MEL’SWORLD
8 NOVEMBER 2019|COMPUTER SHOPPER|ISSUE 381
Deadringer
UNCLEDOUGISdead. There’s
no doubt about it. I’ve just
addressed the masses at his
funeral, but Ionly did it because
he made me.Awhile back, when
he was still cracking jokes this
side of the grave,hemade me
promise to deliver what he called
his ‘urology’ when the time came.
Well, the time came.And now it’s
gone and went. Uncle Doug was
93, which is great. But he was the
lastofhisgenerationwhosefamily
name Ishare.And that means I’m
next in line,which is not great.
There were three of us
up there,addressing the
congregation of munchkins
below,and we three were alot
like Dorothy’s companions in
The Wizard of Oz.There was a
bishop (the Scarecrow), a
Masonic Grand Master from
Uncle Doug’s chapter of the Ku
Klux Klan (the Tin Man) and me
(the Cowardly Lion). The bishop
tried to give us all comfort by
describing Uncle Doug’s arrival in
heaven as aplace where he will
keep the celestial teapot warm
and await his nearest and dearest
to join him forthe brew eternal.
The Grand Master tried to give
us all comfort by describing the
Great Plan of the Great Architect,
which seems to involve stabbing
yourself in the tits. Me? Itold
jokes. This upset anumber of
people,possibly because Ilook
and sound abit like Uncle Doug,
or more likely because theywere
his jokes and Ihad stolen them.
My advice is never to try and
do an impersonation of adead
uncle at his funeral, even with a
bishop and aGrand Master as
your warm-up act. It is far
better to try to get the dead
to speak forthemselves.
Let’s hear it forthe
necromancers, that ancient
bunch of magicians who made a
modest living by getting the
grief-stricken to payfor achat
with the dead. Then, in 1890, an
American entrepreneur named
Elijah Bond put necromancy on
asound commercial footing by
releasing aparlour game called
Ouija. Its purpose was to talk
to dead people,and it was
“recommended forplayers over
the age of eight”.Itconsisted
of alittle wooden board and a
lot of gullibility.
BOOK OF CONDOLENCES
These days, the simplest wayto
communicatewith the dead is to
log on to Facebook, where they
gave up deleting accounts of the
deceased years ago.May they
rest in pixels. There’s even a
discretelittle button forso-called
legacy contacts to manage your
Facebook page after you snuff it,
so we can emulateHaleyJoel
Osment, who once said to Bruce
Willis inThe Sixth Sense,“Isee
dead people”. Yeah, well, so do
the rest of us, mate.
Acouple of years ago,an
artificial intelligence boffin
from San Francisco called
Eugenia invented what she
called agriefbot, so she could
talk to her boyfriend Roman,
who had died in aroad accident,
as abirthdaypresent. The
griefbot was the present, not
the accident. She fedall of her
dear departed’s emails, social
media postings and recordings
intoasmart matrix, flipped a
switch and bob’s your uncle.
Or in my case,Doug is. Was.
Anyway, Iexpect Uncle Doug
is dying to meet you, so I’m going
to fire up his griefbot and
transcribe.Ready? Here goes.
Hello Doug. Is that you?
Eh? Hello? Who’s there?
HeyUncle,it’s me,Mel. I’m
sorry about nicking your jokes at
the funeral, and forcracking up
at the end like that.
Mel? Funeral? Am Idead?
Ah, well, yes you are.About
three weeks ago,full of cancer
and morphine,but pretty empty
of much else.
No shit.
Yep, that too.
Wow. Bummer.Mind you, Iwas
very old. Hey, did the bishop and
the Grand Wizard turn up?
YesUncle,theydid, and so did
half the town. It was packed.
That’s nice.I’m sorry Imissed it.
Anyway, Iwas going to ask
you about your will. Do you
remember when you asked me to
help you out, and never...
Oops, gottarun. Tea’sgetting
cold and I’ve got apain in my
tits. Been lovely talking to you,
Mel. Laters.
WIZARD’SHADHISCHIPS
Achatbot is not ahuman being.
It is apoor excuse,reliant on
pre-programmed piffle,and it
feigns intelligence without a
brain, like Dorothy’s Scarecrow.
It simulates interest without a
heart, like the Tin Man. It appears
proactive without courage,like
the Cowardly Lion. And a
griefbot is even worse –a
delusion that apes secrets and
lies forthe living, the lonely and
the vulnerable,very much like
the Wizard of Oz himself.
Anyway, my final advice for
delivering afuneral eulogy (or
urology) is simple and singular.
Never look at the front row of
mourners, but keep your eyeon
the wall at the back. Then you
won’t risk seeing the tears and
snot dribbling down the faces of
the bereaved, and you won’t
crack up in sympathy as you
remember that you, too, are
feeling sad. Because no matter
what agriefbot maytell you,
death is inevitable,and final, and
without any answers. Now go dry
your eyes, wipe your nose and
follow the yellow brick road.
MEL CROUCHER
Tech pioneer and all-round good egg
[email protected]
Uncle Doug was93, which is great. But he wasthe lastofhis generation
whose name Ishare. And thatmeans I’m next in line,which is not great
Agrief-stricken MelCroucherharnessesthe powerofmoderntechnology
forachatwithhisrecently deceasedUncleDoug
