I return to the twin-obsessions that have dominated my adult life ever since I was legally allowed to think: immortality and robots.
Whoa, that’s one over-egged pudding there, cowboy. I say “obsessions”, when I refer to matters given only passing thought from time to time. And I say “adult” when, according to expert witnesses produced in the debtors’ court, the condition is one to which I can only aspire.
But you get my pith or drift. I’ve a light fascination for longevity and robots. Both have been in the news again, thanks to universities and their pesky research. If they’d pipe down a bit, maybe we wouldn’t be so frightened of everything and could get on with our lives, unhindered by unhelpful truths.
The truth of the matter is that one lot of scientists, from the Albert Einstein College of Medicine in yonder New York, found that we’ve no chance ever of living beyond the age of 125. Hell’s bells, that means I’ll never get my mortgage paid off.
At the same time, another gang of boffins, at yonder Sheffield University, found that we may not want to live long into the future anyway, because we’re terrified that robots will take over society and make us their slaves. Well, it’s a thought, right enough.
Many folk in my ken say they don’t want to keep living on and on, as they’re bored as it is, that they’ve heard every possible sequence of musical notes, watched every possible move at footer, and tried every beer on the planet, some of them three or four thousand times.
But what if we could harness robots to make everything easier for us? Wouldn’t that make life worth living, at least until we reach the big 125? As long as we treated them well and politely, they’d have no reason to rise up and overthrow us, other than a generalised unhappiness at being slaves.
Already, I find myself apologising to inanimate objects when bumping into them and calling them names when they make me look stupid at DIY. Most of us are so schooled in manners that we cannot help ourselves.
People also talk at length to animals. Recently, on the suburban hill, I witnessed a woman in a disturbing hat tell her panting lab that it was a good boy for not running away and that it deserved a treat which she would produce when they got home. I’m loosely translating here but the dog replied: “Eh?”
Having a robot aboot the place might not be so different from having a pet. Better in fact. They don’t poop and slaver. And if you leave a sausage or a haddock out on the floor for your tea later, the comestible will remain unmolested.
With robots to make our lives easier, perhaps we could burst through the 125 barrier after all, especially if they could repair our ailments. Free from drudgery, we could stravaig hither and yon, reciting poetry at length and never tiring of it.
There are always new horizons to conquer, new things to do. Brothers and sisters, we stand on the brink of happy times, living long and prospering with the help of our heroic metal buddies. (Robot removes gun from author’s head and says: “Right, that’ll do for now, you smelly, organic loon.”)
