RICHARD ORD: Ancient artefacts of truth or edible hats? Let the future kids decide

Future facts: He who shouts loudest must be right!Future facts: He who shouts loudest must be right!
Future facts: He who shouts loudest must be right!
What will future generations make of the flattened dead trees daubed in ink that their grandparents dubbed ‘noosepraypahz’?

‘It’s pronounced ‘newspapers,’ you idiot,’ my AI-generated self will holler from the ‘Ord family history’ chip embedded in my future grandchild’s ear.

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‘Do I wear it or eat it?’ they may say, tentatively licking the masthead before fashioning themselves a paper headscarf.

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While I am convinced the newspaper is going to enjoy a tumultuous revival in the next decade (I’m ever the optimist), others are not so positive and believe it is to go the way of the fax machine and dial-up telephone.

On YouTube, there’s a video of two teenagers trying to use a rotary phone, and it’s equal parts hilarious and alarming. Watching them struggle to dial is like watching a chimpanzee try to operate an air fryer - it’s a sobering reminder of how the cutting edge becomes ancient history in the blink of an eye. I’m thinking flint knives and Sony Walkmans!

The rotary phone debacle got me wondering: how quickly will future generations look at newspapers with the same bewildered expression?

Given the latest grim witterings of our tech overlords it seems that facts, once the bread and butter of newspapers, are now toast. Zuckerberg has given fact-checkers the boot from Facebook, and Musk - head of the platform formerly named Twitter, but now known as, well, Twitter - has traded facts for fibs. With these dangerous men-children shaping the online world, is it any wonder that the printed truth is struggling?

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In-depth analysis and challenging conversations unfolding over time in print are being subverted by the immediacy of online rage. Why investigate an issue or listen to the arguments when you can simply spout what you think, block those who disagree and rejoice in the ‘likes’ of those that are left?

A trip to the museum of the future may feature this curious paper relic under a banner reading: ‘When Facts Were Real.’

My grandchildren (should I ever have any) may well gawp, slack jawed, at the crinkled, ink-stained pages, cautiously poking them as their heads swim with questions.

‘What’s a fact?’ they may ask, only to be told: ‘These days, it’s whatever you want it to be… so long as you shout it loud enough!’

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