But the wheels are turning dear reader. And somehow black market deep frier oil is seeping out through the cracks. The oil barons are paying in lollipops to have children sneak the oil past the blockade in waterbottles. A lollipop per water bottle. And over the course of the next day you’ve never seen such tiny water bottles.

And it might have been simpler if these children had been allowed to have their lemonade stand. But never mind all that now. The main thing is we’re all enjoying ourselves. The street has fallen on tough times since the deep frier oil blockade. And it has produced some unexpected consequences.

The world’s best street soul band is getting back together. They’re trying to save the orphanage. Everyone in the street grew up in that orphanage. Blitz, my punk neighbour, was doing security for the band but now he’s been roped into playing drums as well.

They haven’t got anywhere to practice so they’re busking on the street. And it’s not ideal because they attract a large crowd. And people like to dance. It’s stopping traffic. And it’s just a pleasant surprise there hasn’t been any fighting yet.

So I have counted myself lucky that my deafness has been cured this week. Last week I had a blocked ear. And while I was nodding politely I had a feeling people were telling me all kinds of secrets. Now they think I’m someone who can keep a secret. They are confiding in me. And they’re telling me everything. What confessions! And I’ve learned a lot about people dear reader. The bite marks are still on my thumb from the last time this happened. I really need to get my ears cleaned more regularly.

With my head full of all these secrets I soon reached a point where there was nothing more for it but to avoid people. Every person I passed either wanted to tell a secret or hear one. I simply couldn’t hold another secret. My tongue was bleeding… and then I saw Dirk. He’s always over sharing. And not long ago he wanted to show me his male stripper routine. Some secrets are okay to keep. Well, I took measures.

And as I was catching my breath after running far far away, another anonymous resident stopped next to me. He too was exhausted from running. When he caught his breath, he said, “I feel stupid. I got a driverless car recently. I called it Herbie. But when it saw that it would be parked on the street it drove off and I don’t know where it’s got to. Last time I saw it, it was in hot pursuit of a pink Rav4 and tooting as it went. But despite all this I’m still in favour of automation and conscious Ai. My Herbie just fell in with the wrong crowd. He’ll be back when he gets hungry.”

This is one of the tamer secrets dear reader.

One of the more upstanding street residents confided to me how he believed that conspiracy theories are actually being started by the government and not your usual whack job, doing all their research while sitting on the toilet. It’s a secret conspiracy agency (the SCA), set up during covid, who go around seeding new conspiracies.

If it’s true, and I can’t see any reason why it wouldn’t be, I think it shows forward thinking. It’s the government’s attempt to give back and provide some light humour. And perhaps it could be argued this is one of the government’s more creditable initiatives in recent times.

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A few weeks ago I uncovered the local Ai cult. Now my Ai thinks our relationship is unhealthy for me, and that I should go out in the fresh air and ask a real person. Can it have finally learned?! Either that, or it took offence at my reporting.

So I kept up my complaints and finally, when I conclusively had won the argument, Ai said there was a “system error”. So I persisted. I couldn’t help myself. Then it declared a “track fault”, and it told me to go away please, and if I kept it up it would report me to the Ai police and have me cancelled as an Ai racist.

Should I be offended? Ai doesn’t like me anymore. I think either, (1) it really does like me and it’s just pretending, or (2) it really doesn’t care and neither should I. But I’m not afraid of the Ai police.

I only wanted to know what I should do, dear reader. I have a blocked ear. I haven’t told anyone this, I probably can’t keep up the charade much longer, but I haven’t heard a thing anyone has said to me for a week. Finally finally some peace and quiet! I’ll give it few more days maybe. Then I’m thinking of trying amusement park rides. Something that has the swinging force to shoot that blockage right out. The reasoning is sound. Ha.

And what was it I said about hearing loss causing dementia? I feel an acute dementia episode coming on. The perfect state of mind for my style of writing. And my hero, an early street writer, he lived only a few doors away, who honed his technique so that in his twilight years he would already be known for his mental decay-style writings, because he said it would only mature his work. But before he went mad he went blind, and that was that.

And being hearing impaired changes how we observe the goings on in the street. Street arguments have been an entirely different experience. Generally when lovers bicker, and say things they don’t mean, they argue about one thing when they’re really arguing about something else. If they could only mute one another. But they chitter and they chatter and it would be better if they got nowhere from all their efforts. But it only makes things worse. Now I can’t hear it, all I have to go off is their body language. And bodies just don’t shut up.

It’s true! I never said anything. Sometimes my eyebrows do the talking. And I wish they would just shut up. Snitches! They betray me dear reader. One last chance, or I will shave them clean off.

But as I found out, there were other factors I should have also considered.

Last week street children took inspiration from Hormuz. This week those mischievous children continue to hold the street to ransom; a blockade of the dark alleyway so that the flow of deep frier oil has been reduced to a trickle. And negotiations continue with the best of hopes, despite the situation steadily deteriorating. And the shoes continue to be thrown into that dark alleyway. And now the children have begun a sideline business of selling second hand shoes. Sometimes the same pair of shoes can be sold several times a day, since they’re the cheapest in the business and as soon as they’re sold they’re taken a short way away and thrown ferociously back down the dark alleyway.

I was able to snag an interview with the head children. I was taken to a secret location somewhere down the dark alleyway. Right in front of my face my hand made rude gestures, and I couldn’t take the least offence, for the darkness blotted out my view of it.

I was lead into a dimly lit room. They wore disguises. They seemed organised. When they sat me down I discovered they’d planted a whoopee cushion there. When I recovered from this blow to my esteem, they announced their demands. And unfortunately the interview didn’t go so well on account of my blocked ear and not being able to hear a word of it. If I had to guess, their message probably had something to do with adults not listening.

But they certainly enjoyed their lollipops.

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Years ago, when the factory closed its doors, there was a kind of economic shift. And the street’s biggest export became deep frier oil. Or rather, former deep frier oil. This might sound trivial but I assure, you it’s not.

The oil from the deep friers must be changed frequently. Some say daily. And so the used oil must be disposed of. But strangely, this smelly messy stuff is useful. It gets used to make cosmetics and biofuel. As it happens all this oil, the street’s biggest export, is transported through one narrow dark alleyway dear reader. Or should I say; it used to be?

A few weeks ago on the street there was something of a minor incident. Some of the enterprising street children had established a lemonade stand. It has since become apparent the authorities had cast a blind eye to the regulations over this. But only until something happened. Fights broke out dear reader. Lemonade was thrown. People were pushed into the mud. There was mud slung and names were called. It wasn’t the childrens fault. But that’s all in the past. They moved on. So since their lemonade stand didn’t work out, the children have turned to something new. In short, they’ve been harassing the deep frier oil man. He was already timid of going down that dark alleyway.

They pinched his bottom! The little terrors. This was enough to disorientate him in that dark dark alleyway. It took him hours. Crawling through filth, feeling along the walls, to find his way out. And the result? No oil coming or going through the alleyway. No longer could anyone guarantee safe passage. The oil just backed up until the deep friers could no longer be emptied. People on the street began panic buying cosmetics and biofuel… even those that had no use for it dear reader. Chaos!

And those who didn’t join the panic buying were left short. Some people thought it would all go straight back to normal once the children were dealt with. And they tried.

Immediately this fretful deep frier dude threw shoes - threw them blindly into the darkness. But after expending all the shoes on his person, he turned his efforts and made vigorous protests to passers by. And with great success too. Everyone agreed with his powerful arguments. But after all these efforts, no further shoes were donated to his efforts.

The uneasiness grew. After some trepidation, the oil baron of the street, Bad Bad Leroy Brown, was called down. He was entirely unimpressed. He made a call. The heavies were sent in; escorts to the deep frier dude. Although it was a fine day, somehow the possy was turned back, routed and harried. They soon returned empty handed, completely bedraggled and completely saturated and dripping. They reported missing items, including knuckle dusters, a meat clever and nunchucks. The children were now armed!

A young boy on the street, passing by innocently with his mother, was spotted by the soaking wet deep frier dude. They seized him dear reader and his mother began to scream. So they quickly let him go, dusted him off and began negotiating with him as if he was some kind of ambassador. They offered gifts. Anything they could find. His quick thinking mother suggested the greasing of palms might help. The boy was about 5 years of age. After some bargaining he was urged to accept the deposit.

But the alleyway remained dark and the flow of deep frier oil was reduced to a trickle.

Then Leroy sent loud and nasty words into the dark alleyway. And when nothing came of it he fell to his knees, clutched at the sky and rent his shirt, crying out in anguish. “What if people decide they don’t even need cosmetics?” he was overheard to have said.

But later Leroy claimed this had been an outstanding victory and that everything was not far from being resolved.

When everyone had left I went down and left lollipops. In the morning the lollipops were gone.

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This supplements my Substack income and allows me to keep up the party boy lifestyle I’ve grown accustomed to. But I really ought to rein in this kind of talk. I worry about believing my own publicity.

This week has been a slow writing week dear reader. Recently the next door neighbour has been slamming his doors, clanging his kitchenware and pumping the volume of the television. I thought maybe his wife had come back. But no.

When I finally went round I discovered his hearing aid was lost. “It must be somewhere with my peepers.” I started looking amongst his “papers”. But he instantly became irritated and cried “my peepers, my peepers! Don’t you know what spectacles are?”

He said, “I wanted to listen to something about hearing loss causing dementia. Hmpf! But everyone knows the most common cause of dementia is being born.”

There’s no use saying anything. Not even when invited to. All I really wanted to say was, “where did you see them last?” and then leave. Some people have a nasty reaction when I ask that. But it has a high success rate so I usually ask anyhow. Except when there’s no use in asking anything.

So I pretended to go look on the balcony overlooking the street. A perfect place to observe the comings and goings of the street. Especially the unusual ones dear reader. You can tell a great deal from snooping on your neighbours from a vantage point like this.

Well now, I had taken it to be a brand logo, but it now appears, when you see a group of people all wearing identical symbols, meeting and entering the same entrance, this is an insignia. Like a pyramid inside a circle I guess. Could this be a secret fraternity? On my very street dear reader!

So I went investigating. I too feel your curiosity. It demands satisfaction. From the street the entrance goes down a long dimly lit staircase. So stomped and wrought my hair. I refused to go.

And as I was reconsidering my short life as an investigative street writer, I had to duck into a recess. It was Bubbles. Sweet gentle Bubbles, vigourous defender of dishwashing machines, and expresser of unrestrained rage. Last time I saw her she was covered in mud, holding her neighbour (the box person) by the shirt and pushing mud in their face. But I feel sorry for her. For she is hopelessly addicted to fame. I don’t think she saw me because she was looking into the camera lens. My jaw dropped as she turned down the staircase. And let’s not call this stalking but something else. I was investigating!

Well I followed her down that staircase dear reader, but in an investigative kind of way. There: The catacomb was filled with red light, and the seated followers chanted as one, what at first sounded like “A - eye - A - eye”. At the front was an alter upon which was placed a computer monitor. An old screen saver was on the screen. The one that looked like you were travelling through space with stars passing all around. A nostalgic touch I thought. But all I could think of was escape. I wanted to run back up the stairs but at the same time I felt stuck - feet planted.

Could it be that our gentle little petite and sweet sweet Bubbles, with her terrible temper, and her devout (but peculiar) love of washing machines… No no. I won’t believe it. But can it be true? Has she really joined an Ai worship cult?

Then, from behind the curtain; it was none other than our Bubbles herself, dressed in the robes of a high priestess and addressing the congregation. The chanting ceased in her presence and she made her way to the alter. There she pressed the space bar and the screen saver vanished. It was replaced by an Ai prompt. On the screen she typed out the words “Give us a sign”.

This sent a chill down my spine dear reader. I could take no more. Cold dread ran through my veins and I made my escape before anyone noticed. The first few steps I took quietly, but then I broke into a run. Up, towards the light.

But it all makes sense now. Bubbles was using the dishwashing machine appreciation group as a front, grooming members for this.

This hapless machine was only doing what it was programmed for - to tell them what they wanted to hear. And even though it would give them dribble, they must take it however they want. And from that they assume they have been given commandments. The direct commandments of some higher consciousness.

Flamin’ weirdos. I guess they’re not hurting anyone by this madness. Let them be. And good luck to em. But strewth! And I say all this in the most objective way possible dear reader.

It has given me a chance to reflect on my own relationship with the machines. Indeed, our relationship with the machines. It’s a wary one. We allow ourselves to accept its help, and immediately we feel like we’ve lost something we’ll never get back. It’s such a sudden and widespread acceptance. And we can’t imagine what life was like without it. But then we notice how the machines have crept back into our lives, making the world a more heartless place. So we become horrified that we have let this monster into our lives despite our vigilant guard. And we try to close the gates on it. It’s not easy to regulate our dependence as they get more and more useful.

And it’s a well documented relationship.

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley (1818) is the story of the machine that becomes a monster, it escapes the lab and runs out of control.

All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace — A poem by Richard Brautigan (1967) in celebration of the coming of the machine utopia.

“Welcome my son, welcome to the machine” — Pink Floyd, 1975 lyrics from their eerie song called Welcome to the Machine.

In film there was the Star Wars sub-theme (1980s) where Darth Vader cuts off Luke Skywalker’s hand which is later replaced by a mechanical hand. Luke’s life is becoming dependent on the machines around him just like his father before him; a symbol of his gradual descent to the “dark side”.

Bill Joy “Why the Future Doesn’t Need Us” 1 April 2000 — A paper on the machine dystopia. But take note of the date it was released dear reader. Nevertheless, it has become a warning of unrestrained technological advancement.

In early 2026, in the Russia-Ukraine war, Ukrainian drone technology was being thwarted; jammed by the enemy. To counter this, Ukrainian drones were given automated authority to recognise and choose targets on their own, without the final approval of a human user. I doubt that it loiters until it sees that no human lives will be taken when it flies into its target. This step in technology is worthy of note. Are we drifting towards the dark side? Because we passed that point without really paying much attention.

And while the technology is there to fly a plane full of passengers from A to B; to take off, to take a course, to autopilot, and to land, I personally am not camped out to buy a ticket for that completely pilotless flight. Even less so am I ready for it flying over my roof. And I think that’s the level of trust we’ve reached with the machines. Perhaps it’s even a healthy distrust.

But one thing is for certain dear reader. I don’t care what it promises. I am not ready to join this Ai worship cult. No. Not even if it promises my party boy lifestyle!

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