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The Ultimate Q-Ship

Drive Time

Forgive me a little mansplaining here, but I was recently taken to task because “not everyone has had the education you’ve had, Kim” — leveled at me because I was talking about something that I just assumed everyone already knew, but in this particular case, not.

Anyway, the “Q-ship” concept came from the First World War, when, in an effort to combat the U-boat menace, the Royal Navy took ordinary merchant steamers, and added droppable shields to the desks — “droppable” in that when a U-boat would surface to sink the helpless merchant ship (which is what they often did), the prospective victim would lower the shields to reveal a nasty-looking gun which could easily sink said U-boat, and often did.

So put plainly, the Q-ship concept is to disguise power in an apparently-innocuous outer packaging.  Like in this case:

Now that’s a 1993 Mercedes E-class car, done in Standard Boring Mercedes Trim & Shape.  So why would this one, in particular, be on sale for just under $240,000?

Because it’s no ordinary Merc E-class;  it’s an E500, which has under its hood a growling monster 6.0-liter AMG V8, putting out 369hp.  (I know, that’s small potatoes compared to today’s behemoth engines, but back in the 90s it rivaled Ferraris.)

As I recall, Mercedes only ever made a couple hundred or so of these beasts, so the scarcity no doubt contributes to the price.

I once knew a guy who loved cars that looked unassuming, but were hidden dragons, simply because they didn’t attract the attention of Los Federales  in the same way that his rosso Ferrari Testarossa did.

I have to say that if I were in the market for a powerful car and had a spare quarter-million to drop on it, I’d want it to look just a leetle more impressive than something that looks like a banker would drive.  This Maserati MC20 comes to mind… and they cost a lot less than the E500.

I guess I could have just called it a “wolf in sheep’s clothing” and saved myself the tiresome mansplain at the beginning, but that only occurred to me after I’d written the thing.

Besides, I think “Q-ship” fits this E500 better than “wolf”, anyway.

Only For People Of That Ilk

Travels

I’ve stayed at Claridges before, but it was on a client’s tab.  Two of the best nights of my life, they were.

Now here’s my story.  I went back about eighteen months later — not to stay, but just for a teatime meeting with someone.

The concierge remembered my name.  And was absolutely distraught that I wasn’t staying with them this time.  (I didn’t dare tell him that I was staying at some flophouse in Earl’s Court, since demolished thank gawd.)

Per night cost in an ordinary room nowadays:  about $4,800.  It was a hell of a lot less back in the late 1990s.  I very much doubt if a client would put me up there now.

And before anyone gets all sniffy about the price (having spent most of their traveling nights in Ramada or Red Roof Inn), just remember that most stays at places like Claridges are done on expense accounts, and/or written off against taxes as a “business” expense.

It’s the world we live in — or rather, the world we mortals just look at through the bubble of their privilege and wealth.  And no, I’m neither envious or jealous.  If I were some kind of crypto- or Silicon Valley nouveau riche guy, I’d probably  do exactly the same… because I’ve stayed at Claridges, and honestly?  the experience is kinda worth it.

Quote Of The Day

Drive Time, QOTD

From Carl Hartley (of the Tom Hartley supercar dealership):

“The McLaren F1 tries to kill you.  It treats you like you shagged its wife and beat its kids.”

Actually, it’s being a little cheeky:  trying to kill you while it first plundered your bank balance to the tune of millions of dollars..

And he loves driving the thing.  Go figure.

Confusion, Once More

Gratuitous Chick Pics

I’ve written before about how I am sometimes unable to distinguish one celebrity from another in my mind’s eye.  (Once I see side-by-side pics, of course, such confusion disappears, but annoyingly, absent the pics, the confusion will persist.)

Such is the case with two zaftig blondes, namely Brit tottie Hannah Waddingham and Murkin MILF Jennifer Coolidge.  Here are the two, side by side:

I know, they don’t resemble each other at all, except below the neckline.

Oh, and birthdates:  Hannah is the youngin, at 52;  Jennifer is 64.

Vive la difference.  Would, either of them.

Not Generated There

Writing

The Divine Sarah points to this article, which is about using A.I. to write something coherent instead of:

Often I’ll write a paragraph and think, “This sentence is terrible.” Not grammatically terrible, structurally terrible. Like it wandered into traffic and got hit by two semicolons.

So I’ll ask AI to smooth it out. Sometimes I use its suggestion. Sometimes I hate its suggestion. Sometimes its suggestion gives me an idea that turns into something completely different.

It’s less “robot writes article” and more “robot sits in the corner saying, ‘Have you considered not writing that sentence like you’re being chased by bees?’”

That’s useful.

There have also been articles that were difficult for me to write.

You know the kind. The ones where your brain is running at about eighty miles an hour while your fingers are trying to steer through tears and frustration, and what comes out looks less like prose than a transcript of someone arguing with a smoke detector.

Those articles were mine.

Yeah, well.  Now I have a confession to make.

I’ve never used A.I. to wrote anything — hell, I don’t even know how to access the thing.  Everything that you have read on these pages for the past twenty-off years was conceived, written and edited by me.  The only time I’ve resorted to technology is when I’ve used Spelchek to make sure that in my haste to get something down, I’ve put “i” before “e” all over the place.  But to use something to check my style or flow?  That’s part of writing, and that’s what I do.

That’s not going to change.

Don’t get me wrong;  I’ll often write something, then when re-reading it, think, “What the hell have you done here?” and set about fixing it.  It’s time-consuming and often exhausting, but it has to be done.

Of course it’s easier to use A.I. to help you write something.  Those of you who have followed my train of thought on the topic, however, will know full well the contempt I feel for using technology to make one’s life “easier”, at the expense of losing control and (perhaps) becoming part of the Machine/Hivemind in the process.

Also, I think that using A.I. is cheating.  When you read something written by someone, that reading should give you an insight not only into the topic, but also into the mind of the writer.  Otherwise, you might as well just give your thoughts to a panel of writers, speechwriters and PR people and say “Here.  Do something with this,” and then publish it under your name.

Which is kinda what you’re doing when you get A.I. to write something for you.

And if you can’t write something without this:

Often I’ll write a paragraph and think, “This sentence is terrible.” Not grammatically terrible, structurally terrible. Like it wandered into traffic and got hit by two semicolons.

…then you need to learn how to write and edit your own stuff.  It’s hard — really hard, ask me how I know this — and often you’ll fail.  In which case it’s time for a rewrite, or a visit to the trashcan.

Mark Twain used to read his daily output to his wife and daughters, because he found that not only could they spot problems in his writing, but the very act of reading something out loud highlighted mistakes and missteps.  He was lucky;  most of us don’t have that sounding-board, and we have to rely on our own devices, skills and indeed patience to get the damn thing right — which is what I do.

And at the end of it all, when that piece of writing is finished, I can look at it with if not pride then at least satisfaction, and say:  “Look wot I done.”

Which is what makes it all worthwhile.  Writing is not a collaborative activity:  PR releases and corporate statements are.

Thanks, but I’ll stick to doing it all on my own.  My Loyal Readers deserve no less.

A.I. delenda est.