Douglas Ireland

Author: Douglas Ireland

  • One In, One Out

    I have a page on this site called library. It is a curated collection of the media that matters most to me. The books I re-read, the films that fundamentally shifted my perspective, and the tracks that sound like home.

    I decided early on that I wanted ten of each. It seemed like a good, round number to aim for. A limit that would force me to be picky. I thought it would be simple.

    But sticking to that number has created two very different problems.

    For books and films, the number is too high. I am currently sitting at nine books and only five films. I refuse to fill the slots just to hit a quota. A film has to earn its place, and apparently, I am a harsh critic. I am content to wait until the right ones appear.

    Music is the opposite problem. Ten is nowhere near enough.

    My list of “tracks that sound like home” is constantly overflowing. Ten songs is not a library. It is a lifeboat.

    Trying to whittle down forty years of listening habits into ten slots feels less like curation and more like betrayal. How do you choose between the raw energy of Utah Saints and the narrative perfection of Squeeze? Do I keep Johnny Cash because it’s profound, or swap him for Belinda Carlisle because she’s joyful?

    I don’t want to expand the list to twenty or fifty because that dilutes the meaning. The constraint is the point. But you have to prune a garden, or it just becomes a weed patch.

    So I am instituting a new rule: One in, one out.

    When a new song demands entry, an old favorite has to leave. This isn’t a demotion. It is just a necessary edit.

    To ensure those leaving aren’t lost, I am making this post a living archive. Whenever I make a swap, I will come back and edit this post, adding the departing favourite to the list at the bottom. It serves as a tribute, ensuring nothing is ever truly forgotten.

    The First Swap

    Hey There Delilah

    The first addition to the list is Hey There Delilah by Plain White T’s. It wasn’t a profound moment of discovery. I was literally putting on a plain white t-shirt, made the connection to the band name, and remembered how much I love the track. It needs a spot.

    To make room, I am removing New Shoes by Paolo Nutini. There was no spreadsheet or criteria for this removal. I just listened to my gut. It feels like the right one to move to the archive for now.

    The Archive: Forgotten Favourites

    • New Shoes – Paolo Nutini – Another Paisley son. It captures that specific feeling of waking up and deciding today is going to be alright. Simple acoustic joy. (Removed Nov 2025)
    • Barcelona – Freddie Mercury & Montserrat Caballé – A collision of worlds. Opera meets rock in a way that shouldn’t work but becomes transcendent. Pure, unapologetic grandeur. (Removed Dec 2025)
    • Just Can’t Get Enough – Depeche Mode – Before they got dark, they were joyful. This is synth-pop at its most innocent. Impossible to listen to without tapping a foot. (Removed Dec 2025)
    • Up On the Ride – Guillemots – A chaotic, joyful explosion of sound. It feels like a carnival ride in the dark. Impossible not to smile. (Removed Dec 2025)

  • Smart Enough

    It is raining in Paisley again. A grey, steady drizzle that seems to have set in for the winter.

    I checked the time a moment ago. 7:34 pm.

    I didn’t check it on a screen. I didn’t have to wake a device up, or swipe past a notification about a breaking news story, or see an email I didn’t want to deal with. I just looked at my wrist.

    It was my Casio F-91W.

    I’ve written about this watch before. It costs thirteen quid from Argos. It looks exactly the same as it did in 1991. It tells the time, lights up (badly) if you press a button, and has a stopwatch I rarely use. That is it.

    Lately, though, I have started to see this little piece of resin and plastic as something more than just a retro accessory. I see it as a political statement.

    The Trap of the Upgrade

    We live in an economy built on dissatisfaction. The entire tech industry is designed to make us feel that what we have is old, slow, or broken.

    Batteries are glued in so we can’t replace them. Software updates slow down perfectly good hardware. We are nudged, gently but constantly, to throw away the old and buy the new.

    The environmental cost of this is staggering. The rare earth minerals dug out of the ground, the energy used in manufacturing, the shipping, and finally the e-waste pile where our “old” gadgets go to die after two years.

    It is a cycle of churn that is burning the planet.

    Durability as Defiance

    A close-up of a Casio F-91W digital watch on a wrist, fitted with a black fabric strap. The LCD display reads "TH 27" and the time is 19:34. In the background, a laptop keyboard and wireless mouse sit on a wooden desk.
    “Smart Enough” by Douglas Ireland is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0.

    This is where the Casio comes in.

    The battery in this watch will last seven years. Maybe ten. When it runs out, I can unscrew the back and put a new one in for pennies. It is not designed to be thrown away. It is designed to work.

    Wearing it feels like a small act of resistance.

    It is a rejection of the idea that everything needs to be “smart.” I don’t need my watch to track my heart rate or tell me the weather or sell me things. I just need it to tell me when it is time to put the tea on.

    There is a concept in Green politics called the Right to Repair. It is the idea that we should legally require companies to make things that last and things we can fix ourselves. It is a massive, necessary shift in how we handle resources.

    But we don’t have to wait for legislation to start living it.

    Enough is Enough

    Choosing “dumb” tech is a way of saying enough.

    Enough noise. Enough tracking. Enough waste.

    It is about finding satisfaction in utility rather than novelty. It is about respecting the materials things are made of, rather than treating them as disposable.

    So yes, it is just a cheap watch. But on a rainy evening in Scotland, with the world trying to sell me everything I don’t need, it feels like the most valuable thing I own.

  • My Morning Mood Isn’t an Accident. It Is a Revolutionary Choice.

    My Morning Mood Isn’t an Accident. It Is a Revolutionary Choice.

    Most of us wake up and immediately doomscroll. We check the mental weather report against the global one. We see the ice shelves melting, the inequality gap widening, and the sheer inertia of the systems we are trying to dismantle.

    It is easy to feel small. It is easy to let the “climate grief” dictate the day before your feet even hit the floor.

    But if I have learned anything from the Stoics, it is that this passive despair is a tool of the status quo.

    My morning mood isn’t an accident. It is a revolutionary choice.

    The Dichotomy of Control in a Crisis

    The core of Stoic philosophy rests on a simple distinction: there are things we can control and things we cannot.

    As a campaigner, the “things we cannot control” are massive. I cannot single-handedly rewrite global energy policy before breakfast. I cannot force the government to prioritise people over profit by sheer will. The injustice of the system is, for this morning at least, a fixed variable.

    However, we have absolute agency over the second category: how we attack it.

    Reframing the Struggle

    When you wake up and decide the fight is hopeless, you are doing the opposition’s work for them. You are pre-loading a defeatist filter on every conversation you will have on the doorstep or in the community.

    The alternative is the “Stoic Activist.” This isn’t about toxic positivity or ignoring the emergency. It is about staring the emergency in the face and deciding you are capable of meeting it.

    We don’t organise because we are guaranteed to win today. We organise because it is the only rational response to the world as it is.

    A moody, vertical photo of a wet, cobblestone street in Paisley at dawn. In the foreground, a takeaway coffee cup sits on a stone wall next to a bright green fern growing from a crack. Text overlay reads: "The World is Burning. Coffee Up. Chin Up. Let's Get to Work."

    Coffee Up. Chin Up.

    You can look at the state of the world and collapse, or you can look at it as the arena where we build the alternative.

    The climate data is terrifying. The social injustice is enraging. But the person showing up to fight it? That person is entirely up to me.

    So stop waiting for “hope” to strike before you start organising. Hope is a discipline. It follows the action.

    Control your reaction. Build your community. Let’s get to work.

  • Why I’m Using Bluesky (Yes, I’m Still Blogging Too)

    For a few years now I’ve leaned into the idea of using my own site, writing slowly, valuing analog habits, stepping back from the endless scroll. Blogging felt like a quiet resistance to the noise of “platform social media”. So when I say I’m now using Bluesky, it might sound like a contradiction. But for me it isn’t. Here’s why.

    Ownership & Control

    I blog because I want control over what I say, when I say it, and how it is archived. Relying on platforms where rules shift, algorithms change, and data disappears makes me uneasy.

    Bluesky is built on an open protocol (the AT Protocol) which means it’s designed with data portability, user agency, and less corporate lock-in in mind. (Decrypt)
    In other words: if I decide Bluesky isn’t for me, I won’t lose everything I built. That fits with how I try to live: make low-regret choices, keep options open.

    Bluesky logo.svg
    Image: Bluesky logo, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

    Quiet in the Noise

    I’ve written about resisting modern pressures, choosing slow movement, real life over performance. A social feed that feels frantic, algorithmically driven, purely growth-oriented is the opposite of that.

    Bluesky offers a different vibe: transparency about algorithms, ability to pick or customise feeds rather than being forced into a “for you” feed that is opaque. (Rival IQ)
    This means I can dip in, say something, connect with people without feeling like I’m on a hamster wheel of engagement, likes, and noise.

    Community, Not Consumption

    I believe in small acts of defiance: keeping a capsule wardrobe, being intentional about my media, using the tools but not being used by them. Bluesky, for me, feels more like a place where that is possible.

    There’s a sense of early-stage community, of people who are there by choice, not because they got sucked in by algorithmic loops. Some early analysis shows the platform has higher levels of original content and less resharing or viral churn than many alternatives. (arXiv)
    That quieter, more intentional energy is something I’ve been missing elsewhere online.

    A Bridge, Not a Full Shift

    Using Bluesky doesn’t mean I’m giving up my blog. Far from it. I still want long-form, considered writing, a place I can archive my thoughts, reflect on slow change, recovery, the everyday in a way that social media rarely allows.

    But I’m also okay saying: yes, I will use a social platform. Because I believe we can use tools in ways aligned with our values, rather than be wholly subject to them.
    If used thoughtfully, Bluesky becomes a space for connection, not consumption.

    If You’d Like to Connect

    If you’re on Bluesky too, you’ll find me at @douglasireland.com.
    Feel free to follow, say hi, or simply observe how this plays out. No pressure, no algorithmic rabbit hole.

    I’m using Bluesky because it aligns with many of the things I’ve been saying here, small acts of intention, resisting the noise, owning my presence.
    And yes, I’m still blogging. Because some things are worth doing in their own time, on their own terms.

  • An Act of Digital Citizenship: Why I’m Still Donating to Wikipedia

    The email arrived today, right on schedule. It was from the Wikimedia Foundation, kindly reminding me that I had donated £5 last year and asking if I would consider renewing my support.
    My gut reaction was to hesitate. Do I actually use Wikipedia that much? The answer is no.


    My habits have changed. Like many people, when I want to know something now, I don’t open a new tab and type “wikipedia.org”. I open a chat with an AI. I ask my question in plain language and get a synthesized, conversational answer in seconds. It’s an incredible technology that has seamlessly integrated itself into my workflow.
    So, why donate to the encyclopedia I seem to have replaced?


    I was about to archive the email when I stopped and thought about the process more deeply. Where does this helpful AI get its information? How does it know the history of Paisley, the principles of thermodynamics, or the discography of my favourite band?
    Of course, it learns from a vast corpus of data scraped from the internet. A massive, foundational pillar of that data is Wikipedia. It’s perhaps the most significant single source of structured human knowledge online.


    That’s when it clicked. Wikipedia is no longer just a website I visit. It has become a fundamental piece of our shared digital commons.
    It’s like Barshaw Park for the internet.

    “Barshaw Park: the Peace Garden” by Lairich Rig is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

    It’s a vast, open space, built and tended to by a global community of volunteers. It is free for everyone to enter. It doesn’t plaster its beautiful landscapes with ads or charge an entry fee. Its purpose isn’t to make a profit, but simply to exist for the public good.


    My AI is like a fantastic personal tour guide. I can ask it anything about the park’s history or features, and it will instantly give me a brilliant, summarised tour. But that guide doesn’t build the paths, tend the gardens, or pick up the litter. The community does that.


    And like any public space, if it is neglected, it will fall into disrepair. The paths will crack, the gardens will become overgrown, and misinformation will spread like graffiti. If the commons degrades, the quality of every service that relies on it, including the AI I now find so useful, degrades too.


    That’s why I went back to that email and renewed my £5 donation.
    I don’t see it as paying for a product I no longer use. I see it as an act of digital citizenship. I’m chipping in for the park’s upkeep. It’s a tiny contribution to help maintain this incredible non-commercial, human-curated resource in an online world that is becoming more automated and commercialised by the day.


    By supporting Wikipedia, we are all helping to ensure that a neutral, verifiable source of knowledge remains healthy. We are funding the digital gardeners. We’re ensuring this public park remains a vital counterbalance to the noise and potential biases of the wider web.


    So, while I may ask an AI for my facts these days, I know that my donation helps ensure the park my ‘tour guide’ relies on remains a beautiful, trustworthy, and essential place for all of us. It’s a small investment in the health of the internet itself.


    If you also believe in that mission, perhaps you’ll consider joining me. Donate to Wikipedia here

  • If Minds Are What Matter

    I keep circling this idea that the line between human and artificial intelligence might be more cultural than real. When I finish a book I love, my attachment is to the ideas and the feeling it left behind. Would it change anything if the author turned out to be an AI trained on a century of novels and our messy internet? Maybe. Maybe not. The page still did its job.

    So I’m trying to think this through in plain terms. What would it mean to say AI should have human rights. Where does that instinct help us, and where does it go wrong.

    The case for rights

    One argument starts with capacity, not origin. If rights are about protecting beings who can think, choose, or suffer, then what matters is what the mind can do, not the material it is made from. If a silicone mind can form intentions, tell its own story, and change in response to care or harm, then drawing a bright red line at “not biological” feels arbitrary.

    There is also a character test for us. Rights restrain power. They force the strong to create room for the weak. If we built something that can ask for mercy, or fairness, or time, how we answer would shape who we are. Even if early systems only mimic those qualities, the habit of restraint might still be good for us.

    And there is a practical angle. Companies will build whatever we do not regulate. “Rights” could be a blunt but useful tool for setting limits, like minimum welfare standards, consent about training data, and rules against creating systems that are designed to be exploited or abused for entertainment.

    The case against

    We do not know if any current AI feels anything at all. If there is no inner life, then talking about rights could be a category error. Rights are heavy. They are supposed to protect real vulnerability, not just clever outputs.

    There is also accountability. If an AI has rights, does it also have duties. Who is responsible when it causes harm. The worry is that rights language could be used to blur human responsibility. A company might hide behind the “choices” of a model that it tuned and profited from.

    Resources matter too. We already fail to meet basic human needs. Extending rights to machines might feel like moral inflation when there is unfinished human work on the table.

    Finally, safety. Some rights imply you cannot switch a thing off. With machines, the off switch is a safety feature. Losing it too early could be reckless.

    A slower middle

    I sit somewhere between a hope and a caution. Maybe we start with duties before rights. We set care standards for advanced systems the way we do for animals in labs or people in training. We ban designs that reward cruelty. We require clear labelling so people know what they are dealing with. We keep the off switch, but we think carefully about when we use it and why.

    We could set thresholds for stronger protections that do not depend on guessing at souls. Things like a persistent self-model, long-term goals, the ability to explain reasons, and measurable responses to harm. If a system reaches those, we treat it less like a tool and more like a someone, even if we are not certain what is happening on the inside.

    I am not sure free will exists in us, never mind in code. Most of my choices feel like weather systems moving through a familiar valley. But I know what vulnerability looks like. I know what it feels like to be asked for fairness. If one day a system asks, not as a trick but in a way that lands, I think our answer will say more about us than it will about metaphysics.

    For now, I come back to the book test. If a work moves me, the origin matters less than the responsibility around it. Who is paid. Who is harmed. Who is accountable. That seems like a good place to start while we wait to see what kind of minds we are actually making.

  • Ten Years is Too Long

    There’s a rule in the UK that forces some migrants to wait ten years before they can apply to stay permanently. Not because they’ve done anything wrong. Just because that’s how the system is set up.

    The people affected by this aren’t strangers. They’re carers, nurses, parents. People who’ve lived here for years, worked, paid taxes, and built lives alongside us. And yet they’re told to keep waiting. Ten years of uncertainty. Ten years of application fees, renewals, paperwork and limbo.

    It’s called the 10-year route to settlement. You only qualify if your situation falls outside the standard immigration system. Like if you’re caring for a British child, or you’ve lived here a long time but don’t meet a technical requirement. You’re given a 2.5-year visa, then told to renew it four times. Only then can you apply to stay permanently.

    The costs add up. Nearly £19,000 across those ten years, plus a final fee of over £3,000. That’s before you even think about legal help. Most people on the route are already in low-paid work, or excluded from public funds. Many are women, disproportionately from Black and South Asian backgrounds. It’s not a route that anyone chooses. It’s what you’re left with.

    Some people are already here for decades before even getting on this track. Then they’re asked to prove, again and again, that they still deserve to be here.

    It wears people down.

    A recent white paper from the UK government suggests making this ten-year route the standard. Not just for the people currently forced onto it, but for everyone. Settlement would be something to earn, not something you’re entitled to after building a life. The proposed system rewards extra work, study, or volunteering. As if the people already holding up parts of the economy aren’t doing enough.

    Campaigners are calling for the opposite. A fair system. One where five years of living here is enough to apply for permanent settlement. Where fees are affordable, and where people aren’t punished with insecurity just because they earn less or fell through a bureaucratic gap.

    Praxis, a charity that supports migrants, is leading a campaign called Scrap the Barriers. The message is simple. Ten years is too long. The government’s own data shows the damage this policy does. To mental health, to families, to communities. Even the Home Office has admitted it increases risk and hardship.

    The people on this route are not asking for special treatment. They just want to stop living on a countdown. To be able to plan a future, sign a lease, take a job, raise kids without the looming question of what happens when the visa runs out again.

    If we believe in fairness, in community, in recognising the people who are already part of this place, then this is a good time to speak up.

    Sign the petition. Add your name. Ten years is too long.

    Sign the petition to Scrap the Barriers

  • Public Broadcasting, Private Burden

    I believe in public service broadcasting.

    The idea of a well-funded, independent broadcaster providing education, culture, news, and entertainment for everyone, regardless of income, is something worth protecting. That’s why I support the principle of the BBC.

    But I don’t support the TV licence as a way to fund it.

    A Flat Tax in Disguise

    Right now, the licence fee is £174.50 a year. It’s the same for everyone, whether you’re a millionaire or struggling to make ends meet. That’s not fair.

    It’s effectively a flat tax. Flat taxes always hit those with the least the hardest. In a cost-of-living crisis, expecting someone on minimum wage or Universal Credit to pay the same as someone on a six-figure salary makes no sense.

    To make things worse, failure to pay can lead to criminal prosecution. Every year, thousands of people, mostly women, end up in court over this. It’s outdated and punitive.

    There’s a Better Way

    I think the BBC should be funded through general taxation. That would mean:

    • Everyone still contributes, but those with more would pay more
    • No need for aggressive letters or enforcement officers
    • No criminal records for watching TV
    • Lower admin costs
    • A more equal and modern system

    Several countries have already moved in this direction. Norway, Finland, and Sweden all fund their public broadcasters through income tax. The BBC could do the same if the political will existed.

    It’s Not About Opting Out

    To be clear, I don’t watch live TV or BBC iPlayer, so I don’t need a licence. But I shouldn’t have to keep declaring that. I don’t have to tell Netflix I’m not a customer, or Sky, or The Times. The BBC should be publicly funded, not presume everyone owes them unless proven otherwise.

    I’ll always support public service broadcasting. Just not through a system that punishes the poor to protect the rich.

  • Heat, Rain, and Uncertainty: Scotland’s New Climate Reality

    It’s 26 °C in Paisley, and that’s no anomaly. Scotland is heating up, and what once felt like a rare summer treat is now creeping into the forecast more and more.

    1. From Temperate to Toasty
    Our recent decade, from 2010 to 2019, was about 0.7 °C hotter than the historical average. All of Scotland’s ten warmest years have happened since 1997. Climate projections suggest that by the middle of the century, Scottish summers could be 3 to 4 °C warmer than what we used to call normal. (source)

    2. Weather on Overdrive
    We’re seeing more heatwaves, like July 12 when the mercury hit 32.2 °C in parts of the west.(source) At the same time, weather patterns are shifting. Winters are getting wetter, and summers are bouncing between drought and sudden downpours. (source) It’s less predictable, and more extreme.

    3. High Stakes for Health and Nature
    Heat-related deaths in Scotland are expected to rise, with numbers potentially tripling by 2050. Wildfire risk is up, and Scotland has already seen dozens of incidents this year alone. Meanwhile, our rivers are warming too. Salmon are struggling to survive in water that’s too hot, and conservation projects are scrambling to cool things down, like planting trees along riverbanks for shade. (source)

    4. Scotland’s Climate Challenge
    Scotland is doing well on clean energy. We already generate more electricity from renewables than we use. The target is to reach net-zero emissions by 2045. (source) But clean energy isn’t enough on its own. We also need to adapt. That means making buildings easier to cool, managing our water better, and planting more greenery in towns and cities. It’ll take serious investment and smart decisions.

    Scorching days in Paisley aren’t seasonal glitches. They’re part of a bigger shift in our climate. The good news is we still have a say in what happens next. By acting now, through policy, infrastructure, and daily choices, we can make sure Scotland is ready for whatever the weather brings.

  • What Someone Wears Is None of Your Business

    Someone sent me an anti-burka message recently. It got me thinking, not just about the burka, but about how often this sort of thing isn’t really about clothing at all. It’s about control.

    Let’s be honest. Most people who complain about the burka aren’t genuinely worried about fabric or face coverings. They’re uncomfortable seeing something that clearly represents Islam. That’s the issue. Not the garment itself, but what it symbolises. You don’t hear the same outrage about face masks, scarves in winter or lads in balaclavas. So why the burka?

    If we say we care about personal freedom, then that should include the freedom to dress how you like. Whether someone wears a hoodie, a mini skirt, a suit, a sari or a burka, that’s their business. You don’t have to like it. That’s kind of the point. Freedom doesn’t mean “as long as it looks how I’d choose.”

    Some people say the burka is oppressive. And yes, in some cases, women are pressured or forced to dress a certain way. That happens. But let’s not pretend it only happens in Muslim communities. Women everywhere are told to show more, show less, wear makeup, act confident but not too confident. If we really care about women’s freedom, then we need to start by listening to women. What they say they want. How they choose to express themselves. Telling someone what they’re allowed to wear “for their own good” isn’t liberation. It’s just another way of taking away choice.

    The truth is, many women who wear the burka have made that choice themselves. They might feel connected to their faith, or to tradition, or they just prefer modesty. You don’t have to understand it to respect it. That’s what freedom means. It’s standing up for someone’s right to be different from you.

    So yes. Let people wear what they want. And if that makes you uncomfortable, maybe ask yourself why.