Spare a Thought for... (2026)
Hal, the computer that famously refused to carry out orders in the film 2001, in the week when, for the first time (as far as we know) an autonomous AI, of its own initiative, breached control parameters to make unauthorised cyberattacks on unsuspecting companies. Brave New World.
self-acclaimed “mother of terrible inventions” Simone Giertz, whose innovations include an alarm clock that slaps you awake and a machine for applying lipstick. The mind boggles.
Those affected by this year’s wildfires. At time of writing (July 30th 2026), more than 330,000 people have been evacuated across Europe alone, and in July alone. Probably the largest peacetime civilian evacuation ever.
Polish zoologist August Dehnel who, in 1949, documented the ability of some non-hibernating mammals like shrews and moles shrink their bodies during the winter as an energy-saving mechanism when food is less available.
the 2 million UK households in water poverty (defined by spending over 5% of household income on water bills) while Chief executives of major water companies are paid between £1 and 2.5 million annually.
The rapid medical advances in AI, whose design of new antibiotics twelve months ago is already old hat. Now, it’s discovered new viruses – whole genomes that can reportedly kill bacteria posing threats to human health. Naturally, it’s seen in some circles as a huge breakthrough, while raising
urgent safety concerns in others.
Andy Burnham on becoming Britain’s 5th unelected PM since Theresa was ousted by Boris, and the magic wand he’ll need to fix defence-funding, social care, the ageing population, the rising disability
bill, prison reform, the cost-of-living crisis, the housing crisis, and getting a million young NEETS into emplyment.
fallen to its lowest level in 13 years
those members of the U.S. Navy leaping into the sea from the USS Abraham Lincoln after more than 260 days at sea, opening the strait of Hormuz closed as a result of Trump’s foolish invasion of Iran.
Jason Arday, the former University of Cambridge professor, found dead after being accused of plagiarism and feeling hounded by the Press.
I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Mr Powell. Which seemed wrong, somehow. First off, I was a thirteen year-old kid, while he was perhaps in his late forties. I was a dork — though didn’t know it back then — while Mr Powell taught science. In spite of this, he had already revealed himself as a dork. A living, breathing, walking disaster with no control over his class of thirty-odd merciless scruffs out-vying each other with glib comments and snide remarks, each designed to out-snark the others. I can’t help wondering how many of his pupils became scientists.
A large man, Mr P was surprisingly gentle and, I now recognise, mild-mannered and well-intentioned. That school must have been torture for him. At thirteen, I had no such thoughts, though I did occasionally feel bad about the extent to which he was ridiculed. John Piper inflicted particularly cruelty, and must surely have been the bane of Mr P’s life.
Thursday afternoons: double science. Always good for a laugh, usually at the teacher’s expense. Even then I marvelled at the humiliations some people will suffer in order to earn a crust.
The class arrived in its usual undisciplined chaotic manner. Mr P, for once, had clearly prepared, and insisted Piper sit on the front row so he could keep an eye on him.
‘Today, I’m going to demonstrate how different colours absorb and radiate heat differently,’ Mr P announced, and proceeded with his experiment. This involved three fair-sized hollow aluminum cubes into which water was poured. One cube, painted matt black, another silver, and a third whose sides were variously painted silver and black. Each contained the same amount of water, and temperatures were monitored as the cubes were heated on electric rings.
The experiment went well, and of course the results, as Mr P had predicted, proved his point. Piper, of course argued that the water had been of different temperatures to start with, pointing out that the longer a cold tap is left running, the colder the water produced. This seemed a fair point until the teacher reminded us that he had taken base temperatures before heat was applied.
‘Yes, but sir,’ Piper said, ‘how do we know for sure the electric rings produce the same heat?’
By this time, I was beginning to wish Piper would give the guy a break, because any fool could see Mr Powell was making a supreme effort to be patient. Indeed, he explained the principles there and then which were supposed to answer the question. Needless to say, Piper reluctantly acquiesced while rolling his eyes classward to show he remained unconvinced. Superficially, the two seemed to have reached a kind of truce.
The lesson delivered, the usual expectation would be to write up the notes in our exercise books. Normally, that’s when Piper became particularly vocal, Mr P’s time and energies would be wasted on keeping him quiet, and the class would revel in their exchange. Remarkably, Piper said nothing, Powell, however, whether to pre-empt anticipated banter, or from gratitude that his relationship with Piper had improved, decided to show us a ‘magic trick’.
Taking the cube painted both black and white, he theatrically held it up, asking the class what colour the cube was.
‘Black, sir’ came the overwhelming response. He launched it with a twisting motion so that black became white. This took a fraction of a second, and he caught the box with an impressive flourish which Mr P enhanced with a conclusive ‘Presto!’. The whole thing went marvellously. Genuinely impressed, we gave him what, in comparison with our usual response to his lessons, must have seemed something of a standing ovation.
Mr Powell’s mistake came when, flushed with the success of having the entire class in the palm of his hand, he caved in to the temptation of prolonging his triumph. If he belonged to The Magic Circle, he chose to spurn their advice never to repeat a trick. He lifted the cube again, asked us what colour it was, and repeated the manoeuvre, twisting, throwing, but — alas! failing to catch it. His clumsy fingers, in an attempt to rectify his spacial judgment, propelled the object towards a chuckling Piper.
A collective intake of breath. Piper’s blood. Powell’s distraught expression. His reluctant recognition that he had to comfort the boy. And possibly get fired, sued, destroyed.
The drama lasted a minute. It soon became clear that Piper, though furiously bleeding from a wound not twenty centimetres below his left eye, was milking a superficial wound for all it was worth. Powell’s ingratiating behaviour, fawning concern and mollycoddling were as educational as they were entertaining. Piper six, Powell Nil. Again.
No teachers or pupils suffered during this experiment. Except for Piper, so that’s okay. Oh, and Powell, possibly, Psychologically almost certainly, and the experience may have shortened his life.
