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Criticising the web as a tech grump

Douglas Adams’ 3 rules of technology:

  1. Anything that is in the world when you’re born is normal and ordinary and is just a natural part of the way the world works.
  2. Anything that’s invented between when you’re fifteen and thirty-five is new and exciting and revolutionary and you can probably get a career in it.
  3. Anything invented after you’re thirty-five is against the natural order of things.

@tom and I came to the web as group 2 in the era of Web 1. So when I talk about the horrors of the modern web, I’m coming at it with the nostalgia of the early web promise, but am now firmly in group 3, Adam’s tech-grumps. But does that make us wrong?

Thinking back to Web 1: there had been a tech giant: AOL and we’d all run away from it into the open web while it was gobbling up Time Warner, and there wasn’t another threat to the web until Microsoft, whose principle crime with Internet Explorer was writing shitty HTML and installing it by default on Windows, which the EU was able to stop. The next threat was Rupert Murdoch buying MySpace which we dodged by running to an Ajaxy site run by some kid from Harvard, which was, um, less successful.

But still, compare AOL/Microsoft/Murdoch of the early web to Google’s monopoly with search today. You’re pushed into using the Chrome browser on billions of smart phones, it defaults to Google search, it has Google ad tracking built in, in a way that’s hard to prevent, 66.6% of the world use it (!). And this is the same Google that has 98% of the video player market, 90% of search.

Whats more, this search monopoly is now used to stop sending you to useful sites, as it once did, but instead to serve up AI answers, stolen from the content Google indexed from those sites under legitimate copyright exemptions, so you don’t even need to visit them any more and risk supporting them. Google’s future vision of the web is free data to train its algorithm that dominates its search page. Bing, Duck and the rest have been quick to copy this, and of course the original culprit is Chat GPT which is increasingly used in place of search, with answers similarly stolen from the web using search indexing exemptions.

Still, if your first phone was an Android, if you’re Adam’s group 1, maybe everything I just said sounds like questioning Catholicism in rural Italy a few centuries ago. The response may be somewhere between “shh Google might hear you and this blog could be blocked” and “burn the heretic”…

I try to hear myself as I might have done if I was 19 today…

“What, we have a TV channel we can post to and a dozen different ways to reach billions of people? Sounds like you don’t like democracy mate, can’t handle the chaos that brings. Sounds like you want to put the genie back in the bottle.”

Or – perhaps – “yeh social media makes me depressed, I try not use it too much. But also it passes the time, I feel less alone. Look at this cat making pizza. And this person who says what I think but even better.”

But it doesn’t make the criticism less wrong. The web was never meant to be like this, where a few companies get to define truth for the majority. The web was meant to prevent a world like this.

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Reflections on Epping: not just a community crisis but a content strategy

Like many who marched against the Iraq war (an estimated 36 million across 3,000 protests) only to see the popular turnout ignored by government followed by a devastating, illegal war, I’ve come to question the value of marches. 500,000 marching about Gaza in London each month doesn’t get a photo in the press, but an arrested 83-year old Priest holding a Palestine Action sign – or a Plasticine Action sign – does.

But Epping was something different.

If me – 6ft white guy – felt nervous amidst a crowd of 2,000 anti-fascist marchers, with police everywhere – I was struck by how on earth the asylum seekers in the Bell Hotel must feel, amidst the violence erupting outside their accommodation. And how must Epping’s BAME and migrant residents feel walking about? Unlike other marches I’ve been on, this was about strength in numbers. It was a way of saying to the rest of Epping ‘you’re not alone’ – and judging by the many waves and cheers from windows and doorsteps (some half-hiding for fear), that was welcomed.

By some. But not by others – it’s sobering walking down a street 30 minutes from where you live – even in a crowd of 2000, majority women – to cries of ‘shame on you’ and ‘pedophiles’ from families stood in their drives with their kids.

But it’s not that the marchers didn’t have our share of inflammatory chants – from ‘Nazi scum’ and ‘kill yourself like Adolph Hitler’, this social media-friendly tendency to paint the other side in the extreme worst place struck me as lose-lose for everyone, other than the companies who depend on polarised content to feed to audiences around the world safe at home, screen-stroking. On this level it’s not a community crisis it’s a content strategy – it’s the social media equivalent of premium content – violence on British streets, with something for both sides. It’s not tribes, its not a community story, it’s two different dramas with two different audiences, who each can look at it and say how the other side are a sign of how Britain is doomed.

Campaign groups need to get better at communicate to both two audiences

A danger of these ‘filter bubbles’ is not knowing how to communicate to the other bubble; the strongest messages can be heard by both groups and the majority will agree with it. That’s why ‘save our kids’ works and ‘migrants out’ doesn’t. Organisers Stand up Against Racism have to be better at communications. Take this reasonably balanced report from the BBC of the march –

Carmen Edwards, from the anti-migrant protest, said: “It was all happy, people were dancing, we were singing. There weren’t no far-right.” Sharon Smith, who had travelled from nearby Harlow, said she wanted to attend the protest to “protect my grandkids”. She said: “A lot of people showed up; it was good humoured and [there was] music. Everyone wants the same, [which is to] save our children.”
However, Lewis Nielsen, officer at Stand up to Racism, said: “We think it is a quite dangerous situation in Epping. “They are potentially heading towards the same kind of violence we saw in August last year, so we think it is important that anti-racists and anti-fascists come out and mobilise against them.
“People are right to be angry about the cost-of-living crisis, the NHS, the housing crisis. None of that was caused by the refugees in that hotel.”

Stand up to Racism sound like a politician who’s dodged a question from a journalist. The anti-migrant crowd in Epping aren’t talking about the NHS or housing, they’re talking about ‘protect our kids’. That has to be the first sentence in any response:

“We absolutely agree every community should feel safe, and nothing is more important than keeping all of our children safe. Unfortunately some of the refugees staying at the hostel have been attacked and beaten up while just going to the shops – and we’re here to say they must feel safe too.”

That’s the headline statement. And then they can pivot to the hard truths:

Nigel Farage has tried to split this community over a sexual assault of a teenager, but champions pro-rape figures like Andrew Tate. Some of the loudest voices weaponising the concerns of this community pay no interest when those accused are white. Tommy Robinson planned to come here today – he co-founded the EDL with Richard Price who was convicted for creating and possessing child pornography; Tommy defended him for long after that. The EDL – which he founded – had 20 members charged with child exploitation offences. This has continued for years – dozens of people close to him charged with child sexual abuse material, his spokesman in 2019 convicted for domestic abuse, and what’s key is he NEVER condemned these white supporters when the crimes came to light.”

Of course this isn’t a new story – a horrible attack on a teenager, weaponised by Britain’s newest Nazi group Homeland through a Facebook Group ‘Epping Says No’ (who openly boast of their orchestration), instrumentalised by a click hungry right wing press, conflict-hungry social media platforms and shameless politicians – to divide a community into ‘racists’ vs ‘threats to children’; or at the extremes ‘Nazi scum’ and ‘Pedophiles’.

Is this something new?

Is there anything meaningful to take from all this? From Tulsa to Ballymena – sexual assault is the ignition on an initial furious community backlash against the minority group where the accused comes from; and other forces then mobilise to defend them. In Ballymena 107 police officers were injured; in Tulsa in 1921 35 blocks were burned down and 39 of the local black community were killed. In Epping’s march on Sunday night thankfully no-one was hurt, a week before tho a dozen were – and Nigel Farage spent the week in between complaining that the police had let more get injured.

Reading the press in the aftermath, listening to the chants on the day, looking at the range of people who opposed our march through Epping I think there is. I think what’s new in all this, that’s different to Tulsa or previous such fights was how many of the men lining the streets was how many of them were filming.

A man sits on a kids playground treehouse photographing marchers with his phone.

Unlike the race battles of the 80s and 90s that we thought we’d left behind, this is also about content production and distribution. It’s both social-capital generating content for the creator, and money-making, attention-grabbing content for the platforms.

This is a relatively new thing. And so a relatively routine far-right weaponised concern for the safety of women and kids and a similarly common concern for the safety of refugees and minorities – is prevented from finding that natural common ground of ‘safety and care for all’ on social media, because this is social media’s version of a football match – choose your side and attack the other. A resolution would be bad for business.

Where once community leaders – from the local church to pub, cabbies and newspaper – would do the work of trying to repair fractured communities, the business model here is the opposite. The attention model is built on conflict, not the calming down and compromises which community peace and restoration is built on. At its worst unregulated extreme, we can picture a full cycle where social media companies –who don’t invest in content production– benefit so much from these conflicts that their algorithms continually reinforce the conditions for conflict, encouraging each ‘side’ to behave in ways that are most triggering to the other, all as a path to generate high-value content.

I began to write a screenplay a few years back about a developer who discovers the algorithm he’d written to grow a newspaper’s engagement and clicks was triggering geopolitical conflicts to meet its objectives of ‘more news’. It was a fun/scary Black Mirror-esque idea, but increasingly it feels like a logical conclusion of the business model of the attention economy, when coupled with the lack of transparency or regulation over the algorithms that decide who sees what.

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The Terrible Tale of the Missing Turkey

Returning up the house road one hazy afternoon I was curious about the little orchard walled in on the T junction. I’d only seen it as an olive grove but this day a clementine caught my eye. In we loped, to have a mooch about, off leash, before dinner time. We were all tired and floppy but I was now no longer aware of Raja. I’d noticed his instinct was up, as we approached the house road, but I hadn’t paid the attention due. I missed him, for I’d say no more than 17 seconds, which was all he needed.

Anyway, there I was muttering to myself while trying to peel an unripe clementine when I heard a commotion across the road. ‘Raja.’ I called. ‘Raja!’ Nothing.

At once, the commotion announced itself in my mind as ‘very upset fowl’ and a neurological microsecond later I found myself sprinting, with Chili in toe, shouting Έλα!! for my beautiful killer friend. I was bellowing his name in my deepest, angriest voice even while one of these quite ridiculous, exotic birds (it was enormous) flapped in hysterical protest into a tree above my head.

I swear, I thought of a childhood cartoon by Quentin Blake.

At the neighbours locked gate I spotted Raja. He was in the garden, beneath a tree more suited to first love, ravaging the neck of his fresh prey. Feathers littered the very air.

I yelled from the depths of Hell,

!! RAJA !!

!! Όχι !!

!! Έλα !!

….and come he did, slowly and in deep obeisance, while the blood and adrenaline surged through his exquisite brown frame and quivering to his paws with the thrill of pure mammalian violence.
I had aged considerably by the time he arrived at the gate. His mouth was a mess of stubborn feathers. He coughed and licked and spluttered to no avail, knowing he was in the most awful trouble with his all powerful leader. 

I admit that I was experiencing a powerful cocktail of desperate emotions at this point. These included;

Rage, Shock, Horror, Deep Shame and Fear. 

We went at once to the house where I left the hounds to immediately return to the scene of the crime.

‘Τι συνέβη?’

The turkey farmer waited at the gate. He seemed confused and cross. We attempted to communicate the events of the past three minutes.

and 

‘που έχει?’
He said, again and again. I didn’t understand but described the story with internationally recognised gestures, feeling like Captain Haddock.

‘Kaput?’ he asked, drawing a knife across his throat.

‘No. Όχι. Not kaput. It flew away’ I flapped, in a direction vaguely to the north east.

‘που έχει?’ He asked again.

‘I don’t know what that means. I’m very sorry.’
We walked the walk of shame around this rather idyllic, feathery murder scene, with me practising one of most important words an Englishman needs abroad.

‘Συγνώμη!’

He was very cross but in a now private way that reminded me of displeasing a parent. He called his son and we went on in silence to the turkey enclosure. His son appeared, a gentle, concerned young man, who mediated between the shamed and the wronged. 

I was completely devastated, standing there, dressed inexplicably, in my December wardrobe of blue shorts, blue T and near death trainers. I explained that I was very sorry, that it was entirely my responsibility and would of course pay for any damage. The son was gracious but they wanted to know where the ravaged bird had gone. So we looked, forlornly until sunset.

I had to explain all this to my hosts, on their long awaited holiday. I had to pay for the bird. I asked the son what his father liked to drink, as this was Christmas week and likely some unknowing islander would no longer be eating turkey for Christmas lunch.

The next day I bought the father a bottle of whisky and gave him a large banknote. The whiskey was a surprise, but he accepted both it and my apologies and we parted, shaking hands. My kind hosts too, were phlegmatic but agreements regarding Raja’s future stewardship were quickly created.

Bird never found. Presumed dead.

On my last day with them I cried a lot. They came to me in turn then, and through the rest of the day. Our last walk was an epic ramble around Lageri. I told them both how I appreciated them. Dear friends.

As we approached home I saw some Joe Frazier in Chili, and an unmistakable Fred Astaire in Raja.

On our last night I realised that Chili has eyebrows like Nikita Khrushchev, and that I am completely in love with Raja.

There are ‘lasts’ all through life. Why are those that involve animals we love so very, very painful?

Another dog on the beech
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Chili & Raja

They are in my care. I feed them once a day and walk them twice. I provide emotional security too, for their family is holidaying on other continents. This is why I am here. And they are too my living, breathing companions on this winter trip. Almost everything I do is in their company. 

At the beginning I confused their names, and was embarrassed. I saw Chili as a King, as a Raja I suppose. Now I see that his warmth, like a mild chili pepper, reveals itself but slowly. Raja is more a prince than a king among dogs; a spiritual leader. This was my confusion.

Raja
Male
6 years old
Teddy bear gold with a Santa white chest
Burmese Mountain Dog?
Two, precise cat claw scars on snout

Chili
Male
7 years old
Mountain lion brown, sorry panda eyes
Rottweiler-lab cross?
Benign chest lumps. White snout smear

When I wake, they come to me, jolly pleased to be alive, and to share that, and so I say, ‘Morning boys, how did you sleep?’ Heads are patted. There’s some big shaking of warmth and satisfaction, some snorting and rubbing up against my leg.

Yes, it’s just the three of us here over the winter, on this remote corner of an Aegean island. I’m sure their morning greeting would be the same in any other circumstances, and company. They are dogs after all and this is a morning ritual. But I also know how important I am to them.

Two golden dogs, one resting their chin on the other's neck.

Of course, they immediately expect us to go for a walk. I am their pack leader, and there’s work to be done across the territory; boundaries to be maintained, sniffing of course, and urinating scent, but it’s the thrill of the patrol that excites beneath. It’s what dogs do in the morning. Almost everything around the walk, bar the eating, is a zen experience for a dog.

When I wake however, I am foremost a human being, with contemporary human needs. I would like some coffee. I’d like to do some scrolling over a few cigarettes, brush teeth, maybe pee, depending on the day. So Chili and Raja must wait. And with each short trip to the kitchen, bathroom or desk, even a shift of buttock in my chair, their attention is raised and the question, ‘are we going?’ again raised.

Suspicions are aroused when I don my socks, for at all other times I am barefoot. As I approach their collars and leads, the game is up.

Walk time is marked but a quick crescendo in dog energy. There is high excitement when the collars are to be attached. Chili cannot contain himself at this time. There are whines and budging and stretching with deep sighs and random movements of neck that mostly delay the departure. Raja though, that gorgeous zen master, stands just where I need him, pouring lovegold and precious gems from his baby seal eyes. (Raja. How you adore me. I am a God to you, Raja. You smell like my first teddy bear and I love you.)

And so, eventually we go. There are local cats to be fed. The energy shifts while I stumble through a craziness of hungry feral pleaders. They don’t give a fuck about me or the dogs. Give us food!, they whine, they moan, while they GET IN THE WAY. There’s a white one that hisses hate between miaows. ‘Devil Creature’, I mutter. Yes, cats are Satan’s spies.

The dogs are pleased when I retrieve them from this nonsense. I say, ‘Stupid Cats. What was all that about?’ I scatter a handful of cat biscuits. These are vacuumed up and off we go.

On the lead, Chili is a calm, noble companion. His gruff, street demeanour changes to something more patient and considered. Raja just pulls. I had to speak severely about this on the earlier walks, but now it is just a brief tug and a look. Then he is highly aware, because he is a hunter-killer and this conflicts with his very deep desire to please me.

On the shallow beach where the waves boulder in, I release my friends from the leash. Their work begins. 

Recording events, marking territory, scanning for past intruders, noting who and when. Revolting articles of decaying matter can now be eaten, sheepishly. And of course a quiet poo atop a chosen shrub, eyes with guilty glances.

Some adjectives..

Chili
Gruff, sad, horny, masculine. Insecure attachment. Loyal, Big Brother, Mob Boss. Alpha, guardian, watchful, sensitive. Nightclub doorman. Middleweight boxer.
Dear Misunderstood Chilli. I wouldn’t mess with him in a dark alley.

Raja
Svelte, exotic, desert nymph. Love and tenderness. Arabian Beauty. Stone-Cold-Killer. Athlete, healer, fleet, secure, devotee. Zen teacher. Youth.
My sweet, emotional guide, Raja.

And some characteristics…

When Raja is at a fast trot, his front left paw flicks out to the side, like Charlie Chaplin, comic and endearing. With his head in my lap he makes light, lip smacking noises, like a toddler eating ice cream. Nothing could be more tender than this.

Chilli most wants someone to play with him. He likes rough games. He’s vocal and has a deep gruff voice that is a bit scary. Being Alpha dog he must be first to enter and exit a door or a gate. Except for me, but I let him go first sometimes.

Dog Commands (in brackets my clumsy pronunciations)

  • Έλα (élla) is in regular use. It means ‘Come’
  • έλα εδώ (élla d’oh) ‘Come here’. Serious uses only.
  • Περιμένετε (Périmené) ‘Wait.’ Limited effectiveness with Chili.
  • Φάω (Fai-i`) ‘Eat’ Dog ears prick at these phonemes.
  • Πάμε (Pa`mé) ‘Let’s go / go on’ Raja takes this as permission to sprint wildly.
  • Πάμε βόλτα  (Pa`mé volta) ‘Let’s go for a walk’ 
  • Όχι (O-hi) ‘No.’
  • Μη (Mi!) ‘Do Not’  – eg attack that baby hedgehog
  • Μπισκότο (Biscoto) ‘Biscuit’ I’ve been calling it Biskotaki?

In the early days they were confused without their family. I’d been with them for 10 days already but the departure of their loved ones was new. Raja looked to me immediately and was secure in both my company and the routine. Chili remained confused for a week or so. He ‘displayed’ regularly and was needy.

Needy of what, he knew not.

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Nicol Wistreich
Nicol Wistreich
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