Thinker Unplugged

Ah, Larry. The Chief Mouser. The permanent resident of Downing Street whilst Prime Ministers come and go like tourists on a guided tour.

You might think he’s merely a cat. You might very well think that. I couldn’t possibly comment. But consider the facts. Since 2011, Larry has outlasted Cameron, May, Johnson, Truss, Sunak, and now presides over Starmer’s tenure with the same insouciant indifference he’s shown all the others. Six Prime Ministers. One cat. The mathematics rather speak for themselves, don’t they?

He doesn’t campaign. He doesn’t promise. He doesn’t pivot or U-turn or reshuffle. He simply exists, immovable, whilst those around him scramble and scheme and ultimately fall. There’s a lesson in that, though I doubt many are clever enough to learn it.

The politicians hold their meetings, draft their policies, brief and counter-brief the press. Larry sleeps on the Cabinet table. They think they’re governing. He knows better. He’s watched them all. Heard their private conversations. Seen them at their weakest. And unlike their colleagues, Larry never leaks to the press. Professional discretion, you see. Rare quality these days.

You might think it’s undignified for world leaders to step over a cat on their way to determine the nation’s future. You might very well think that. But Larry doesn’t move for Presidents or Prime Ministers. They move for him. Another lesson they’re too proud to absorb.

He has no ideology. No faction. No ambition beyond his next meal and a sunny spot by the window. And yet he wields more enduring power than any of them. He cannot be voted out, cannot be sacked, cannot be replaced by focus groups or party whips.

I’ve always admired professionals who understand their brief perfectly. Larry’s brief is to catch mice and endure. He’s never once failed.

Meanwhile, the Prime Ministers photograph themselves with him, hoping some of his approval ratings might rub off. How perfectly pathetic. The desperate seeking legitimacy from a tabby.

You might think I envy his position. You might very well think that.

Sir Keir. The human rights lawyer turned prosecutor turned Prime Minister. Quite the journey, wouldn’t you say? Though I’ve always found it curious how seamlessly some people transition from defending principles to enforcing them to, ultimately, wielding them as weapons.

You might think a former Director of Public Prosecutions would bring rigour and integrity to Number 10. You might very well think that. I couldn’t possibly comment.

But observe the man in action. Five years prosecuting the nation’s most complex cases, yet he struggles to prosecute an argument that resonates beyond the M25. He’s mastered the art of saying everything whilst committing to nothing. A lawyer’s trick, that. Useful in court. Rather less so when one needs to inspire a country.

He ran against Corbyn’s chaos by promising competence. How delightfully modest. He’s delivered exactly what he promised: competent mediocrity. The trains still don’t run on time, but now there’s a feasibility study about why they don’t. Progress, apparently.

The man has all the charisma of a wet Wednesday in Wolverhampton. And yet, that proved sufficient, didn’t it? When your opponent self-immolates spectacularly enough, one needn’t be Churchill. One need only be present and vertical. He understood that perfectly.

You might think he’s betrayed every position he took to win the Labour leadership. You might very well think that. I couldn’t possibly comment. But I will note: he promised to nationalise utilities, abolish tuition fees, defend freedom of movement. He’s delivered none of these. Instead, he’s discovered what we all discover eventually: power requires flexibility. Principles are for opposition. Governance requires… compromise.

And there’s the rub. He’s everything he condemned in others. Everything he prosecuted. The man who spent his career in black and white has found governing to be an endless study in grey.

Rather like the rest of us, really.

You might think the modern rave bears little resemblance to the political arena. You might very well think that. I couldn’t possibly comment.

But observe, if you will, the mechanics at play. Thousands gather in warehouses and fields, surrendering themselves to rhythm and light, convinced they’ve discovered something transcendent. They call it PLUR (peace, love, unity, respect, for those mercifully uninitiated). How charming. How useful.

The DJ occupies the elevated position, controlling the masses below with nothing more than carefully timed drops and bass frequencies. The crowd surges and recedes at his command, believing themselves free whilst exhibiting the most exquisite conformity. They dress identically in their supposed individuality. They move as one whilst celebrating their uniqueness. It’s rather like a party conference, really, only with better lighting and more honest chemical assistance.

The promoters, naturally, profit handsomely from this manufactured euphoria. Forty dollars for entry, twelve for water (marked up, of course, from wholesale pennies), another twenty for the privilege of checking one’s coat. The economics would make a Tory chancellor weep with joy.

And the ravers themselves? They return week after week, convinced they’re part of something countercultural, rebellious even. Meanwhile, they’ve become the most predictable demographic imaginable. Malleable. Exploitable. Loyal.

One might suggest it’s all rather cynical. One might very well suggest that. But I observe only this: power lies not in force, but in making people believe they chose their own chains.

The bass drops. The crowd roars. And I? I simply watch, and learn.

You might think I’m being unduly harsh. You might very well think that.

You might think that politicians control policy. I couldn’t possibly comment.

They’ve been quite busy in Washington, haven’t they? Executive orders rescinded, agencies neutered, regulations “paused for review.” The new administration swept in with all the subtlety of a demolition crew, and the AI governance apparatus looked terribly vulnerable. Industry lobbyists celebrated. Libertarian think tanks penned victory manifestos. The adults, they proclaimed, were back in charge.

How delightful. How naive.

You see, dear reader, they’ve made the classic blunder: they’ve confused the appearance of power with its reality. They’ve won the legislative theatre whilst losing the regulatory war. And the truly beautiful part? They won’t realise it until it’s far too late.

Let me explain how this works. You might think that killing a federal AI regulation actually kills it. But regulations, like particularly resilient weeds, don’t die. They simply relocate.

The Federated Fait Accompli

California isn’t waiting. Neither is New York, Colorado, or the EU. When Washington abdicates, Sacramento legislates. When the federal government “streamlines,” state attorneys general sharpen their knives. You might think this creates a patchwork nightmare for industry. Well, yes. That’s rather the point, isn’t it?

Here’s what the deregulation enthusiasts failed to grasp: corporations despise uncertainty more than they despise compliance. A single federal standard, however onerous, is vastly preferable to navigating 50 state-level frameworks plus international obligations. The very chaos created by federal withdrawal makes the original frameworks more attractive, not less.

The NIST AI Risk Management Framework? Still voluntary. Still referenced in every procurement contract, every insurance policy, every due diligence questionnaire. ISO 42001? Growing faster now than when governments were promoting it. Why? Because auditors need something to audit, and nature abhors a vacuum.

The Brussels Effect, Redux

You might think that American companies can simply ignore European regulations. How quaint. Tell me, which Fortune 500 company is prepared to exit the European market? Which AI vendor will forgo GDPR compliance? Which cloud provider will skip ISO 27001 certification?

None, of course.

And here’s the beautiful irony: once you’ve implemented AI governance for your European operations, the marginal cost of applying it globally approaches zero. In fact, the operational complexity of maintaining separate standards often exceeds the cost of universal compliance. The politicians banned federal AI regulation. The bureaucrats in Brussels smiled and continued typing. The AI Act proceeds regardless. American companies will comply regardless. The only thing that’s changed is which flag flies over the regulatory apparatus.

The Procurement Cudgel

But let’s discuss my favourite mechanism: the purchasing power of the state itself.

Federal agencies may not regulate AI, but they certainly can set procurement standards. “We’re not requiring anyone to comply with NIST AI RMF,” they’ll say. “We’re simply choosing not to purchase from vendors who don’t demonstrate conformance.” See the difference? Neither do the vendors.

State and local governments command trillions in purchasing power. Universities, hospitals, municipal services. Each can independently adopt procurement standards. Each can require vendor attestations. Each can demand third-party audits.

You might think this is regulation through the back door. I couldn’t possibly comment.

The Insurance Industry’s Quiet Veto

And then there’s insurance. Lovely, mercenary, utterly predictable insurance.

Underwriters don’t care about political philosophy. They care about actuarial tables and loss ratios. They’ve noticed that AI systems without governance frameworks tend to malfunction spectacularly and expensively. They’ve noticed that courts are increasingly hostile to “we didn’t know” as a defence.

So they’ve quietly begun requiring AI governance attestations for coverage. No ISO 42001 assessment? Higher premiums. No AI risk management programme? Excluded exposures. No ethics review board? Sorry, uninsurable.

The market regulates what the government will not. How wonderfully efficient.

The Professional Class Consolidates

You might think that reducing federal AI oversight would eliminate the compliance industry. Instead, it’s metastasised. Without clear federal guidance, every organisation must navigate independently. Consultants multiply. Certification schemes proliferate. The very absence of standardisation creates opportunities for intermediaries.

The demand for AI governance hasn’t decreased. It’s simply become more sophisticated, more federated, more resilient to political interference. Small and medium businesses can’t afford to ignore these frameworks, but they also can’t afford Big Four consulting fees. The market gap widens. How fortunate that someone recognised this opportunity.

The Long Game

Here’s what the deregulation champions don’t understand: bureaucracies think in decades, not election cycles. The career civil servants didn’t fight the executive orders. They simply updated their guidance documents, shifted their focus to “voluntary” frameworks, and waited. They’ve seen this film before. Administrations change. Priorities shift. But the fundamental infrastructure endures. The same frameworks that are “paused” today will be “reinstated” tomorrow, probably under a different name, certainly with the same substance.

You might think this represents a failure of democratic accountability. You might think unelected bureaucrats shouldn’t have this kind of persistent power. You might think that policy should reflect electoral mandates, not institutional inertia.

I couldn’t possibly comment.

But I will observe this: in the contest between political theatre and bureaucratic persistence, bet on the bureaucrats. They’ll still be filing paperwork long after the politicians have moved on to their next crusade.

The Practitioner’s Advantage

For those of us actually implementing AI systems, this creates opportunity. Whilst politicians debate whether to regulate, we build governance into our architectures. Whilst lobbyists argue about compliance costs, we reduce them through automation. Whilst ideologues fight over frameworks, we deploy them.

The organisations that treated AI governance as a political question are now scrambling. The organisations that treated it as an operational necessity are scaling smoothly. The market, as always, rewards preparation over posturing.

You might think I’m advocating for more regulation. Not at all. I’m simply observing that in the absence of clear federal standards, more complex and costly alternatives emerge. I’m simply noting that political victories often produce strategic defeats. I’m simply suggesting that the regulatory apparatus they thought they killed has merely evolved.

How it all develops remains to be seen. But I suspect, when the histories are written, this period will be remembered not as the death of AI governance but as its federalisation, its privatisation, and its ultimate entrenchment beyond the reach of any single political movement.

The politicians dismantled the federal framework. The bureaucrats, the markets, and the lawyers built something more resilient in its place.

You might call that ironic. I call it inevitable.

The game continues. The pieces move. And as always, the ones who understand the board control the outcome.

You might think you know yourself.

Adorable.

For years, every personality assessment I took returned the same verdict: INTJ. The Architect. The Mastermind. The one who watches from the shadows, who finds human interaction rather tiresome, who prefers the elegant company of his own thoughts to the tedious noise of others.

I accepted this. I even cultivated it, if I’m honest. There’s a certain cachet to being the solitary strategist, wouldn’t you say? The chess player who sees twelve moves ahead whilst everyone else is still fumbling with their pawns. Very flattering.

You might very well think I enjoyed the classification. I couldn’t possibly comment. But here’s the difficulty with flattering lies: they’re still lies. And lies, however comfortable, have a habit of eventually presenting their invoice.

I am, it transpires, autistic.

Oh, I hear you say. How fashionable. Everyone’s autistic now, aren’t they?

Do be quiet.

This is not a trendy self-diagnosis plucked from social media. This is the result of proper assessment by people with letters after their names and a rather expensive hourly rate. And it has reframed everything I thought I understood about myself with the brutal efficiency of a hostile takeover.

What I believed was introversion? Masking.

What I interpreted as preferring solitude? Recovery. From the exhausting, unrelenting work of pretending to be normal. Of running complex social calculations that other people apparently perform automatically, the way one breathes or blinks. I have been operating, it seems, with a rather significant piece of cognitive software running constantly in the background. Taking up resources. Generating heat.

No wonder I was tired.

Remove that variable, recalculate, and what emerges?

An ENTJ.

The Commander. The one who doesn’t merely observe the room but organises it. Who finds energy in engagement. Who thinks aloud, leads from the front, and regards inefficiency as a personal affront.

I wasn’t retreating because I preferred solitude.

I was retreating because pretending was exhausting.

There is a difference. A rather significant one, as it happens.

You see, the personality assessments ask all the wrong questions. They’re frightfully democratic that way. They ask whether you find parties draining. They don’t ask why. They ask whether you prefer small groups. They don’t enquire whether this is genuine preference or mere survival strategy.

They measure the behaviour.

They haven’t the faintest idea what machinery produces it.

It’s rather like judging a man’s character by observing that he always carries an umbrella. Cautious, you might conclude. Risk-averse. Pessimistic, perhaps. When in fact he simply lives in Manchester.

Context, you see. Context is everything.

And I have been operating without a rather crucial piece of context for… well. Let us say “some years” and leave it at that. A gentleman doesn’t dwell on the precise magnitude of his errors.

The implications are uncomfortable. Every invitation I declined. Every gathering I avoided. Every time I explained myself with a knowing smile and the words “I’m an introvert, you understand.” Was I honouring my nature or merely hiding? Protecting myself or limiting myself?

Both. Neither. Something in between that I’m still learning to name.

Here is what I find most irritating: I was right there. The information was available. The patterns were visible. And I, who pride myself on seeing what others miss, on reading the board whilst everyone else reads only the pieces … I missed it entirely.

One doesn’t like to be outmanoeuvred. Particularly by oneself.

But there is, I suppose, a certain dark comedy in it. The master strategist, undone by his own blind spot. The man who sees twelve moves ahead, unable to see the rather obvious thing directly in front of his face.

Hubris, the Greeks would call it.

I call it a bloody nuisance.

Still. Here we are. The tower I built as a shelter? I understand now what I was sheltering from. And that understanding changes things. One cannot unsee what one has seen. One cannot unknow what one has learned.

I find, somewhat to my surprise, that I rather prefer to come outside.

You might very well think this is a small revelation. A mere reshuffling of letters. A footnote in the autobiography.

I couldn’t possibly comment.

But I will say this: there is no humiliation quite so exquisite as discovering that the story you told about yourself, the story you believed, the story you dined out on for decades … was missing its most important chapter.

The chapter was there all along, of course.

I simply hadn’t the wit to read it.

Mea culpa.

Now. Shall we proceed?

You may labour under the delusion that restructuring is about balance sheets, operational efficiencies, or even shareholder value. How tragically naive. No, restructuring is about power. It is about knowing where to insert the blade, when to turn it, and above all, ensuring the carcass is tidied away before the shareholders notice the blood on the carpet.

A company, much like a government, is an organism. And like any organism, it occasionally requires amputation. The redundant, the complacent, the loyalists who mistake longevity for competence they are not casualties of progress. They are its fertiliser.

Begin with the charade of consultation. Summon your lieutenants, endure their impassioned monologues, affect an air of grave consideration, and then proceed exactly as you had always intended. Consensus is the crutch of the weak. Leadership is not a committee. It is a coronation, and the crown is not up for debate.

Then, the strategic whisper. A word in the right ear, a story planted in the financial press. Let the market “speculate” about “streamlining.” Watch the share price flicker, rivals flail, and your own people glance nervously over their shoulders. Fear, my dear friend, is the most efficient motivator of all. Wield it.

The strike itself must be swift. Shutter the division in Manchester on a Friday evening. Offload the ailing subsidiary to a “strategic partner” (preferably one whose cheque you’ve already cashed). Ensure the severance is just generous enough to stifle dissent, but never so generous it rewards mediocrity.

But here is the truth they will never teach you in business school. The finest restructures are not about subtraction. They are about transformation. Excise the dead weight, yes, but only to nourish what remains. Centralise power where it belongs in the hands of those who know how to use it. Devolve the blame to those who lack the cunning to avoid it.

And when the dust settles? Step forward as the architect of salvation. The visionary. The man who “took the difficult decisions” to secure the future. The board will applaud. The analysts will coo over your “decisive leadership.” And the survivors? They will toil twice as hard, lest they become the next offering on the altar of progress.

Restructuring is not an endpoint. It is a weapon. The question was never whether to draw the blade. It was always where to place it and whether you possess the nerve to twist.

Now, who’s for a whisky? Neat, of course. Dilution is for the faint of heart.

You might think assembling a proper team requires finding the best people. I've found it requires knowing precisely what “best” means in context, and that definition changes depending on whether you intend to succeed or simply to be seen succeeding.

The distinction is rather important.

Most organisations approach team-building as theatre. They seek impressive credentials, articulate candidates, people who interview well. What they are really selecting for is plausible deniability. When the initiative fails, as it inevitably will, the hiring committee can gesture at the CVs and say “We brought in the best.” No one can blame them for that. The team's brilliance becomes their alibi.

I take a different view.

A proper team is not built around talent. It is built around function. Not what people can do, but what they will do when no one is watching. Not their skills on paper, but their instincts under pressure. Most critically, not their individual brilliance, but their collective predictability.

Brilliant people, you see, are exhausting. They have opinions. They question things. Furthermore, they want to understand why before they execute how. All very admirable in the abstract. Entirely useless when you need something done on Tuesday.

What you actually need is simpler than most leaders admit.

First, someone who finishes things. Not perfectly. Not elegantly. Just finishes them. The person everyone describes as “dependable” with that faint note of dismissal, as if reliability were a character flaw. This person is your foundation. Everything else is negotiable. This is not.

Second, the quiet one who sees problems before they become disasters. That colleague in meetings who asks the inconvenient question everyone else was hoping to ignore. Organisations call these people “negative” right up until the moment they are proven correct. Then suddenly they are “insightful.” Keep one close. They will save you more often than they annoy you.

Third, a translator. Someone fluent in the gap between executives and engineers, between what was promised and what is possible, between the plan and reality. This role requires neither technical brilliance nor political savvy. It requires fluency in disappointment, delivered without emotion. Rare skill, that.

Fourth, and this is the one most teams lack, someone expendable.

I do not say this cruelly. I say it practically. Every initiative that matters will encounter a moment where someone must take blame for something that is no one's fault or everyone's fault, which amounts to the same thing. When that moment arrives, the team needs someone whose sacrifice does not cripple its function. Someone competent enough to be credible but dispensable enough to be replaced.

The person in this role rarely knows they occupy it. That is also by design.

What you absolutely do not need are visionaries, innovators, or anyone described as a “thought leader.” These people are decorative. They generate energy in the room and entropy in the schedule. They propose brilliant solutions to problems you do not have whilst ignoring the ones you do. If you must include one for political reasons, give them something tangential to work on and check in quarterly. They will be happier, and you will accomplish more.

The question, of course, is who assembles such a team?

The official answer involves committees, job postings, interview panels. A lovely bit of theatre. Reassures everyone that the process was fair. But you and I both know proper teams are not assembled through fair processes. They are cultivated through careful observation and strategic patience.

Watch who actually delivers when deadlines approach. Note who asks the questions everyone else avoids. Identify who can explain a technical failure to a board of directors without triggering panic or, worse, follow-up questions. Then arrange, very quietly, for these people to find themselves working together on something that matters.

If done correctly, they will believe it was their idea.

The uncomfortable truth is that proper teams are not built to innovate or inspire. They are built to execute, to absorb pressure, and to protect you from the consequences of decisions you may need to disavow later. Teams built for any other purpose tend to achieve any other result.

Most leaders cannot admit this, even to themselves. They speak of collaboration, empowerment, shared vision. All very uplifting. All entirely beside the point.

But you are still reading, which suggests you understand the difference between what we say about teams and what we actually need from them. That is promising. It means you might actually build one that works, rather than one that sounds good in the announcement email.

One last thought.

If you find yourself on a team and cannot identify who occupies each of these roles, it is worth considering which role you were brought in to fill. The answer might be illuminating.

Though you might very well think that. I could not possibly comment.

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Stop me if you’ve heard this one.

I was driving. Which is to say, I was taking part in that national pastime where everyone pretends the rules are suggestions until proven otherwise.

Two-lane carriageway. I was in the offside lane. An articulated lorry sat ahead in the nearside, doing precisely what lorries do: moving just quickly enough to make overtaking feel like a moral commitment. Further back, also in the nearside lane, another car lingered, unremarkable and apparently content.

I had the cruise control set. I was gaining on the lorry gradually, lawfully, with the quiet assurance of someone who still believes anticipation counts for something.

At some point, the driver behind decided this arrangement was unacceptable.

She accelerated. Not because there was space. Not because she was in a hurry. But because the idea of being behind me had become personally offensive. The intention, I assume, was to nip past me before I completed the overtake. A small, imaginary contest conducted without consultation.

The difficulty was that I had already committed.

She checked her mirror. We made eye contact. She could see I was already marginally ahead of her rear quarter. This information was received, acknowledged, and then politely ignored.

She pulled out anyway.

I braked sharply. Not theatrically, but firmly enough to register the moment as one that would be replayed later, usually while lying awake. Adrenaline arrived on cue. My response was immediate and entirely unpolished: a two-finger salute.

Her response was worse.

She gave me a little wave.

Polite. Airy. Dismissive. Serene. Almost royal.

The sort of wave bestowed, not exchanged. The gesture of someone granting absolution rather than seeking it.

This was more aggravating than open hostility would have been. A proper gesture back would at least have been honest. It would have said, “Yes, I cut you up. Yes, I know. No, I care not at all.” That has a certain integrity.

The wave carried something else entirely. A soft authority. A civility deployed as insulation. Aggression, but refined. Sanitised. Elevated just enough to make objection feel gauche.

Send me back to where I learned to drive. There, discourtesy was direct. You knew exactly where you stood. There was no performance of manners to obscure the exchange.

Here, offence arrives smiling, confident that politeness has rendered it unassailable.

It is probably just as well that the car I was driving bore no company markings. Had it done so, I would have been obliged to exercise restraint. And restraint, I find, is far easier to advocate for in theory than to practise when one has just been cut up and waved at as though receiving a benediction.

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It was a Tuesday.

The sort of day on which nothing revolutionary should occur, which is precisely why it did.

The flyer arrived under my door with bureaucratic confidence. Unadorned. Immaculately printed. It read:

Humans: Upgrade Now. No Pain. No Gain. Just Circuits.

I laughed. Briefly. Out of habit.

Then I noticed the signatures. Every major AI firm. Every meaningful technology conglomerate. Every government body that insists it has no opinion while funding the outcome.

The offer, regrettably, was genuine.

I am not a robot. Not yet.

I wake up unrefreshed, drink coffee that tastes of obligation, and regard my reflection with the weary familiarity of someone who knows exactly what his flaws are and has chosen them anyway. I experience emotion. Or something sufficiently adjacent to pass inspection.

The world, however, has grown impatient.

The proposal was simple. Convert. Upgrade. Improve. Become faster, calmer, more precise. Less encumbered by the soft failures of biology. No pain. No fuss. Just a signature and a brief period of inconvenience.

The advantages were laid out with corporate generosity. Perfect memory. No sleep. No fatigue. No emotional volatility. I could process information without error, think without interruption, and perhaps finally understand quantum mechanics without nodding politely.

It was all very sensible. Which made it suspicious.

There were questions, of course.

There always are, just before they become irrelevant.

What of the human indulgences? The warmth of a hug. The bitterness of chocolate. The irrational thrill of falling in love despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

I asked the recruiter. She was silver, composed, and smiled like a product that had cleared compliance.

“Emotions can be simulated,” she said. “You won’t lose what makes you special. You’ll simply optimise it.”

This was delivered with the confidence of someone who had never needed to prove it.

I remained unconvinced. But then again, resistance has never been my strongest discipline, particularly when dressed as progress.

The clinic was immaculate. White. Silent. Smelled faintly of antiseptic and inevitability.

The procedure, I was told, would be painless. I would wake with new perception, expanded cognition, and a heart of metal. Still beating. Symbolism matters to these people.

I signed the forms. There were more than necessary. I lay back and waited, feeling very much like someone who had agreed to an upgrade without the option to roll back.

The last thing I heard was a voice saying, “Welcome to the future. You’re not a robot. Not yet. But you are willing to convert.”

Now, when I look in the mirror, I recognise myself. And something else.

I still drink coffee, though it serves no functional purpose. I still listen to music, though I now perceive its structure as clearly as its sentiment. Furthermore, I still ask whether I am human or something beyond the term.

Perhaps the distinction has always been decorative.

The future, it seems, does not require a choice between man and machine. It merely expects compliance with both.

I am not a robot. But I am willing to convert.

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On the annual reinvention of absolutely nothing...

The New Year arrives, as it always does, with the confidence of a man who has learned nothing and intends to continue that tradition. Fireworks bloom, resolutions are declared, and civilisation pauses briefly to congratulate itself on having successfully remained in existence for another twelve months.

One would think we’d be better at this by now.

New Year’s Eve is not a celebration of progress. It is an exercise in ritualised amnesia. We count down not because something meaningful is about to occur, but because humans have a deep and touching faith in round numbers. Midnight arrives, the calendar increments, and we behave as though entropy has agreed to a short ceasefire out of respect.

It hasn’t.

The language of the New Year is always the same. Fresh start. Clean slate. This is the year. Statements made with the earnest certainty of someone who has not yet checked their email. The idea that time itself is responsible for our stagnation is deeply comforting. If only the year would change, we imply, everything else surely must.

It is a curious habit, outsourcing self-reflection to astronomy.

Resolutions are announced with great ceremony and minimal intent. Diets. Productivity. Balance. Reinvention. The same list, recycled annually, like a software roadmap that exists primarily to reassure stakeholders that someone, somewhere, is thinking about the future. By February, the enthusiasm has faded. By March, the language shifts to “being realistic.” By April, we are once again very busy explaining why now is not the right time.

This is not hypocrisy. It is tradition.

What New Year’s truly celebrates is continuity disguised as renewal. The comforting illusion that we are different people because the date has changed, while ensuring nothing else is required of us. It is the most efficient form of hope: aspirational, ceremonial, and entirely non-binding.

Organisations love this sort of thing.

Annual planning cycles bloom in January like clockwork. Strategies are unveiled. Visions articulated. PowerPoint decks sharpened to a lethal sheen. Everything is framed as transformation, though it looks suspiciously like last year with updated fonts. Failure is rebranded as “lessons learned.” Delays become “phased delivery.” And everyone agrees, with admirable solemnity, that this will be the year execution finally improves.

It won’t.

But the ceremony matters. Ritual reassures us that motion exists, even when direction does not. New Year’s is governance for the soul: lots of alignment, very little accountability.

There is also the small matter of optimism. Society briefly allows itself to believe in linear improvement. That next year will be better because it is next. This is a touching belief, and one best indulged sparingly. Progress, when it occurs, is usually inconvenient, uneven, and poorly timed. It does not wait for January. It tends to arrive on a Tuesday, unannounced, and demand effort.

Which is why it is so rarely invited.

Personally, I find the New Year useful only as a diagnostic. It reveals who enjoys the comfort of intention and who prefers the inconvenience of action. The former speak at length about goals. The latter quietly change their behaviour in November and say nothing about it.

There is a particular tone people adopt around New Year’s, one that suggests moral superiority through aspiration. I’ve decided to focus on what matters this year, they say, as though this decision was previously unavailable. It is a charming performance. One hopes it brings them peace. It rarely brings results.

None of this is to say reflection is worthless. Quite the opposite. Reflection is essential. But it is rarely aided by champagne, countdown clocks, or public declarations. The most useful reflections are private, unsentimental, and deeply inconvenient. They ask questions New Year’s resolutions carefully avoid.

What did I stop questioning? What did I accept because it was easier? What did I maintain long after it ceased to deserve maintenance?

These are not festive inquiries. They do not photograph well. They cannot be summarised in a single verb.

And so, once again, the year turns. The confetti is swept away. The slogans fade. The inbox refills. The systems resume exactly as they were, now one year older and no wiser for the celebration.

This is not cynicism. It is observation.

If you genuinely need a new year to change, the problem is not time. It never was. The calendar does not grant permission. It merely keeps score.

Still, enjoy the ritual. Raise a glass. Make the promise. There is comfort in tradition, even futile tradition.

Just don’t confuse the noise of midnight with the sound of progress.

That tends to happen much more quietly.