It must be like eating salt and vinegar crisps for the first time after weeks of a sense-numbing heavy cold: the sheer rush of unmediated reality almost takes your face off.
It’s open source, so you won’t make a dime from it, but before you go to sleep at night, a single tear will roll down your cheek as you smile to yourself knowing the world is a better place.
in which a waitress chases a landing plane in a Ferrari convertible so that she can connect a computer to a wire dangling out of it
He has autonomy, freedom, fun, skill and dignity—what Nassim Taleb would approvingly term an anti-fragile lifestyle. His career is the exact opposite of the kind of big life—funded by debt, fuelled by social climbing and requiring total careerism—that actually demands corporate subservience and intellectual compromise. In a funny way, my craftsman acquaintance is more the king of his own life than the majority of apparently highly successful people. He would never sit in an office just to be seen at his desk.

When the web first became a mainstream proposition in the mid to late 90s, we had ringingly, unrealistically high hopes for it. The information superhighway was going to bring down undemocratic governments, stop human rights abuses and usher in a world free of ignorance.

Since then we’ve had a masterclass on the gulf between what idealistic early-adopters envisage and what the mass market demands. Instead of being a gleaming vehicle for intellectual debate and the spread of freedom the net is about porn, chatting inanely to friends, buying unnecessary stuff and, increasingly, watching telly.

The advent of Gogglebox means that TV viewers are now the stars of their own show, watching TV while we watch them. Indeed, the Goggleboxers were recently shown watching themselves win a Bafta for best constructed reality show. This created a meta-vacuum into which all participants were sucked. They remain trapped inside their own TVs like General Zod in Superman, spinning in space forever.
It appears to be in an evidence bag from the scene of a crime. A CRIME AGAINST BLOODY COOKING. Either that or some sort of back-street underground cookie, purchased off a gun-toting maniac high on his own supply of yeast. You certainly wouldn’t want to be caught carrying one of these through customs. Imagine biting into a piece of brass Richard. That would be softer on the teeth than the specimen above.
But while fragging a Canadian teenager with a well-placed tank shell is undeniably more fun than reading Dostoevsky, it can teach you nothing about love, ambition, friendship or beauty.
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I like the idea of some couple coming from Brazil or Spain or Japan or somewhere and looking out over Edinburgh and declaring their love for each other and sticking a padlock on this thing shortly before some big gruff council worker comes marching up to the top with a pair of bolt cutters over his shoulder, unceremoniously snipping all the padlocks off and shoving them in a bin-bag full of dogshit.