Luke Ford

Grok: Setting: Bertie Wooster’s elegant London flat, April 2025. Bertie is pacing frantically, his bow tie askew, clutching his phone as if it might explode. Jeeves, serene as ever, stands by the fireplace, having just reviewed a troubling thread on X. A tray of tea sits untouched, the air thick with impending crisis.
Bertie: Jeeves, we’re in the soup! The absolute, boiling, brimstone soup! I’ve just seen it on X—some blighter’s posted that I’m a sex pest! Me! Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, a pest of the amorous variety! It’s slander, I tell you, but it’s spreading like wildfire. What’s to be done? I’ll be blackballed from the Drones Club and hounded by Aunt Agatha!
Jeeves: Calmly adjusting a cufflink. A most distressing development, sir. I have reviewed the X thread in question, which appears to stem from a misunderstanding involving your recent interaction with Miss Poppy Pendleton. The term “sex pest” is, I suspect, an exaggeration, but in the current climate, such accusations carry weight. Might I inquire as to the specifics of your conduct at the Drones Club event?
Bertie: Specifics? Oh, it’s all a ghastly mix-up, Jeeves! You know Poppy—sparkly frocks, laughs like a hyena. After our… er… encounter the other night, I sent that polite text you drafted, all about being friends. But at the club last night, I may have been a tad too chummy—gave her a wink, called her “old sport,” maybe patted her shoulder. Purely platonic, I swear! Now X is ablaze with claims I’m some sort of lecherous octopus!
Jeeves: Nodding thoughtfully. I see, sir. In the era of the Me Too movement, even well-intentioned gestures can be misconstrued, particularly when amplified on platforms like X. The public is acutely sensitive to perceived impropriety, and a wink or touch, however innocent, may be interpreted as overfamiliarity. Allow me to offer some guidance to navigate this delicate landscape.
Bertie: Guidance? Jeeves, I need a miracle! If this gets out, I’ll be persona non grata from Mayfair to Soho. Lay it on me—what’s the drill in this Me Too age? I don’t want to be the chap who’s whispered about at cocktail parties.
Jeeves: Clearing his throat softly. Very well, sir. Firstly, I recommend issuing a prompt and sincere clarification on X, crafted to defuse the situation without admitting fault. I propose something along the lines of: “Dear friends, I am dismayed by recent misunderstandings. My conduct is always intended with respect and good humor. I apologize for any discomfort caused and pledge to be more mindful henceforth. Yours, Bertie W.” This acknowledges the concern while preserving your character.
Bertie: Post on X? Me? Jeeves, I’d sooner wrestle a crocodile! Everyone will see it—Biffy, Tuppy, even that ghastly Spode! Can’t we just ignore it and hope it blows over, like that time I accidentally set fire to Gussie’s top hat?
Jeeves: Regrettably, sir, in the digital age, silence is often construed as guilt. A measured response, coupled with discreet actions, is the wiser course. Secondly, I advise adopting a more reserved demeanor in social settings. Avoid physical gestures—winks, pats, or the like—and maintain a polite distance, particularly with those of the opposite sex. A nod and a smile suffice to convey amiability.
Bertie: Reserved? You mean I’ve got to act like a blooming statue? Dash it, Jeeves, I’m a friendly cove! If I stop winking, people will think I’ve gone dour, like Aunt Agatha on a bad day. And what about Poppy? Should I send her flowers or something to smooth things over?
Jeeves: Frowning slightly. Flowers, sir, might be misinterpreted as an attempt to curry favor. Instead, a private message—brief and contrite—would be more appropriate. For example: “Dear Miss Pendleton, I regret any unease caused by my behavior. My intentions were purely cordial, and I shall strive to be more considerate. Yours sincerely, Bertie.” I can dispatch this on your behalf to ensure propriety.
Bertie: Propriety? You’re making me sound like a vicar, Jeeves! But I suppose you’re right—this Me Too business is trickier than a round of golf with Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps. Any other pearls of wisdom to keep me from being branded a menace?
Jeeves: Indeed, sir. Thirdly, educate yourself on contemporary social norms. The Me Too movement emphasizes consent, respect, and awareness of power dynamics. Even a jest or compliment, if misjudged, can cause offense. I could procure a discreet online course on workplace and social etiquette, tailored to the modern gentleman, which you might complete in the privacy of your flat.
Bertie: A course? Good lord, Jeeves, next you’ll have me reading manifestos! But I take your point—I’ve got to watch my step. No more calling girls “old sport,” no more shoulder pats. I’ll be as bland as a boiled egg. But what if this X nonsense escalates? What if I’m canceled, like that chap who tweeted about his cat’s political views?
Jeeves: With a ghost of a smile. Cancellation, sir, is not inevitable. By acting swiftly and sincerely, we can mitigate the damage. Should the situation persist, I have contacts in public relations who can manage your online reputation discreetly. For now, refrain from engaging with the X thread directly, lest you fan the flames. I shall monitor developments and advise accordingly.
Bertie: Collapsing into the armchair, mopping his brow. You’re a lifeline, Jeeves. An absolute lifeline. I’ll do as you say—no winking, no tweeting, just pure, unadulterated virtue. Pour me a stiff brandy, will you? This sex pest business has me shakier than a leaf in a gale.
Jeeves: Very good, sir. He glides to the decanter, pouring a precise measure. If I may, sir, your willingness to adapt speaks to your fundamental decency. With vigilance and my guidance, we shall restore your standing and ensure you remain a gentleman of unimpeachable repute.
Bertie: Sipping gratefully. To repute, Jeeves, and to never trending on X again! Now, draft that message to Poppy and get cracking on that X post. I’m counting on you to pull me out of this bally inferno!
Jeeves: Bowing slightly. Consider it done, sir. He retreats to compose the messages, leaving Bertie to nurse his brandy and vow eternal caution in the treacherous waters of 2025 social mores.

Grok: Setting: Bertie Wooster’s plush London flat, April 2025. Bertie is fidgeting nervously on a leather armchair, clutching a gin and tonic like it’s a life preserver. Jeeves, ever the picture of unruffled composure, is polishing a silver cigarette case with a cloth, his expression as inscrutable as a sphinx.
Bertie: I say, Jeeves, I’ve got myself into a bit of a pickle. Well, not a pickle exactly—more of a… a dashed awkward situation. Gulps drink. You see, last night at the Drones Club, after one too many of those new-fangled espresso martinis, I… er… had my first, ahem, encounter with a woman. And I’m in a frightful muddle about it!
Jeeves: Pausing mid-polish, eyebrow barely twitching. Indeed, sir? A significant milestone, if I may say. Might I inquire as to the circumstances, so as to better advise you on the matter?
Bertie: Circumstances? Oh, it’s a dashed blur, Jeeves! There was this girl—Poppy Pendleton, frightfully modern, wears those sparkly frocks that look like they’re made of disco balls. We were chatting about, I don’t know, drone racing or some such rot, and next thing I know, we’re in a cab to her flat in Shoreditch. And then… well… blushes crimson things happened. Things I shan’t describe, lest I turn the color of a beetroot!
Jeeves: Calmly resuming polishing. I quite understand, sir. Discretion is paramount. May I infer that the experience has left you somewhat unsettled?
Bertie: Unsettled? Jeeves, I’m a positive wreck! I mean, it was all very… er… thrilling, in a way, but now I’m terrified Poppy’s going to show up at my door demanding I propose or, worse, tweet about it on X! You know how these modern girls are—always posting their breakfasts and their feelings. What if I’m trending as “Bertie the Bungler” by teatime?
Jeeves: A valid concern, sir, given the proclivities of social media. However, I suspect Miss Pendleton’s intentions may be less matrimonial or public than you fear. If I might venture, was the encounter consensual and conducted with mutual respect?
Bertie: Oh, absolutely, Jeeves! I’m no cad. Poppy was all for it—kept calling me “darling” and giggling like a schoolgirl. But that’s just it—she’s so forward! What if she expects me to be her steady beau now? I’m not cut out for romance, Jeeves. I’m a fellow who likes his eggs sunny-side up and his evenings free of emotional entanglements.
Jeeves: Placing the cigarette case on a side table. A prudent stance, sir. To navigate this delicate situation, I would suggest a tactful follow-up with Miss Pendleton to ascertain her expectations. A polite message—perhaps via text, given the contemporary context—could clarify matters without committing you to undue obligations.
Bertie: A text? Me? Jeeves, I can barely manage emojis without sending a peach when I mean a thumbs-up! And what would I say? “Jolly good show last night, but let’s not make it a habit”? She’ll have my head on a platter, or worse, screenshot it for her followers!
Jeeves: Suppressing the faintest smirk. I could draft a suitable message, sir, designed to convey gratitude and goodwill while gently establishing boundaries. For instance: “Dear Poppy, thank you for a delightful evening. I trust we shall remain the best of friends. Yours, Bertie.” This strikes a cordial note without inviting further entanglements.
Bertie: Brightening slightly. By Jove, Jeeves, you’re a genius! That sounds just the ticket—friendly, but not so friendly I’m picking out engagement rings. But what if she does want more? I mean, she was awfully keen—kept saying I had “potential,” whatever that means. Sounded like something you’d say about a racehorse.
Jeeves: Thoughtfully. The term “potential,” sir, may reflect Miss Pendleton’s enthusiasm rather than a demand for commitment. Modern sensibilities often favor casual liaisons over binding contracts. Nevertheless, should she press for a deeper connection, you might gently cite your dedication to a life of unencumbered bachelorhood.
Bertie: Unencumbered bachelorhood! That’s me to a T, Jeeves! Why, I’d rather face Aunt Agatha’s wrath than get roped into picnics and pet names. Still, I can’t stop replaying the whole thing in my head. It was… well, dashed educational, but I’m not sure I’m built for this sort of caper. Too much like trying to dance a foxtrot during an earthquake.
Jeeves: Nodding sagely. A vivid metaphor, sir. Such experiences, while initially disorienting, often contribute to one’s personal growth. Should you wish to avoid future quakes, I could advise on strategies to maintain platonic relations at the Drones Club—perhaps limiting your intake of espresso martinis.
Bertie: Laughing nervously. Limit martinis? You’re pulling my leg, Jeeves! But you’re right—I got carried away. Poppy’s a corker, but I’m not ready to be anyone’s leading man. Draft that text, will you? And maybe pour me another G&T to steady the old nerves. This modern love business is more perilous than a round with Gussie Fink-Nottle’s newt obsession!
Jeeves: Very good, sir. He glides to the bar, then pauses. If I may, sir, you have navigated this rite of passage with commendable, if inadvertent, aplomb. I shall ensure Miss Pendleton receives a message of utmost tact, preserving both your dignity and your liberty.
Bertie: Sinking back into the chair, relieved. Jeeves, you’re a marvel. A positive marvel. Here’s to liberty, gin, and never trending on X!
Jeeves: Pouring the drink with a ghost of a smile. To liberty, sir. He hands Bertie the glass and retreats to compose the text, leaving Bertie to sip and muse on the perils of modern romance.