'I get it, I get it,' says Biden, smiling broadly. 'You're not Rashee Sanook! You yourself are the AI!'

From the diary of Rishi Sunak, Britain’s most Turing-tested prime minister

I WAS expounding for the third time on Britain’s readiness to become the world’s AI hub when Biden says, ‘Oh, I get what’s going on here. You’re a goddamned robot!’

‘No, no,’ I say, breaking into an authenticating sweat, ‘I am the real Rishi Sunak. I’m just very, very keen on the possibilities of artificial intelligence.’ ‘Hmm,’ he says, settling into his chair.

‘Now I like the sound of AI,’ he continued, ‘and I like that it has two of the letters of IRA. Means you can trust it. You I’m not so sure. Can we get this guy to do a whatchacallit? With the bridges on the computer?’

‘Mr President?’ says an aide. ‘Where he recognises bicycles.’ says Biden. ‘That’s a Chat GTA, ain’t it? ‘A Captcha? No, we have confirmation of a heartbeat, sir.’ ‘Then why’s he like that?’

The White House is rather rendolent of an assisted living facility, or care home as Britain calls them, complete with dangling alarm cords and a walk-in marble bath. I can sense naptime is approaching.

‘About AI-’ I say before I’m cut off. ‘Problem is Britain,’ he says, ‘and intelligence. And recent issues thereof.’

‘To be the global leader in AI development and AI regulation, you need to be intelligent. Damn smart. Stable, too. Your country just had a prime minister like the captain of Titanic, and you think you’re smart enough?

‘Now if you are a, uh, a mechanism of some kind that is real clever. If you can prove to my people you’re an AI I’ll accept your credentials and Britain gets to be the hub. If you ain’t? No deal.’

‘What do you say?’ he said, hand outstretched. From behind a frozen grin I prepare myself to deliberately fail a Captcha.

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Entrails boiled in a sodding sheep's stomach?: The gammon food critic's Scottish road trip

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who knew that Phillip Schofield was a wrong ‘un all along

SCOTLAND. Is there really any point? 

Alright, they put up a stronger fight than the Welsh and Irish to inevitable rule by their betters, but the weather’s shit, the football’s worse and fuck the bagpipes.

Letting Scotland call itself a country is like letting your daughter be a goth: regrettable, indulgent, a bit pathetic but ultimately doesn’t do anyone any lasting harm.

But I fancy a break and I’ve heard Edinburgh’s alright, so I’ve booked a coach. Be interested to see how it’s getting on under its new Duke. Not said anything offensive yet but he’s working up to it.

Sitting down for traditional Scottish cuisine on the Royal Mile – you won’t catch me in any overpriced tourist-traps – I break the ice. ‘Who d’you support then?’ I ask the waiter. ‘Celtic or Rangers?’

Wrong city apparently. Country’s the size of Norfolk with half the people so how they can have all this sectarian divide when it’s no bigger than a boil on your arse baffles me. And Heart of Lothian’s no name for a team. What even is Lothian? Wood?

Anyway, I stretch out with a few single malts. Says a lot about life up here that the national drink is 40 per cent proof. If I asked for a wee dram of the strong stuff they’d bring heroin.

I start with cullen skink, a smoked-fish soup that sounds like a parasitic lizard that lays eggs in your scrotum. Bland, but these people consider porridge a treat.

Smoked salmon’s no improvement. Do I look like a fucking otter? Then I’m offered haggis, and being no mug I Google that shit.

Sheep’s guts? Wrapped up and boiled in the lining of its stomach? How daft do these Jocks think we are? Nobody’s eating that. It’s like when Arabs serve up sheep’s eyeballs. They’re watching from the kitchen pissing themselves.

I explain to the waiter that he might hate the English as much as we hate the French, but I’d rather he flip his kilt, add a sprig of thistle and serve up his bare arse than haggis. Knowing I’ve rumbled him, he suggests the grouse.

It comes with tatties – potatoes – and neeps, which are turnips. Call them what you like, nobody’s eating turnips and the grouse doesn’t have enough meat on it to feed a cat. So potatoes basically. No wonder all the natives prefer to be homeless in London.

Refusing another snifter, which I take as acknowledgment you have to be pissed to eat this crap, I lurch out. I don’t tip either. They’re tight up here so they’d be offended.