What mood are you in and why?

[Christmas Tree 4786]

12 hours ago, Renton said:

 

It's the way things are going in many sectors. I don't think people are being honest with themselves about the impact AI is going to have, we're looking at a complete revolution in how we work and the early evidence is its not going to be good. Me personally, I feel like I'm surfing a wave and just trying to get to the retirement finish line before it breaks. Nowt else you can do. 

I think it has similarities to the computer / computing revolution. Obviously not all jobs, but as computers became part of everyday office life, AI will be similar and people will need to learn how to utilise it.

 

Its absolutely transformed my little mug side line. In seconds, I can now generate incredible graphics that I would no way of doing without AI.

 

As the XL boys currently rule the office, the AI boys will be next. 
 

I watched a YouTube Video the other day with 3 of the worlds leading AI gurus and they were talking about it creating proteins to treat various diseases etc. Absolutely mind bending what’s coming.

[Andrew 4842]

2 hours ago, Christmas Tree said:

I think it has similarities to the computer / computing revolution. Obviously not all jobs, but as computers became part of everyday office life, AI will be similar and people will need to learn how to utilise it.

 

Its absolutely transformed my little mug side line. In seconds, I can now generate incredible graphics that I would no way of doing without AI.

 

As the XL boys currently rule the office, the AI boys will be next. 
 

I watched a YouTube Video the other day with 3 of the worlds leading AI gurus and they were talking about it creating proteins to treat various diseases etc. Absolutely mind bending what’s coming.

 

With all due respect CT, I fucking despise this. AI doesn't generate or create anything. It skims art made by actual people and amalgamates it into a facade of creative output. It is theft, the art you're putting on your mugs was made by people and you are then profiting off it and not paying them for it.

 

A point will come where there is an AI crash, either because it eats itself as several LLMs have tried to do already without manual intervention or because it is eventually regulated because the amount of energy required for them to work is horrifically bad for the environment OR because one of the many lawsuits around stealing content from people will come to a head and make AI models unprofitable because they can no longer be "trained" for free off other peoples actual work.

[Christmas Tree 4786]

Well now I feel a bit shit  

[Gemmill 45815]

### The Fragments of Christmas Tree

 

Christmas Tree wasn’t his real name, of course. His parents named him Christopher, but everyone in town called him Christmas Tree because he ran a seasonal shop that sold trinkets, ornaments, and festive junk all year round. It hadn’t always been this way. He used to dream of being an artist, but life had ground those dreams into dust, leaving him to peddle cheap nostalgia in the form of glitter-coated baubles.

 

Then he discovered AI-generated art.  

 

It started innocently enough—a friend had shown him an app that could conjure beautiful, intricate images with just a few words. Landscapes, animals, surreal dreamscapes—it could do it all. Christmas Tree saw an opportunity. His trinket shop was failing, and he needed a way to stay afloat. Why not print this AI art onto cups and mugs? People loved unique, artistic designs, and no one had to know they weren’t his own creations.  

 

The business took off. He sold more mugs in six months than he had in six years. Customers loved the designs: serene woodland scenes, abstract splashes of color, melancholy portraits that seemed to speak to the soul. Christmas told everyone the work was “AI-assisted,” but deep down, he knew it wasn’t true. He hadn’t made anything. The AI had done it all—or so he thought.  

 

One evening, as he was loading another batch of mugs into his online store, he received a message.  

 

The email was blunt:  

**“Your AI is stealing. The designs you’re using are mine.”**  

 

Attached were links to a gallery. Christmas clicked them, and his stomach churned. The artwork was identical to the images he’d been printing. The same swirling skies, the same delicate brushstrokes. The artist explained that the AI didn’t “create” anything—it scraped data from existing works, breaking them apart and recombining them. His bestsellers were stolen fragments of someone else’s soul.  

 

For the first time in years, guilt hit Christmas Tree like a freight train. He had spent months profiting from stolen creativity. He had built his success on lies and exploitation. Worse, he realized, he had never even *cared* about the art. It had just been a means to an end, another way to make money.  

 

He couldn’t live with himself.  

 

Christmas stumbled into his workshop that night, his breath ragged, his mind a storm of shame. The mugs and cups were stacked high on shelves, their glossy surfaces gleaming in the pale light of the single bulb overhead. Each one felt like a testament to his failure—not just as an artist, but as a human being.  

 

He grabbed a mug off the shelf and hurled it against the wall. The shattering sound was satisfying, cathartic, so he grabbed another, and another. He smashed them against the walls, the floor, the workbench. The workshop became a symphony of destruction, shards of ceramic flying in all directions.  

 

In his frenzy, he didn’t notice a sharp fragment of a mug flying toward him until it was too late. The jagged edge sliced clean through the tip of his right pinky finger.  

 

Christmas screamed, clutching his hand as blood poured onto the floor. He sank to his knees, the pain sharp and unrelenting, the guilt swelling even larger in his chest. There he sat, surrounded by the wreckage of his business and his body, blood pooling beneath him as he cried out to the empty room.  

 

“This is what I deserve,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “This is what I deserve for being a fraud, a coward…”  

 

The workshop door creaked open. His wife, Clara, stood there in her robe, her face pale with worry.  

 

“Chris, what the hell is going on?” she gasped, rushing to his side.  

 

He looked up at her, tears streaming down his face, his hand trembling as he tried to stop the bleeding.  

 

“I’ve ruined everything,” he said. “I lied… I stole… I’m no better than a parasite.”  

 

“Chris, you’re hurt! Stop talking like that. Let me get something for the bleeding—”  

 

“No, Clara. You don’t understand,” he interrupted, his voice trembling. “It’s not just the mugs. It’s my whole life. I’ve been lying to myself… to you. All this time, I’ve been hiding who I am. I don’t even know if I ever loved you the way you deserved.”  

 

Her eyes widened. “What are you saying?”  

 

He lowered his head, unable to meet her gaze. “I’ve always been gay,” he whispered. “I didn’t know how to say it. I thought… I thought marrying you would fix me, or make it go away. But it didn’t. And now… now I’ve hurt you too. Just like I hurt those artists.”  

 

Clara knelt beside him, silent for a moment. She reached out and placed her hand on his shoulder.  

 

“Chris,” she said softly, “you’re bleeding out. Let’s deal with that first.”  

 

Her practicality jolted him back to reality. She grabbed a clean rag from the workbench and wrapped it around his hand, applying pressure to stem the bleeding.  

 

As she worked, he stared at her, bewildered by her calmness.  

 

“You’re not… angry?” he asked.  

 

She gave him a small, sad smile. “I think I’ve known for a while. Maybe not consciously, but… I’ve felt it. I just didn’t know how to bring it up. Or if I should.”  

 

Christmas Tree let out a shuddering breath, the weight of decades pressing down on him. He felt stripped bare, as if the last mask he’d been wearing had finally crumbled.  

 

“Clara,” he said, “I’m so sorry. For everything.”  

 

She nodded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “We’ll figure it out,” she said. “But first, let’s get you to a hospital before you bleed to death, okay?”  

 

He laughed bitterly, the sound choked and raw. “A fitting end, don’t you think? Dying in the middle of my own mess.”  

 

“No,” she said firmly, helping him to his feet. “This isn’t the end. It’s just… a new beginning. A painful one, sure, but maybe it’s the one you’ve needed all along.”  

 

As they left the workshop, the shards of broken mugs glittered in the dim light, a fractured mosaic of everything Christmas Tree had been—and everything he might yet become.  

[Gemmill 45815]

For the record, the brief had it slicing off the tip of his penis, but the AI WOKERATI wouldn't have it. 

[Andrew 4842]

The sad fact is it IS better than louise taylors latest piece. 

[Gemmill 45815]

1 minute ago, Andrew said:

The sad fact is it IS better than louise taylors latest piece. 

 

It won't be long before AI is watching the match, digesting the stats, and replacing her. 

 

And instead of all of us getting to enjoy more leisure time while the AI does it's work, a few multi billionaires will get some more money they could never constructively spend in a lifetime and instead use it to buy election results. 

[Renton 21941]

8 hours ago, Andrew said:

 

With all due respect CT, I fucking despise this. AI doesn't generate or create anything. It skims art made by actual people and amalgamates it into a facade of creative output. It is theft, the art you're putting on your mugs was made by people and you are then profiting off it and not paying them for it.

 

A point will come where there is an AI crash, either because it eats itself as several LLMs have tried to do already without manual intervention or because it is eventually regulated because the amount of energy required for them to work is horrifically bad for the environment OR because one of the many lawsuits around stealing content from people will come to a head and make AI models unprofitable because they can no longer be "trained" for free off other peoples actual work.

 

Printing images on mugs, yeah, agreed. Pharma using it to engineer molecules to treat disease, not so much. Like every new technology , there's good and bad uses. Trust CT to use pick the bad uses.

 

[Gemmill 45815]

I bet he's done some absolutely vile Denise Welch fan art. 

[The Fish 10944]

[Monkeys Fist 42929]

2 hours ago, Gemmill said:

I bet he's done some absolutely vile Denise Welch fan art. 

I’m usually happy to take one for the team and look up any vile and disgusting subject you lads with a more sensitive search history won’t- but even I have my limits. 
 

[Christmas Tree 4786]

7 hours ago, Gemmill said:

### The Fragments of Christmas Tree

 

Christmas Tree wasn’t his real name, of course. His parents named him Christopher, but everyone in town called him Christmas Tree because he ran a seasonal shop that sold trinkets, ornaments, and festive junk all year round. It hadn’t always been this way. He used to dream of being an artist, but life had ground those dreams into dust, leaving him to peddle cheap nostalgia in the form of glitter-coated baubles.

 

Then he discovered AI-generated art.  

 

It started innocently enough—a friend had shown him an app that could conjure beautiful, intricate images with just a few words. Landscapes, animals, surreal dreamscapes—it could do it all. Christmas Tree saw an opportunity. His trinket shop was failing, and he needed a way to stay afloat. Why not print this AI art onto cups and mugs? People loved unique, artistic designs, and no one had to know they weren’t his own creations.  

 

The business took off. He sold more mugs in six months than he had in six years. Customers loved the designs: serene woodland scenes, abstract splashes of color, melancholy portraits that seemed to speak to the soul. Christmas told everyone the work was “AI-assisted,” but deep down, he knew it wasn’t true. He hadn’t made anything. The AI had done it all—or so he thought.  

 

One evening, as he was loading another batch of mugs into his online store, he received a message.  

 

The email was blunt:  

**“Your AI is stealing. The designs you’re using are mine.”**  

 

Attached were links to a gallery. Christmas clicked them, and his stomach churned. The artwork was identical to the images he’d been printing. The same swirling skies, the same delicate brushstrokes. The artist explained that the AI didn’t “create” anything—it scraped data from existing works, breaking them apart and recombining them. His bestsellers were stolen fragments of someone else’s soul.  

 

For the first time in years, guilt hit Christmas Tree like a freight train. He had spent months profiting from stolen creativity. He had built his success on lies and exploitation. Worse, he realized, he had never even *cared* about the art. It had just been a means to an end, another way to make money.  

 

He couldn’t live with himself.  

 

Christmas stumbled into his workshop that night, his breath ragged, his mind a storm of shame. The mugs and cups were stacked high on shelves, their glossy surfaces gleaming in the pale light of the single bulb overhead. Each one felt like a testament to his failure—not just as an artist, but as a human being.  

 

He grabbed a mug off the shelf and hurled it against the wall. The shattering sound was satisfying, cathartic, so he grabbed another, and another. He smashed them against the walls, the floor, the workbench. The workshop became a symphony of destruction, shards of ceramic flying in all directions.  

 

In his frenzy, he didn’t notice a sharp fragment of a mug flying toward him until it was too late. The jagged edge sliced clean through the tip of his right pinky finger.  

 

Christmas screamed, clutching his hand as blood poured onto the floor. He sank to his knees, the pain sharp and unrelenting, the guilt swelling even larger in his chest. There he sat, surrounded by the wreckage of his business and his body, blood pooling beneath him as he cried out to the empty room.  

 

“This is what I deserve,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “This is what I deserve for being a fraud, a coward…”  

 

The workshop door creaked open. His wife, Clara, stood there in her robe, her face pale with worry.  

 

“Chris, what the hell is going on?” she gasped, rushing to his side.  

 

He looked up at her, tears streaming down his face, his hand trembling as he tried to stop the bleeding.  

 

“I’ve ruined everything,” he said. “I lied… I stole… I’m no better than a parasite.”  

 

“Chris, you’re hurt! Stop talking like that. Let me get something for the bleeding—”  

 

“No, Clara. You don’t understand,” he interrupted, his voice trembling. “It’s not just the mugs. It’s my whole life. I’ve been lying to myself… to you. All this time, I’ve been hiding who I am. I don’t even know if I ever loved you the way you deserved.”  

 

Her eyes widened. “What are you saying?”  

 

He lowered his head, unable to meet her gaze. “I’ve always been gay,” he whispered. “I didn’t know how to say it. I thought… I thought marrying you would fix me, or make it go away. But it didn’t. And now… now I’ve hurt you too. Just like I hurt those artists.”  

 

Clara knelt beside him, silent for a moment. She reached out and placed her hand on his shoulder.  

 

“Chris,” she said softly, “you’re bleeding out. Let’s deal with that first.”  

 

Her practicality jolted him back to reality. She grabbed a clean rag from the workbench and wrapped it around his hand, applying pressure to stem the bleeding.  

 

As she worked, he stared at her, bewildered by her calmness.  

 

“You’re not… angry?” he asked.  

 

She gave him a small, sad smile. “I think I’ve known for a while. Maybe not consciously, but… I’ve felt it. I just didn’t know how to bring it up. Or if I should.”  

 

Christmas Tree let out a shuddering breath, the weight of decades pressing down on him. He felt stripped bare, as if the last mask he’d been wearing had finally crumbled.  

 

“Clara,” he said, “I’m so sorry. For everything.”  

 

She nodded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “We’ll figure it out,” she said. “But first, let’s get you to a hospital before you bleed to death, okay?”  

 

He laughed bitterly, the sound choked and raw. “A fitting end, don’t you think? Dying in the middle of my own mess.”  

 

“No,” she said firmly, helping him to his feet. “This isn’t the end. It’s just… a new beginning. A painful one, sure, but maybe it’s the one you’ve needed all along.”  

 

As they left the workshop, the shards of broken mugs glittered in the dim light, a fractured mosaic of everything Christmas Tree had been—and everything he might yet become.  

 

 

But cheap junk!!! Excuse me.

 

My mugs and notebooks are top notch me old cock sparrow.

 

Just remember when it’s office secret Santa time and a funny gift comes your way, I want you to immediately picture me in my en-suite, in my Y fronts dancing to rah rah Rasputin as I lovingly made it!

[Toonpack 9803]

Cuban cigars, lovingly rolled on the thighs of dusky maidens.

 

CT’s mugs, lovingly stacked on his bog.