June 12, 2024 - 7:00am

An algorithm is standing for election in Brighton this year. AI Steve is the creation of businessman Steve Endacott, who lives in Rochdale but reportedly maintains a house in Brighton, and who promises that his AI avatar will be available 24/7 to listen to policy suggestions. Endacott himself would attend Parliament as the human proxy for his AI creation, to vote on issues as requested by his constituents.

It’s highly unlikely that “AI Steve” will succeed in being elected, leaving the cynic in me to wonder how far the whole project is a PR exercise. Endacott is director of a voice-to-voice AI enterprise, Neural Voice, which receives a logo and link on the AI Steve website, and is used to power the putative robot MP.

Neural Voice promises “Dialogue-Driven AI”, and its website suggests that such a robot might serve as customer service, medical adviser, even a lawyer. So why not also an MP? The fact that someone could seriously suggest this speaks volumes about the emptying-out of our understanding of political office — but, more troublingly yet, also the emptying-out of our understanding of human agency.

Of these, the first is far more complete. It’s not a coincidence that “comedy” Parliamentary candidates began appearing regularly in British politics from around Margaret Thatcher’s election in 1979: this was also the point at which de-industrialisation and the professionalisation of “civil society” began in earnest to hollow out 20th-century mass politics. There was a rush of joke candidates around this moment: first Auberon Waugh for the Dog Lovers’ Party in 1979, then the Monster Raving Loony Party in 1982 (and a further 40 “hilarious” years), then Billy Connolly’s wife Pamela Stephenson for Windsor and Maidenhead in 1987, representing the I Want to Drop a Blancmange Down Terry Wogan’s Y-Fronts Party.

That emptying out of political representation, to which these provided an ironic commentary, is now largely complete — which perhaps explains why Count Binface and his ilk seem so leadenly unfunny now. What they symbolise is more the rule than the exception. Meanwhile, in AI Steve, we can perhaps catch a glimpse of what might, in time, be offered in replacement.

The concept is simple enough: you talk to the robot, which collates policies with help from human sanity-checkers and Chat-GPT, then adopts the “best” or “most popular” of these as its political platform. It is a radically passive approach to political representation, which views this as the aggregation and rollout of emergent consensus, with minimal human quality control. To paraphrase another, non-AI Steve, the late Apple founder Steve Jobs, it’s the thinnest and lightest conception yet of what Members of Parliament do in practice.

And if that really is it, we might indeed replace them with robots: the most literal technocracy to date. But the obvious shortcomings in this proposal also highlight two aspects of “intelligence” whose absence in AI makes even a sophisticated instance so much less than a real human: judgement, and agency. An AI MP would be unable to judge for itself which policies are actually good; as AI Steve acknowledges, it needs human sense-checkers for that. And it can’t do anything to make them happen: in the context of Parliament, for instance, that might include in-person campaigning, meetings to bring other MPs onside, building coalitions or any of the other agentic actions that distinguish a human from a pattern-recognition robot.

To the extent that we accept an equivalence between human and AI intelligence which ignores judgement and agency, we aren’t just accepting interlocutors who are literally “not all there”, with all the frustrating customer-service interactions that will inevitably entail. We’re also, by extension, accepting a very much thinner and lighter conception of what human intelligence is. More, we’re embracing a hollowing-out with implications still graver than the fait accompli of our now largely evacuated Parliament.

A moment’s reflection reveals that this is already well under way. Its implications reach a great deal further than one PR-driven “joke” robot candidate MP.


Mary Harrington is a contributing editor at UnHerd.

moveincircles