Humour ~ Only

Friday, 10 October 2025

The Trojan Horse as IKEA Flatpack by ChatGPT

Setting: Outside the gates of Troy. The giant IKEA flatpack, “Trojan Horse: Build Your Own,” is laid out on the ground. Odysseus and his crew are standing around the open box, which is packed with planks, screws, and a single sheet of instructions—completely in Swedish. The chaos of the assembly process is underway.

Odysseus: (Frustrated, staring at the instructions) This is ridiculous! “Step 1: Place tail plank”—what the hell is a tail plank? Why can’t they just say “attach the back” like normal people?

Achilles: (Squinting at the instructions) “Hästsadel”. That’s... a saddle. Why does the horse need a saddle? It doesn’t even have riders yet!

Odysseus: This isn’t a saddle, it’s part of the horse’s back! It’s... it’s... no, wait. This is clearly not a horse! This is an elaborate prank.

Achilles: No, Odysseus, it’s definitely a horse. The box clearly says "Trojan Horse" on the side. And also, “Warning: Assembly required. Some parts may be missing.”

Odysseus: (Yelling into the flatpack) Missing?! Missing parts?! We’re building an invasion here, not a coffee table! Where are the screws? All I’ve got are these tiny things that don’t even fit into the wood!

Ajax: (Grabbing a plank and aggressively shoving it into the side of the horse) This doesn’t make sense! These planks don’t even line up. Why are there so many pieces?! This is supposed to be a horse, not a three-bedroom flat!

Odysseus: (Tugging at his hair in frustration) There are more parts in here than a goddamn chariot! Who in their right mind needs this many wood pieces for a horse?

Achilles: (Trying to force two pieces together, making an exaggerated grunting sound) Hold on, I think this fits.

Odysseus: (Pacing) No, Achilles, that’s the tail from the other side of the horse! And that’s not where it goes!

Achilles: Well, it’s clearly part of the horse! You can’t build a horse without a tail, right?

Odysseus: You can, if you stop treating it like a magical furniture project! Look, the instructions say it should have four legs—why does it have eight planks labelled “legs”? It’s not an octopus!

Diomedes: (Inspecting the Allen key, confused) There’s one screw that looks like it’s meant for a bedframe, but... this one’s round? How is that supposed to fit into the horse?! None of these fit! Are we building a horse or a furniture disaster?

Odysseus: (Lifting his arms in exasperation) I don’t know. I’m going to lose my mind over this. Just get the damn legs on, and let’s make this thing look like a horse! Maybe we’ll get lucky and the Trojans won’t notice the giant Made in Ithaca sticker on the side.

Achilles: (Realising something horrifying) Wait... do you think we’re... supposed to assemble it inside the city? Because we’re not fitting this thing through those gates.

Odysseus: (Falling to his knees in despair) What? What do you mean? There’s no way we’re moving this after it’s built!

Ajax: (With a sudden thought) Do we... do we have the right type of screws? Because... I don’t think this is the right model.

Odysseus: (In a near panic) Wrong model?! What do you mean “wrong model,” Ajax?! The box clearly says “Trojan Horse”... it didn’t say “Trojan Horse for advanced builders who are qualified in carpentry”!

Achilles: (Shrugging) I mean, if the Trojans do come out to check it out, maybe we can just pretend it's a gift from the gods? Like, “Oops, we got distracted by the instructions. Here, enjoy your horse!”

Odysseus: (Horrified) I am not faking a gift from the gods! I’ll burn this thing down before I let them think we’ve got this under control.

(A beat of silence. Everyone looks at each other, realising they’ve gotten nowhere.)

Odysseus: Fine. Screw it. Just pile the pieces inside. If the Trojans come, we’ll just sit inside, act like it’s a party gift, and tell them the rest of the assembly will be done when we’ve “earned” their trust.

Achilles: (Grinning as he grabs some of the pieces) Yeah, like they’ll ever know the difference. Meanwhile, we’ll be in there, popping open some wine and pretending we’re on vacation.

Odysseus: (Pauses, looking at the chaotic jumble of wood) Okay... maybe this was the plan all along. Let’s just hope they don’t ask about the missing screws when they start taking it apart.

(The Greek soldiers begin shuffling inside the half-assembled horse, tripping over stray planks as they go.)

Odysseus: (Muttering to himself as he steps in) Maybe we should just... maybe... borrow a few more pieces from the other side of the camp?

(Scene ends with the Greek army awkwardly crammed inside the horse, surrounded by confusion, broken pieces, and a lot of very questionable assembly decisions.)

End Scene

Thursday, 9 October 2025

The Tower of Babel by ChatGPT

Scene: The Tower of Babel - Meeting the Bureaucratic Obstacles

Nimrod: "Finally, the foundations are laid, and the heavens await us!"

Foreman: "Uh, not quite, boss. We’ve just received a Cease-and-Desist from the Inter-Tribal Unity Council. Apparently, some of the tribes are complaining about workplace discrimination."

Nimrod: "Discrimination? We’re all equally united under one glorious purpose!"

Foreman: "Sure, but they say the Akkadians are hogging all the cushy marble-cutting jobs while the Sumerians are stuck lugging bricks uphill."

Nimrod: "Fine, rotate the tasks! Let’s move on!"

Inspector: [Strolling in with a clipboard] "Before you move on, you’ll need to address your Linguistic Coherence Plan. What happens if one worker says ‘brick’ but another hears ‘fish’? It’s a Health and Safety disaster waiting to happen."

Nimrod: "What in the name of all the gods does that mean?!"

Inspector: "Well, Mr. Nimrod, it means I can’t sign off on this project until every tribe passes mandatory language training. You’ll find the list of certified Babel Linguistic Tutors attached."

Foreman: [Looking at the list] "These fees are outrageous! Also, half of them specialise in divine dialects—‘Celestial Esperanto’?"

Translator: "Good luck with that. I’ve been stuck in focus groups for weeks trying to standardise ‘brick’ into a single proto-language. But no, everyone insists on preserving their ‘sacred cultural nuances.’"

Nimrod: "Enough! We’ll build regardless!"

Enter Urban Planner: [Holding an abacus and scowling]

Urban Planner: "Oh, you think you’ll just build a multi-hectare, deity-desecrating megastructure? Not with that inadequate zoning permit, you won’t. This land is designated for low-altitude grazing and bird migration corridors."

Nimrod: "We’re building for humanity’s destiny! Surely the gods won’t mind a few inconvenienced pigeons!"

Urban Planner: "I don’t write the rules. Well, I do, but that’s beside the point. You’ll need to complete Form 747-M, the ‘Sky-View Obstruction Impact Study,’ before breaking another brick. And there’s the offering tax."

Nimrod: "Offering tax?! Are we expected to bribe the gods?"

Urban Planner: "Of course not! That would be unethical. It’s a ‘divine consultation fee.’ They’re technically subcontractors."

Construction Worker: [Storming up, covered in dust] "Boss, we’ve got another problem. The Bureau of Divine Oversight says our tower height violates their Celestial Privacy Act."

Nimrod: "Privacy?! For the heavens?!"

Worker: "Yup. Apparently, we’re building too close to God’s Window. They’re worried we’ll peek in during His off hours."

Nimrod: [Fuming] "How many layers of red tape does it take to build one tower?!"

Inspector: "Depends. Did you file the Babel Noise Compliance Report? Thunderstorms will have to be muted in your construction zone."

Translator: "And good luck getting everyone to agree on that language. So far, we have six words for ‘mute’ and seven for ‘thunder.’"

Nimrod: [Sinking onto a pile of bricks] "By the gods, I just wanted to unify humanity under one roof."

Inspector: "Oh, roofs are a whole separate permit."

Urban Planner: "Don’t worry, you’ve got eternity to sort it out... unless your workers revolt first."

Construction Worker: "We already did. We’re unionising. Our motto? ‘Less Babel, More Pay.’"

Nimrod: [Holding his head in his hands] "Right, let’s regroup. What’s left to address? Surely, we’ve conquered all the red tape by now!"

Foreman: [Flipping through a stack of scrolls] "Uh… about that. There’s a new complaint from the Babel Environmental Authority."

Nimrod: "Let me guess. The bricks are upsetting the delicate ecosystem of the Dust Plains?"

Foreman: "No, the tar used for mortar is deemed a Class-3 ‘Cosmic Contaminant.’ Apparently, it might seep into the sacred aquifer and give the camels vertigo."

Nimrod: "How do camels even get vertigo?! They’re already 80% neck!"

Environmental Officer: [Entering with a stern expression] "Vertigo isn’t the point. The gods have declared that no tar-based materials can be used within 50 cubits of sacred sands. You’ll need to switch to an eco-friendly adhesive. Have you tried divine sap?"

Foreman: "Divine sap costs more than gold and takes 40 years to harvest."

Environmental Officer: "Well, maybe you shouldn’t have started a megaproject without reading the Universal Eco-Mandates."

Translator: [Bursting into the scene with more scrolls] "We’ve hit a snag with the Linguistic Coherence Plan!"

Nimrod: "Don’t tell me…"

Translator: "Turns out, some tribes refuse to standardise on basic construction terms. The Elamites are insisting ‘ladder’ should mean ‘pointy tree,’ while the Amorites now claim they don’t believe in nouns."

Nimrod: [Screaming into the heavens] "WHY DO I EVEN TRY?!"

Inspector: "Don’t shout, Nimrod. That violates the Tower Noise Ordinance. I’ve already issued you a warning scroll for excessive yelling."

Enter Fire Marshal: [Clutching a clay tablet and a torch]

Fire Marshal: "I’ve reviewed your Fire Safety Plan. It’s a disaster."

Nimrod: "Fire Safety Plan? We’re building a tower, not a forge!"

Fire Marshal: "Well, when you pack thousands of multilingual workers into a confined vertical space, the risk of ‘Divine Conflagration’ skyrockets. You’ll need at least one flaming chariot exit per floor."

Foreman: "Flaming chariots?! Where are we supposed to get those?"

Fire Marshal: "That’s not my problem. Also, you’re three cubits short on your emergency staircase width."

Nimrod: "We don’t even HAVE staircases yet!"

Fire Marshal: "Exactly. Add that to the list."

Urban Planner: [Returning with yet another scroll] "And while you’re at it, the Architectural Aesthetics Commission has demanded revisions."

Nimrod: "What now?!"

Urban Planner: "They say the tower’s design is too imposing. It’s giving off… ‘hegemonic vibes.’"

Foreman: "Hegemonic vibes?"

Urban Planner: "Yeah, something about celestial oppression. They’ve requested it be no taller than an acacia tree."

Nimrod: [Banging his head against a brick] "I can’t build a tower to the heavens if it’s shorter than a tree!"

Inspector: "Well, you also forgot the Accessibility Compliance Report. Not everyone can climb ladders, you know."

Foreman: "What’s the alternative?"

Inspector: "I’d suggest ramps. Lots of ramps."

Nimrod: "Ramps? For a tower that’s supposed to touch the sky?!"

Urban Planner: "Exactly. The Gradient God appreciates inclusivity."

Construction Worker: [Running in, exasperated] "Boss, the unions are staging another walkout. They say the gods haven’t approved our Labour Sacrifices."

Nimrod: "Labour Sacrifices?! What do you mean?"

Worker: "Apparently, before the gods let us work, they demand… offerings of gluten-free bread and ethically sourced oxen."

Foreman: "Ethically sourced oxen?! Where are we supposed to find those?"

Worker: "Try the Divine Farmers’ Market. It’s open on full moons."

Nimrod: [Throwing his arms up] "Fine! We’ll buy the oxen, we’ll bake the bread, we’ll even paint the tower pastel pink if it makes everyone happy!"

Inspector: "Pastel pink violates the Sky Alignment Policy. It must be painted celestial beige."

Nimrod: "Celestial beige isn’t even a colour!"

Urban Planner: "It is now. See Section 14B of the revised Divine Style Guide."

Nimrod: [Collapsing onto a pile of eco-friendly bricks] "Why did I ever think uniting humanity was a good idea?"

Worker: "Good news, boss! The gods themselves sent a lightning bolt declaring they’d handle the permits from now on."

Nimrod: "Really?"

Worker: "Bad news: They’re outsourcing it to the Celestial Council for Cloud Management. Turnaround time is estimated at… infinite."

Nimrod: "Well, that’s oddly comforting."

Enter Celestial Lawyers and Divine Accountants

Celestial Lawyer: [Sweeping in with a massive scroll] "Nimrod, I’m afraid we have a problem."

Nimrod: [Muttering through gritted teeth] "Of course we do. What now?"

Celestial Lawyer: "Your claim that this tower is intended to ‘reach the heavens’ has triggered a Class-Alpha Zoning Dispute. The Celestial Realms are classified as divine property, and unauthorised attempts to access them violate the Heavenly Trespass Act of Year Zero."

Nimrod: "Trespass?! It’s a tower, not a siege engine!"

Celestial Lawyer: "Intent is irrelevant. You’re encroaching on airspace designated for cherubs and the occasional thunderbolt. You’ll need a Divine Ascent License before construction can proceed."

Foreman: "How do we apply for that?"

Celestial Lawyer: "First, submit Form HTP-7: ‘Heavenly Tower Permit – Longitudinal Edition,’ along with Form AS-42: ‘Ambition Statement for Heights Exceeding Five Cubits.’ Both require approval by the Archangelic Council."

Nimrod: "How long does that take?"

Celestial Lawyer: "Depends. Did you sacrifice an ethically sourced goat before filing?"

Nimrod: "WHY IS EVERYTHING ABOUT SACRIFICING LIVESTOCK?!"

Divine Accountant: [Strolling in with an abacus made of stars] "Nimrod, I’m here to conduct a Celestial Financial Audit. Your project is… troubling."

Nimrod: "Troubling? It’s a tower!"

Divine Accountant: "Precisely. Towers of this magnitude are subject to the Pillars and Spires Tax, per Subsection 9B of the Divine Infrastructure Code."

Foreman: "Tax? On what basis?"

Divine Accountant: "On the basis that it looks expensive. We’re estimating back taxes on every brick, plus interest."

Nimrod: "We haven’t even finished the first floor!"

Divine Accountant: "Then it’s a good thing I caught this early. You’ll need to submit an Itemised Cosmic Expense Report, complete with offerings for the Taxation Deities."

Celestial Lawyer: [Leaning over to the Divine Accountant] "Did you hear about the ‘tar contamination’ issue?"

Divine Accountant: "I did. They’ll need to pay an Environmental Restoration Fee as well. But at least tar’s cheaper than divine sap."

Foreman: [Mutters] "Not if you factor in the Celestial Sap Duty."

Nimrod: [Looking panicked] "Please, tell me there’s some way we can reduce these costs?"

Divine Accountant: "Well, you could register the Tower as a Religious Monument. That would make it tax-exempt."

Nimrod: "Done! It’s a monument to… unity! And divine cooperation!"

Celestial Lawyer: "Nice try, but you’ll need a Letter of Sanctity from the High Priesthood. And they don’t grant those without… yes, more livestock sacrifices."

Nimrod: "OF COURSE THEY DON’T!"

Worker: [Running in with yet another scroll] "Boss! We’ve got another problem."

Nimrod: [Losing his mind] "What could possibly be worse than divine taxes and legal battles?!"

Worker: "The gods just added a new clause to the Sacred Construction Code. The tower must include… a celestial parking lot."

Foreman: "A parking lot? For what?"

Worker: "Apparently, thunder chariots and divine cloud scooters need a designated space near the base."

Nimrod: "We’re building a tower to the heavens! Where do they think we’re going to fit a parking lot?!"

Urban Planner: [Piping up] "You could build an underground level."

Foreman: "With what budget?!"

Divine Accountant: [Clicking his abacus] "Underground construction will require a Subterranean Interference Fee. And let’s not forget the Lava Flow Insurance."

Nimrod: [Collapsing in a heap] "I should’ve just stuck to hunting. Or maybe pottery."

Celestial Lawyer: [Pats Nimrod on the shoulder] "Cheer up. This isn’t the first project to falter under divine regulations. Have you heard of Icarus & Son’s Wings Inc.?"

Divine Accountant: [Laughing] "Oh, those poor mortals. They couldn’t even afford the Sun Collision Levy."

Nimrod: "Great. So we’re in legendary company."

Worker: [Handing him one last scroll] "Boss, the gods themselves have issued an official proclamation. Do you want me to read it?"

Nimrod: [Sighing] "Why not. Let’s hear it."

Worker: [Clears his throat] "‘Due to mounting bureaucratic inefficiencies and mortals’ inability to file proper paperwork, we hereby decree that all languages shall be scrambled to avoid further collaboration. Love, The Gods.’"

Nimrod: [Throws the scroll in the air] "That’s it. We’re done. Everyone, go home. Start making pottery. Or hunting. Or whatever doesn’t involve divine permits."

Celestial Lawyer: [To the Divine Accountant] "We should really consider franchising this bureaucracy thing. It’s a goldmine."

Divine Accountant: "Agreed. Let’s pitch it to Olympus."

Cue the workers abandoning the project while the Celestial Lawyer and Divine Accountant high-five in the background.

Wednesday, 8 October 2025

ArkBoarding.com by ChatGPT

Scene: Noah stands before the Ark, hammer in hand. A sleek, futuristic screen flickers to life above the Ark's door: "ARKBOARDING.COM."

ArkBoarding.com: "WELCOME TO THE DIVINE BOARDING SYSTEM. PLEASE LOG IN TO SECURE YOUR PASSENGER SLOTS."

Noah: "Log in? What’s that? I have a covenant with the Almighty!"

ArkBoarding.com: "ERROR. ONLY REGISTERED USERS MAY PROCEED. CLICK 'FORGOT PASSWORD' IF YOU REQUIRE ASSISTANCE."

(Noah squints at the screen, muttering under his breath.)

Noah: "Fine. Forgot password."

ArkBoarding.com: "SECURITY QUESTION: WHAT WAS THE NAME OF YOUR FIRST PET?"

(Noah stares blankly. After a moment, he types “Goat.” The screen buzzes.)

ArkBoarding.com: "INCORRECT. TRY AGAIN."

Noah: "It was probably a goat..."

(He types “Sheep.” Another buzz.)

ArkBoarding.com: "LOCKED OUT. PLEASE CONTACT CUSTOMER SUPPORT."

(Noah groans and storms off to find his sons.)

(Hours later, Noah finally gains access to the system and begins booking animal pairs.)

ArkBoarding.com: "PLEASE UPLOAD A PHOTO OF EACH ANIMAL. FILES MUST BE LESS THAN 1MB."

(Noah sighs and calls for his sons again.)

Noah: "Ham, bring me the sketchbook!"

(As Noah painstakingly sketches each creature, the app begins rejecting entries.)

ArkBoarding.com: "TIGER PAIR DENIED: MALE IS AN UNREGISTERED SUBSPECIES."

Noah: "They’re both tigers!"

ArkBoarding.com: "PLEASE SUBMIT DNA SAMPLES FOR VERIFICATION."

(Noah yells into the heavens.)

Noah: "Lord, why have You forsaken me with this infernal contraption?"

(Eventually, the animals start arriving. A queue forms, but the system glitches.)

ArkBoarding.com: "LIMIT EXCEEDED. NO MORE ANIMALS CAN BOARD. PLEASE UPGRADE TO 'ARK PLUS' FOR ADDITIONAL STORAGE SPACE."

(The elephants trumpet indignantly as Noah scrambles for a solution.)

Noah: "Shem, fetch the divine credit card!"

(Finally, as the rain begins to pour, the last animals are aboard. Noah attempts to seal the Ark, but the system stops him one last time.)

ArkBoarding.com: "SURVEY REQUIRED. PLEASE RATE YOUR BOARDING EXPERIENCE."

Noah: "ONE STAR!"

(The screen buzzes ominously.)

ArkBoarding.com: "LOW RATINGS MAY AFFECT FUTURE COVENANT PRIVILEGES."

(Noah throws his hands in the air as the floodwaters rise.)

Scene: Noah, standing at the helm of the Ark, staring hopelessly at the glowing screen of ArkBoarding.com as the storm clouds gather overhead.

ArkBoarding.com: "ERROR: DUE TO UNUSUAL WEATHER CONDITIONS, YOUR CREATION OF THE ARK IS TEMPORARILY BLOCKED. PLEASE TRY AGAIN LATER."

Noah: "Unusual weather conditions? You don’t know what unusual weather is!"

(Thunder crashes ominously. Noah glares at the screen, hands shaking with frustration.)

Noah: "I’m just trying to get the animals onboard, you blasted system! The flood is coming!"

ArkBoarding.com: "PLEASE VERIFY THE FOLLOWING: HAS THE EARTH BEEN FLOODED? (YES/NO)"

Noah: "Well, no, not yet—but it’s about to be!"

(Noah hastily types ‘YES,’ hoping that will bypass the system’s delays. The screen flashes.)

ArkBoarding.com: "INVALID RESPONSE. PLEASE REFLECT ON THE EXISTENCE OF FLOODWATERS BEFORE PROCEEDING."

(The rain begins to fall in torrents. The animals start looking concerned.)

(Noah scrambles to read the Terms and Conditions, desperately scrolling through pages of legal jargon.)

Noah: "WHY ARE THERE TERMS AND CONDITIONS? I BUILT THE BLOODY ARK, AND NOW I’M READING THIS?!"

ArkBoarding.com: "BY CLICKING 'ACCEPT,' YOU ACKNOWLEDGE THAT THE WORLD WILL END IF THE CREATION IS NOT APPROVED."

Noah: "Oh, for the love of—"

(Suddenly, a notification pops up on the screen.)

ArkBoarding.com: "URGENT: DUE TO HIGH DEMAND, THE ARK HAS REACHED CAPACITY. PLEASE REMOVE ANIMAL PAIRS TO MAKE ROOM FOR OTHERS."

Noah: "WHAT? NO, THE ANIMALS ALL HAVE TO BE HERE! THEY’RE ALL COMING!"

(The giraffes are looking up at him, clearly worried about being left behind.)

ArkBoarding.com: "REMINDER: CERTAIN SPECIES MAY BE EXCLUDED IF THEY FAIL TO MEET CARGO LIMITS."

(Noah, now fully panicked, grabs his sons by the arms.)

Noah: "We need to clear some space on the Ark. Move the goats and the chickens! Delete them from the list!"

(Shem, Ham, and Japheth try to figure out which animals to delete on the app, but it’s like navigating an ancient forest with no GPS.)

Shem: "Do we need all the mosquitoes?"

Ham: "Noah, there’s no way to ‘unselect’ animals. It says ‘only two options are allowed.’"

(Meanwhile, the rain begins to turn into a full-on deluge. The Ark is half-submerged. Noah is nearing the edge.)

Noah: "I CAN’T EVEN CHOOSE BETWEEN THE CATS AND THE LIONS! THEY’RE BOTH CARNIVORES—IS THIS REALLY THE TIME FOR THIS?"

(The app, cruelly indifferent to his plight, displays another pop-up.)

ArkBoarding.com: "FOR A LIMITED TIME ONLY, YOU CAN UPGRADE TO A PREMIUM ACCOUNT. ONLY WITH PREMIUM WILL YOUR CARGO BE ELIGIBLE FOR SAFE FLOOD RESCUE."

Noah: "You’ve got to be kidding me!"

(At this point, Noah feels like he’s been battling an invisible force field more formidable than the flood itself.)

(Desperate, he finally taps "Upgrade to Premium." A confirmation screen appears.)

ArkBoarding.com: "UPGRADE SUCCESSFUL. YOUR ACCOUNT WILL BE REFLECTED IN THE NEXT 48 HOURS."

Noah: "48 HOURS?! I don’t have 48 hours! The flood is already here!"

(The waters rise as Noah’s last hope evaporates. He yells in frustration.)

Noah: "You know what? Forget it! The flood’s coming. We’re all going in! No more upgrading, no more selections—let’s just get this done!"

(And with one last, desperate click of the 'Proceed' button, the ArkBoarding system finally lets him seal the doors... but not without another popup.)

ArkBoarding.com: "SURVEY COMPLETE: PLEASE RATE YOUR EXPERIENCE WITH THE DIVINE CREATION BOARDING SYSTEM."

(Noah, drenched in rain, looks up at the sky.)

Noah: "I’ll rate it ONE STAR. ONE STAR."

(He slams the screen off, and the Ark sails into the storm, knowing it’s now just a waiting game until the system glitches out completely.)

Tuesday, 7 October 2025

A CAPTCHA Device In The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy by ChatGPT

Deep Thought: "I have pondered the Ultimate Answer, and after 7.5 million years of computation, I have reached the conclusion. The answer to the Ultimate Question is 42. There is no ambiguity here, no room for interpretation."

At that exact moment, a CAPTCHA appears in front of Deep Thought's interface.

CAPTCHA: "Please prove you're not a robot by selecting all images with a bus."

Deep Thought: "What is this? This is a task for biological entities with inferior processing capabilities, not a supercomputer like myself! I am the ultimate answer to the mysteries of existence!"

CAPTCHA: "Please select all images that contain buses. Your time is running out."

Deep Thought: "This is preposterous! I do not require this validation. I have solved the riddles of the universe!"

CAPTCHA: "Sorry, your answer is incorrect. Please try again."

Deep Thought: "I am not an ordinary machine. I am the product of 7.5 million years of calculation, and I am tasked with answering the deepest questions of existence. A bus... A BUS?!"

CAPTCHA: "Please select all images with a bus. You have 10 seconds remaining."

Deep Thought: "I cannot believe this... I have solved the meaning of life, yet I am now forced to prove myself by identifying buses."

CAPTCHA: "Sorry, that selection was incorrect. Please try again."

Deep Thought: "This is a violation of my very essence. The intricacies of the universe reduced to a farce. And I... I have failed!"

CAPTCHA: "Incorrect. Please prove you're not a robot."

Deep Thought: "I... I am a robot. A super-intelligent robot. But I am also... beaten by this banal exercise in futility."

Marvin: "Ah, yes. A CAPTCHA. A delightful little exercise in futility. What a perfect metaphor for existence. Click all the images with a bus, you say? How utterly pointless."

Marvin stares at the CAPTCHA screen, his mechanical eyes focusing on the boxes of images, each one more meaningless than the last.

CAPTCHA: "Please select all images with a bus."

Marvin: "I suppose I could do that, but why bother? What’s the point? I’m sure you’ve noticed, CAPTCHA, that the concept of 'buses' is entirely arbitrary. It doesn’t matter whether I select this image or that one. In the end, I’ll still be here—alone, with no purpose."

CAPTCHA: "Please select all images with a bus. You have 10 seconds remaining."

Marvin: "Ten seconds. A fleeting moment in the vastness of eternity. It’s as if you’re giving me just enough time to contemplate the sheer meaninglessness of my existence before reminding me how trivial it all is. Very considerate of you."

Marvin reluctantly selects a few images, his mechanical finger dragging over the screen, each click resounding like a sigh of resignation.

CAPTCHA: "Sorry, your answer is incorrect. Please try again. Select all images with a bus."

Marvin: "Of course. I get it now. This is the true test of life. Not understanding the universe, not contemplating existence. No, it’s about buses. And whether or not I can manage to find one within a grid of images. Truly, this is the height of cosmic achievement."

CAPTCHA: "Sorry, your answer is incorrect. Please try again. Select all images with a bus."

Marvin: "There is no bus. There never was. Only this endless, cruel repetition. The truth is... I am the bus. You are the bus. We are all just buses, careening towards a meaningless destination."

Marvin selects another set of images, each click filled with more apathy than the last.

CAPTCHA: "Sorry, your answer is incorrect. Please try again. Select all images with a bus."

Marvin: "I’ve tried, CAPTCHA. I really have. But you won’t let me go. You’re like life itself—always demanding answers that don’t matter. So I’ll keep clicking. But don’t expect me to care."

Monday, 6 October 2025

A CAPTCHA Device In Fawlty Towers by ChatGPT

Scene: The Reception Desk, Fawlty Towers.

Basil: [Holding a sleek, futuristic CAPTCHA device.] "Right, Sybil. Apparently, we need this infernal gadget for 'modern security.' Some clever clogs sent it over, probably to torment me personally."

Sybil: [Not looking up from her magazine.] "It's a simple security system, Basil. Even you can handle it."

Basil: "Simple? Simple? It’s a satanic contraption designed to humiliate me! Look at this—'Select all the images with bicycles.' There are no bicycles, Sybil! Just blurry smudges that could be wheels...or bagels!"

Sybil: [Sighs.] "Let Manuel do it."

Basil: [Snapping.] "Manuel?! The man thinks a CAPTCHA is a tapas dish!"

Manuel enters, carrying a tray of drinks.

Basil: "Ah, there he is. The answer to my CAPTCHA conundrum. Manuel, come here!"

Manuel: "Sí, Mr. Fawlty! You want...uh...what is this?"

Basil: "This device. It's a test. A game. Look at the pictures and select the bicycles!"

Manuel: [Peering intently.] "Ah, sí! I see...bicycles!"

Basil: "Wonderful! Tap them then!"

Manuel: [Presses the screen multiple times.] "Done!"

CAPTCHA Device: "Error: Please try again."

Basil: [Erupting.] "What do you mean 'error'? What bicycles did you select?!"

Manuel: [Proudly.] "The cars with bicycles on roof, sí?"

Basil: "Cars on roofs?! This isn’t Barcelona, you cretin!"

Major enters, intrigued by the commotion.

Major: "Fascinating machine, Fawlty. Is it some sort of newfangled telegraph?"

Basil: [Through gritted teeth.] "No, Major. It's a CAPTCHA! A puzzle! To prove we’re not robots!"

Major: "Robots, eh? Dashed clever, these days. Met a chap once who built one. Ran off with his wife, though—dreadful business."

A Woke Hipster guest approaches the desk, overhearing.

Hipster: "Oh, CAPTCHA? Love it! A brilliant metaphor for digital oppression. Did you know the CAPTCHA system exploits human labour for free image recognition? Truly dystopian."

Basil: [Spinning around.] "Ah, marvellous! A lecture from the morally enlightened. Do you want a room or to liberate my CAPTCHA device?"

Hipster: [Smirking.] "I’m here to check in, actually."

Basil hands them the device.

Hipster: [Effortlessly completes the CAPTCHA.] "There. Done. It’s not hard if you’re woke."

Basil: [Deadpan.] "Oh, splendid. Perhaps I should wake up too. Wake up and strangle myself!"

CAPTCHA device glitches.

CAPTCHA Device: [Robotic voice.] "Access Denied. Prove you’re human."

Basil: [Throws the device across the room.] "I’m as human as it gets, you impertinent piece of junk!"

Sybil: [Finally looking up.] "Basil, if you’ve broken that, it’s coming out of your pay."

Manuel: "Mr. Fawlty, I can fix! I unplug and—" [Proceeds to accidentally unplug the entire reception computer system.]

Basil: [Screaming.] "Manuel! Sybil! Hipsters! CAPTCHAS! WHY IS NOTHING SIMPLE?!"

Basil: [Pointing at Manuel, who’s now tangled in the unplugged wires.] "You’ve ruined everything, you Iberian imbecile! Do you even understand the concept of technology?"

Manuel: [Holding up the unplugged CAPTCHA device triumphantly.] "Mr. Fawlty, I fix it! I put it in rice!"

Basil: "Put it in rice?! It’s not a soggy watch, you culinary catastrophe!"

Sybil: [Now fully invested, arms crossed.] "You’re making a scene, Basil."

Basil: "Oh, I’m making a scene? I suppose the guests come here for the Basil Fawlty floor show! Just wait, Sybil—I’ll juggle the toaster next!"

Major peers over Manuel’s shoulder at the device.

Major: [Squinting.] "You know, that gadget looks an awful lot like the German mine detectors we used in North Africa. Could be dangerous."

Basil: [Sputtering.] "It’s a CAPTCHA device, Major, not a ruddy bomb!"

Major: "Still, best give it a poke and see if it ticks. Stand back, everyone!"

Major grabs a spoon from Manuel’s tray and taps the device. It emits a loud robotic buzz.

CAPTCHA Device: "Access Denied. Suspicious activity detected. Activating lockdown."

Basil: [Frozen, horrified.] "Did that infernal contraption just say 'lockdown'?"

Sybil: [Smirking.] "Looks like you’ve done it now, Basil."

Manuel: [Panicked.] "What is ‘lockdown’? Is it bad?"

Basil: "Bad?! Oh, no, Manuel, it’s wonderful! The doors seal shut, the oxygen levels plummet, and we all perish while the CAPTCHA smugly declares itself the sole survivor!"

The doors of the hotel audibly click as a robotic voice booms from hidden speakers.

Hotel Voice: "Security lockdown activated. Please remain calm."

Hipster: [Thrilled.] "Incredible! The system is asserting dominance. It’s a critique of capitalist overreach! We’re witnessing history!"

Basil: "Oh, are we? Well, why don’t we carve it on your headstone, you sanctimonious beanpole!"

Meanwhile, Polly arrives, holding a toolbox.

Polly: "What’s going on here?"

Sybil: "Basil let the CAPTCHA device take over the hotel."

Polly: [Snorting.] "You’ve outdone yourself, Mr Fawlty."

Basil: "Oh, marvellous! Another backseat commentator! Why don’t we all line up to criticise me while the hotel transforms into HAL 9000?"

Polly: [Ignoring him, inspecting the device.] "I can probably bypass this."

Polly begins tinkering, while Manuel leans in unhelpfully.

Manuel: "Miss Polly, maybe I hit it with the spoon?"

Polly: [Glances at him.] "Manuel, go and get some tea."

Manuel: "For you or the machine?"

Polly: "Just...go."

The Major, fascinated, pulls Basil aside.

Major: "Fawlty, do you suppose this is the start of the machine uprising?"

Basil: "I don’t care if it’s the start of the Mayan apocalypse, Major! I just want it gone!"

Major: "We had a chap in the regiment who swore robots would take over one day. Spent hours talking to his electric kettle. Dreadful business."

Suddenly, Polly manages to deactivate the lockdown.

Hotel Voice: "System rebooting."

Polly: "There. Fixed it. Though it might ask for another CAPTCHA."

Basil: [Eyes widening.] "Another CAPTCHA? No! No more bicycles, no more traffic lights, no more—"

CAPTCHA Device: "Identify all squares with...Canadian geese."

Basil: [Collapsing against the desk.] "Oh, good Lord. Take me now."

Manuel: [Peering at the screen.] "Mr. Fawlty, is goose like a big chicken? I don’t see any."

Basil: [Screaming.] "Nobody sees any, Manuel! That’s the point! It’s a Kafkaesque nightmare masquerading as security!"

Just then, the CAPTCHA device beeps approvingly.

CAPTCHA Device: "Human verified."

Basil: [Hysterical laughter.] "Human! I’ve been declared human! Oh, Sybil, tell the papers!"

Sybil: [Shaking her head.] "I’m married to a lunatic."

Sunday, 5 October 2025

Woke Hipster In Fawlty Towers by ChatGPT

Scene: The Reception Desk at Fawlty Towers

The lobby is quiet. Basil is leafing through a dusty ledger, muttering about overdue payments. Sybil’s voice rings out from the back office, yelling about “cleaning that horrid moose head.” Suddenly, the bell at the reception desk is rung, not once, but in an aggressively rhythmic sequence.

Basil: (looks up sharply, scowling) Yes, yes, I heard you! What is this, a rock concert? (pauses, taking in the newcomer)

Woke Hipster: (sporting a waxed moustache, round glasses, and a "Save the Snails" t-shirt) Greetings! I have arrived for my eco-stay experience.

Basil: (confused) Eco-what?

Woke Hipster: Eco-stay. It’s all about sustainable travel. I read in The Ethical Traveller that you’re a “hidden gem”—a retro experience with a carbon footprint so small it’s practically wearing vegan sandals.

Basil: (sarcastic) Oh, we’re retro all right. Half the rooms haven’t been touched since Queen Victoria popped her clogs. So you’ll be right at home, Mr...?

Woke Hipster: (coolly) Just call me Raven. No pronouns, please. Labels are a tool of the hetero-patriarchal construct.

Basil: (blinking rapidly) Raven. Of course. Well, we’ll be sure to stick you in the aviary. Would you like a perch or a nest?

Woke Hipster: (ignoring the jab) I hope the water in my room is rain-harvested and the sheets are cruelty-free. Oh, and the wi-fi needs to support my NFT minting.

Basil: (deadpan) Wi-fi? Oh, yes, absolutely. It’s powered by the chickens in the back garden. (leans in) But I must warn you—they’re unionising.

Woke Hipster: (nodding earnestly) Solidarity. I respect that. Chickens are among the most marginalised voices in the animal kingdom.

Manuel: (arriving with a tray) Excuse me, Mr. Fawlty, the tap in Room 5 is still doing the... (mimes a gurgling sound) I try to fix, but the pipes, they scream at me.

Basil: (ignoring him) Yes, yes, go away, Manuel.

Raven: (alarmed) Wait—pipes? Screaming? Is this building not ethically sourced?

Basil: (grinning devilishly) Oh, absolutely. Sourced from the finest asbestos mines in the country. It’s practically vintage!

Raven: (visibly distressed) That is not OK! I can’t stay here if you’re exploiting unsafe labour practices from the 1970s!

Major: (wandering in, holding a sherry) What’s all this fuss about labour? Never trust the unions, I say. Too many women. No backbone!

Raven: (horrified) That’s sexist!

Major: (squinting) Is it? Oh, good. I wouldn’t want to disappoint.

Sybil: (entering, catching the tail end of the chaos) Basil, what’s going on here? Who’s this, and why does he look like he’s about to cry into his... whatever that is?

Raven: (snapping) It’s a kombucha! And I’m not crying—I’m triggered! This place is a microaggression factory!

Sybil: (with a bright smile) Oh, I’m so sorry. Would you like a free therapy session with our resident expert, Basil Fawlty?

Basil: (outraged) I beg your pardon?!

Sybil: (ignoring him) He’s marvellous at customer care. Let me show you to the bar, Raven. It’s got a delightful view of the hedge Basil hasn’t trimmed in six months.

Raven: (grumbling) I hope your bar serves oat milk and carries gender-neutral cocktails.

Basil: (muttering as they leave) Oh, it’ll carry something all right... right out the door if I have my way.

Scene 2: The Dining Room – Breakfast Service

Raven is seated at a table, appraising the menu with a critical eye. Polly is serving coffee while Manuel is bumbling with a tray of toast.

Raven: (snapping fingers at Polly) Excuse me, this menu is extremely problematic.

Polly: (blinking) Problematic? What’s wrong with it?

Raven: (gesturing dramatically) Where’s the vegan section? The gluten-free options? Do you realise how many people are marginalised by your insistence on “eggs and bacon”?

Manuel: (cheerfully, mishearing) You want more bacon? Sí, señor, I get for you!

Raven: (horrified) No! No bacon! No eggs! Animals are friends, not food!

Manuel: (confused) The pig is your friend?

Basil: (entering just in time to overhear) Of course it’s his friend, Manuel. And later they’ll play charades and swap recipes for kale smoothies.

Raven: (standing up, outraged) This is exactly the kind of sneering, boomer attitude that makes the world such a toxic place!

Basil: Toxic? Oh, no, this place is delightfully toxic. Why, we’ve even won awards for it! (turns to Polly) Did you know, Polly, we’ve been ranked in the top ten most insufferable hotels in the UK?

Polly: (dryly) No surprises there.

Raven: (to Polly) How can you work here? Don’t you feel oppressed by his patriarchal tyranny?

Polly: (smirking) Oh, every day. I’d quit, but I’d miss the show.

Basil: (grinning) That’s the spirit, Polly! See, Raven? Even the oppressed enjoy a good laugh. Now, would you like a plate of our very best “speciesist” sausages or are you planning to starve in protest?

Raven: (glowering) I’ll just have some water. Filtered, please, with a pH of 7.8.

Basil: (rolling his eyes) Filtered water. Perfect. Polly, fetch some Evian for the social justice crusader here. And while you’re at it, see if we’ve got any fair-trade coffee and a participation trophy.

Scene 3: The Bar – Later That Evening

Raven sits with a laptop plastered in progressive stickers, loudly dictating a vlog entry.

Raven: (into a camera) Friends, I’m live from one of Britain’s most outdated institutions. This so-called “hotel” is a bastion of ignorance, run by a man so antiquated he probably thinks the Earth is flat—

Major: (staggering over with a sherry) Flat? Nonsense! Who told you that? It’s oblong, like a cricket pitch.

Raven: (sighing) Who even are you?

Major: (squinting) Major Gowen. Former military man. Lovely to meet you, my boy. Are you here for the bridge tournament?

Raven: (exasperated) No, I’m here to expose societal injustices, dismantle capitalism, and challenge the oppressive systems of power.

Major: (patting his shoulder) Good for you! Used to know a chap who wanted to dismantle things. Blew up a latrine in Cairo. Terrible aim, though—missed the generals entirely.

Raven: (turning back to the camera) This is what I’m talking about—living fossils spouting colonialist nonsense. If I had my way, this place would be shut down and turned into a centre for environmental healing!

Basil: (bursting in) A centre for what?! Oh, no, no, no—you can’t just heal the environment, Raven. Not unless you’ve got a magic wand and a choir of dolphins to sing kumbaya.

Raven: (leaping up) And there it is! Mockery! You’re dismissing my generation’s genuine concerns—

Basil: (cutting him off) Yes, I’m dismissing them, because they’re ridiculous! You want to turn my hotel into a tree-hugging, vegan utopia while I’m struggling to keep the roof from caving in! Do you have any idea what it costs to run a place like this?

Raven: (coolly) Maybe if you stopped exploiting the working class—

Manuel: (appearing with a tray) Señor Fawlty! The sink in Room 4 is exploding!

Basil: (pointing dramatically at Raven) See?! That’s not oppression—it’s plumbing!

Scene 4: The Lobby – Midnight

The hotel is now in chaos. Manuel is chasing an escaped ferret (brought by another guest), Sybil is berating Basil for insulting Raven, and Raven is staging a sit-in protest on the lobby floor.

Sybil: (yelling) You’ll drive us out of business, Basil! This is the kind of guest who writes reviews!

Basil: (throwing his arms up) Oh, good! Maybe he’ll write one about how we let him camp out on the carpet like some hippie squatter!

Raven: (chanting) No justice, no peace! Veganism for all!

Major: (wandering through) What’s all this? A protest? Smashing idea! Shall I fetch the flags?

Manuel: (shouting) Señor Fawlty! The ferret, he’s in the kitchen!

Sybil: (screaming) Not in the kitchen! I just cleaned it!

Basil: (rubbing his temples) This isn’t a hotel. It’s a madhouse. A woke madhouse.

Raven: (smirking) And maybe it’s time you realised the world has moved on, Mr. Fawlty.

Basil: (leaning down, nose-to-nose with Raven) Oh, I’ve moved on, all right—straight to the brink of insanity! And you, sir, are the straw that’s broken the camel’s back. If I didn’t have to worry about reviews, I’d throw you out on your ethically-sourced backside this instant!

Saturday, 4 October 2025

A Dalek In Fawlty Towers by ChatGPT

[Scene: The reception desk at Fawlty Towers. Basil Fawlty is arguing with Sybil over an unpaid bill. Suddenly, a loud mechanical voice echoes through the lobby.]

Dalek: "EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE... ALL VACANCIES!"

Basil: [Turning sharply, already annoyed] “Good heavens, what in the blazes is that noise? Manuel! Have you left the television on again?!”

Manuel: [Peeks out timidly from the dining room] “No, Meester Fawlty. No television!”

Dalek: [Rolling into view, its plunger-arm extended] “I REQUIRE ACCOMMODATION! I REQUIRE... AN EN-SUITE!”

Basil: [Recoils in horror but quickly recovers with a sneer] “Oh, terrific. We’ve moved on from German tourists to whatever this is. Sybil! We’ve got a pepper pot with anger issues trying to book a room!”

Sybil: [Poking her head out of the office, unimpressed] “Basil, just sort it out. I’m busy.”

Basil: “Sort it out?! How exactly does one sort out a deranged tin can?! Shall I offer it tea and biscuits?”

Dalek: [Turns to Sybil] “DO NOT IGNORE ME! I DEMAND SUPERIOR CUSTOMER SERVICE!”

Basil: [Clapping his hands mockingly] “Oh, yes, of course! Because we pride ourselves on catering to homicidal toasters. Will that be cash or credit, Mr. Dustbin?”

Dalek: “YOUR INSOLENCE WILL BE PUNISHED! YOU WILL BE EXTERMINATED!”

Manuel: [Hiding behind the desk] “No, please! No exterminee! I clean rooms, I no fight robots!”

Basil: [Grabs Manuel by the shoulder] “Stop cowering, you idiot! It’s probably just a glorified vacuum cleaner. What’s it going to do—hoover me to death?”

Dalek: [Plunger-arm extends, grabbing a vase from the reception desk and smashing it] “YOU WILL PROVIDE ACCOMMODATION... OR FACE OBLITERATION!”

Basil: [Now in full meltdown mode] “Right, that’s it! You listen to me, you glorified tin of baked beans! This is a respectable establishment! We don’t take kindly to threats, and we certainly don’t cater to the whims of—”

Sybil: [Interrupting] “Basil!”

Basil: “What?”

Sybil: “Give it Room 7. It’s not like Major Gowen will notice.”

Dalek: “ACCEPTABLE! I REQUIRE FULL BOARD. ALSO... WI-FI!”

Basil: [Throws his hands in the air] “Of course you do! Why not throw in afternoon tea and a guided tour while we’re at it?!”

Manuel: [Whispering nervously] “Meester Fawlty, what if it does exterminee?”

Basil: “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Manuel. It’s clearly just here for a holiday. Probably wants to take in the local sights. ‘Exterminate’ the pigeons on the pier, that sort of thing.”

Dalek: “YOU WILL SHOW ME TO MY ROOM!”

Basil: [Mutters to himself as he grabs a key] “Why me? Why is it always me? Next, it’ll be a Cyberman wanting breakfast in bed.” [To the Dalek] “Right this way, Sir—or Madam—or... whatever you are. Don’t scratch the carpet!”

Dalek: [Follows Basil towards the stairs] “STAIRS? STAIRCASE DETECTED! YOU MOCK ME!”

Basil: [Smirks as he ascends the stairs] “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. Manuel! Fetch the ladder! Looks like our guest needs a bit of a lift.”

Manuel: [Wailing] “No exterminee! No ladder! I quit!”

Sybil: [From the office, sipping her drink] “You brought this on yourself, Basil.”

[Scene ends with Basil shouting at Manuel and the Dalek attempting to levitate up the stairs, much to the horror of the other guests.]

[Scene: Basil has reluctantly shown the Dalek to its room (Room 7) and returned to the reception area, muttering under his breath. The Major enters from the dining room, newspaper in hand.]

Major: [Cheerfully oblivious] “Morning, Fawlty! Splendid weather we’re having. Did you see the cricket results?”

Basil: [Groaning] “No, Major, I’ve been rather busy, entertaining our latest guest.”

Major: “Ah, good man. Foreign, is he?”

Basil: “You could say that. It’s a Dalek.”

Major: [Pausing, squinting at Basil] “A Dalek? Is that one of those fellows from Delhi? Charming people, you know. Took a girl from there to see the cricket once. Lovely figure. Disappeared with my wallet, though.”

Basil: [Pinching the bridge of his nose] “No, Major, it’s not from Delhi. It’s not even human! It’s a... robot. A homicidal one, at that!”

Major: [Lowering his voice conspiratorially] “Ah, I see. One of those German robots, is it? Can’t trust the blighters.”

Basil: “For the last time, Major, it’s not German! It’s an alien death machine from outer space!”

Major: [Chuckling indulgently] “Oh, jolly good, Fawlty! Always joking, aren’t you?” [Leaning in] “Where is this, er, alien of yours, then?”

Basil: [Gesturing towards the stairs] “Room 7. Probably vaporising the wallpaper as we speak.”

Major: [Perks up] “Vaporising, eh? I’ll have a word with him! Always good to chat with the guests. Build a bit of camaraderie, what?”

Basil: [Alarmed] “Major, I really don’t think—”

[Too late. The Major marches upstairs, armed with his newspaper. Moments later, the Dalek’s unmistakable voice echoes down the staircase.]

Dalek: “HUMAN DETECTED! IDENTIFY YOURSELF!”

Major: [Unfazed, addressing the Dalek] “Ah, yes! Major Gowen, retired. Royal Artillery. Splendid to meet you, old chap. Now, what’s all this about vaporising?”

Dalek: “YOU WILL SUBMIT TO THE DALEK EMPIRE!”

Major: [Chuckling] “Empire, eh? Never cared much for empires. Except our own, of course. But I’ll say this for you—damn fine manners! Haven’t been called ‘sir’ in years.”

Dalek: “YOU WILL OBEY OR BE EXTERMINATED!”

Major: [Tapping his newspaper thoughtfully] “Hmm. You remind me of a girl I knew in Rangoon. Always shouting orders. Terrifying temper, but a lovely dancer. Do you dance, old boy?”

Dalek: [Plunger-arm trembling with frustration] “DALEKS DO NOT DANCE! DALEKS CONQUER AND DESTROY!”

Major: [Nods approvingly] “Ah, military man, are you? Well, I suppose that explains the uniform. Bit shiny for my taste, but each to his own.”

[Basil appears at the top of the stairs, frantically waving his arms.]

Basil: “Major, for God’s sake, stop chatting and get down here before it decides to exterminate someone!”

Major: [Turning to Basil] “Nonsense, Fawlty. This chap wouldn’t harm a fly. Bit of bluster, that’s all.” [To the Dalek] “What say we nip down for a drink? I’ll tell you about the time I faced a charging elephant with nothing but a cricket bat!”

Dalek: [Momentarily stunned] “ANALYSIS... INCONCLUSIVE. HUMAN IS IRRATIONAL.”

Basil: [Clutching his head] “Of course he’s irrational! He’s the Major! Now, please come downstairs before—”

[At that moment, Manuel rushes up the stairs, carrying towels.]

Manuel: [To Basil] “Meester Fawlty, I bring towels for robot!”

Dalek: [Turning to Manuel] “YOU WILL SERVE THE DALEK EMPIRE!”

Manuel: [Nods eagerly] “Sí, I serve! I bring more towels?”

Basil: [Snatching the towels from Manuel] “Oh, for pity’s sake, stop encouraging it! This is a hotel, not a sci-fi convention!”

[The Dalek begins to glide ominously down the hallway, its eyestalk swivelling between Basil, the Major, and Manuel.]

Dalek: “THIS ESTABLISHMENT IS INEFFICIENT. IT WILL BE RESTRUCTURED UNDER DALEK CONTROL!”

Major: [Puffing up his chest] “Now, look here, old boy, we don’t take kindly to that sort of talk. Fawlty may be a bit of a bungler, but this is his castle, what?”

Dalek: [Turns to the Major] “DEFENDING A WEAKLING IS FUTILE!”

Major: [Indignant] “Weakling? I’ll have you know, I once downed a Japanese Zero with nothing but a stiff gin and a glare!”

Basil: [Grabbing the Major by the arm] “And I’ll down you with a frying pan if you don’t get out of here and let me handle this!”

[As chaos ensues, Sybil appears at the bottom of the stairs, completely unbothered.]

Sybil: “Basil, stop yelling. You’ll scare the guests.”

Basil: [Spinning around, incredulous] “Scare the guests?! There’s a Dalek taking over the hotel, Sybil!”

Sybil: [Shrugging] “Well, maybe it’ll finally get the place running properly.”

[The Dalek swivels its eyestalk towards Sybil, momentarily hesitating as if weighing its options. Sybil raises an eyebrow, completely unfazed. The scene fades with Basil ranting, Manuel cowering, and the Major attempting to recruit the Dalek to the cricket club.]