Very very belated Happy New Year also on this blog. For various reasons didn’t get a chance to post here until now. In the world around us the hype around Artificial Intelligence (aka AI) continues apace, what will this year bring? Will the AI bubble finally burst? Until then let us at least have a bit of fun with it. Inspired by this YouTube short about ChatGPT jokes I decided to ask Google Gemini to write me a few Islay jokes. Here’s the first:
Why did the tourist get lost while looking for a distillery on Islay?
Because every time he asked for directions, the locals told him to “follow the peat”—but after three drams of Laphroaig, he couldn’t tell if he was smelling the ground or his own breath!
Hmmmm. Not sure. If he’s smelling the ground that would lead him to the peat bogs, not the distilleries. He needs to smell for the maltings (ignoring that only a few distilleries still have their own) instead. Anyway, let’s try another one:
An Islay man is walking home from the pub in a thick, swirling fog.
Suddenly, a massive shape looms out of the mist—it’s a tourist, looking absolutely bedraggled and confused.
“Excuse me,” the tourist cries out, “I’ve been wandering for hours! Is there any landmark nearby that can tell me exactly where I am?”
The local takes a deep, dramatic sniff of the air, pauses for a moment, and smiles.
“Aye,” he says. “About half a mile that way is Ardbeg, and about a mile the other way is Lagavulin.”
The tourist stares at him. “You can tell all that just from the smell?”
“Smell?” the local replies. “No, lad. I can tell by the way you’re swaying. You’ve got a Port Ellen lean to the left and a Bowmore stumble to the right!”
Must admit, I’m lost. I don’t get that one. Am I alone? Anyone getting this one? Explaining a joke is always bad, but if you had to laugh and it makes sense to you please help me out. But now we move on to the third and last one:
A man from the mainland is visiting Islay for the first time and decides to go for a hike. About two miles into the wilderness, he gets caught in a sudden, torrential downpour—the kind of rain that feels like the Atlantic Ocean is personally offended by your jacket.
He spots a small croft (farmhouse) and knocks frantically on the door. A weathered old Islay farmer opens it.
“Please,” the tourist gasps, “can I borrow an umbrella? I’m soaked to the bone!”
The farmer looks at the sky, then back at the man, and shakes his head. “Sorry, lad. I don’t own an umbrella.”
“No umbrella?” the tourist cries. “How do you survive? What do you do when it starts raining?”
The farmer shrugs and says, “Usually, we just go inside and wait for the whisky to make us waterproof.”
OK. Slightly surprising that the four seasons in a day trope didn’t make an appearance in this one. But going inside and enjoying a few drams when it’s pouring with rain sounds good to me.
In conclusion, I don’t think Kevin Bridges, Larry Dean or Stuart Mitchell (some of my current favourites) have anything to worry about.
