on the stark contrast between that world and the one we inhabit today.
In an age dominated by illusion and manufactured identity, it feels worth pausing to remember what it once meant to aspire to genuine beauty, strength, and authenticity - before the line between real and fake blurred beyond recognition.
I wanted to be pretty. As wonderful as my mother. To marry a man as great as my father. To meet a boy as strong as my older brothers.
And I can’t help wondering what children are encouraged to aspire to now, in an age of confusion, gender politics, and exaggerated, artificial bodies - where self-worth is measured in filters and slogans rather than substance.
Read more: We rebuilt a city in three years. What’s stopping us now?
By Our Special Correspondent (and Occasional Hero), Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble
(Filed from the front row, with a chewed pencil and a notebook sticky with jubilation)
Dusty Gulch had reached peak anger.
The Dusty Dingo bar was a warzone of paperwork, feathers, and spilled beer. Chairs flipped, barstools stacked like barricades, and someone wielded a clipboard as a makeshift sword. Prentis Penjani flapped like a bureaucratic galah, Maurice E-Duck stomped forms with minor-earthquake force, and Lord Squawk Squawk screeched from the official screen:
“THIS TOWN HAS FAILED THE SNAKE!”
It appears that snakes have been rampaging through Dusty Gulch and Prentis Penjani has declared that any mention of snakes being mean is hate speech. That snakes are really nice and only one bites a resident every now and again, but that does not make all snakes naughty.
The snake was smug and snug in Moonlight Manor, coiled with all the satisfaction of someone who knows paperwork is on its side. All food paid for, all accommodation "on the house," and King Farty Fingers and Prentis Penjani were on their knees kissing its tail.
Samuel Pepys is probably one of the most famous diarists in history and his words are treasured throughout the English speaking world.
A politician from the 1600's, he captured the spirit and soul of Britain in those days of an era we no longer recognise. Though, in some cases, perhaps we do, all rather too well.
I read Mr Pepys most excellent diary entries for Christmas Day and Boxing Day 1665. Back during the days of the Plague, 400 years ago. So much has changed, yet so little.
Read more: Never Lived So Merrily: Pepys, Plague, and a Politician's Christmas
A neighbour was telling me about her Christmas shopping expedition to Brisbane recently.
She wanted to buy her young grandchildren a Nativity Scene so she could put it on the table and explain the meaning of Christmas.
Do you know that none of the shop assistants had a clue what she was talking about or even the real meaning of Christmas.
The magic of Christmas for kids isn't the same when they get past a certain age.
I often think about my girls when they were little and how magical it was seeing their little faces as they snuggled up for sleep on Christmas Eve and raced around at dawn ripping presents open.... and that got me thinking about a Christmas a long time ago.
One Outback resident tests both, battles long delays, dodgy copper, and finally discovers who really delivers when the dust settles.
If you live in the Australian Outback, you don’t expect good internet. You negotiate with it. You plead. You lower your standards. And when it works for more than ten minutes in a row, you briefly consider writing a thank-you note to the modem.
One local resident - let’s call them PP - has now achieved something rare: running Starlink and full-fibre NBN side by side. Not in a lab. Not in a city apartment. But in the real world, where dust gets into everything and “we’ll be there Tuesday” is more of a vibe than a promise.
Read more: Starlink vs NBN: Outback Internet Wars (Which Actually Works?)
For as long as I can remember I have been fascinated by non animal means of getting around.
That one baby-power rocking horse took me on many wonderful and exciting exploratory adventures, but it wasn’t long before the urging of the need for speed reared its persuasive head, a need catered for by a Christmas present from an understanding Mum and Dad … a Cyclops pedal car.
Thus commenced a love affair with driving a motor vehicle, of the sheer enjoyment of manoeuvring this obedient metal contraption which took me wherever I wished to go, subject of course to the availability of sufficient propulsive power of a couple of skinny little legs.
This is my Christmas gift to Malcolm - a very valued and much loved and respected contributor to our blog who has sadly left us. This article was originally published at Christmas 2021. We miss you dear friend. We here at theprblog.com still think of you. Merry Christmas and I hope you are happy and well... where ever in Heaven you may be. Monty
Read more: From Pedal Car to Audi: A Lifetime Behind the Wheel
The Battle of the Bulge was one of the most dramatic and consequential confrontations of the Second World War. It erupted in the dense Ardennes forests during the bitter winter of 1944 - 45, when Nazi Germany launched a surprise offensive in a last, desperate attempt to reverse its fortunes on the Western Front.
The stakes could scarcely have been higher. For the Germans, it was a final gamble. For the Allies, it was a test of endurance that would determine how - and how quickly - the war in Europe would end.
Read more: Do We Still Love Our Nation Enough to Fight For It?
At dawn, when the dew still clings to the grass and the grandstand sits empty, the ball lies where it was left the night before.
It has been fought over, kicked, booted, argued about.
It has carried the weight of pride and rivalry and the small, fierce hopes of men who believed the game mattered.
Then the whistle blew. The players shook hands. The referees packed up their flags. The crowd drifted home to screens and opinions and tomorrow’s talking points.
And the ball stayed. Mud-caked. Scuffed. Forgotten.
That’s when the cat appears.
Read more: Still No Sparkle: The Cat Watches as the Eagle Falls
After a rugby match, the ball always gets left behind.
It doesn’t matter how hard it was fought over, how many blokes were carried off, or how much noise was made about what it all meant. Once the whistle blows and the crowd drifts away, the ball just sits there in the middle of the paddock – no longer important, no longer owned, waiting for the next match.
I was thinking about the rugby match yesterday – about how the ball sat there at the end.
After being fought over for ninety minutes, it was suddenly of no interest at all. The match had been played.
Then a chance remark from Redhead stuck with me.
“The ball is important in this, Monty,” she said, answering an American reader who’d asked what the ball was even made of.
And that’s really the question, isn’t it?
What are we made of?
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