By Nathan Muir, aged 39, marketing manager and masturbator

GREAT. Now I can specify my erotic needs – Scarlett Johansson, H-cups, PSCO outfit – and ChatGPT will spin up a bespoke scenario. And I’m meant to leave the house? 

Literally every longing in my wank bank can be made text. All I need to do is add a description of Carol Ryan, who sat opposite me in History and whose cleavage still haunts me, and I’m getting a story tailored to my exact needs. Well, goodbye outside world.

What do I get if I leave the house? Drizzle and vape shops. What do I get if I stay in and craft a few prompts? An erotic epic in which Natalie Portman decides that, of all the men in her life, I’m the one she’s giving up the ass for.

I’m sorry, but that can’t be beaten. And it’s not just me. All those people who spend hours crafting pornographic fan-fiction epics combining the Smurfs and Ice Age canons? You’re telling me they’ll find more satisfaction by going for a poke around Winchester?

Apparently AI will consume all the water resources of the world by 2065, leaving humanity as a few ragged remnants clinging to life. Bring it the f**k on. No previous apocalypse ever promised me ‘Holly Willoughby’s Lap-Dancing Adventures, Chapter 2,105.’

It’s shit out there. I know it, you know it. The entire of human history has been a drive to get in somewhere safe and warm. Now we can get personalised porn in there? Done deal.

I suggest – in this brief time I have between refining my Salma Hayek prompts – the government dig groundscapers going a mile into the earth, pipe in nutritious slop, require us to cycle three hours daily to generate energy, and seal the doors. Utopia? Achieved.

And don’t think this only applies to me. I’ve seen my wife’s David Tennant and Michael Sheen searches. She’ll never do anything else.