IT must be a funny old life being a scientist. While some of us mere mortals are still trying to get our heads round the elaborate complexities of the chamber pot, those intrepid sciency folk spend their days fathoming out how the universe basically works and devising a variety of thingymebobs that will bring a myriad of benefits to the entire human race. And how do we thank them? That’s right, by denouncing them as eccentric, boggle-eyed, subterranean weirdos who should be drowned in the village pond for acts of heresy.

The other day, the diarist read an article stating that within 40 odd years, Artificial Intelligence will be able to outperform humans at every conceivable task. “Artificial Intelligence?,” mumbled the sports editor as he beckoned me towards his desk while menacingly caressing his duelling scar. “You’re an expert in the field of Authentic Incompetence.”

Which brings us nicely to the future of Formula One. High tech masterminds and boffins at McLaren have conducted extensive research and have come up with an all-singing, all-dancing concept of how Grand Prix racing will look in the year 2050. The electric-powered cars will feature a driver and an Artificial Intelligence co-pilot. Mind-boggling speeds in excess of 300 mph will be achieved and the aerodynamic bodywork will morph mid-race like a Transformer to give these machines better downforce on tracks that will feature sidewinding banks and transparent roofs. It sounds just like a night at the stock cars at Central Park in Cowdenbeath to be honest.

By all accounts, F1’s future could look broadly equivalent to the light bike race in 1980s cult classic Tron. Rodi Basso, the Motorsport Director of McLaren Applied Technologies whose very name sounds like a key component you’d find next to a piston in one of these futuristic engines, declared: “At McLaren we never stand still.” Perhaps the mobile Basso and his boys could pass on some tips to the Rangers defence?

The Herald:

*MONTY has spoken. “If he’s got to go for more surgeries, go for it,” declared Colin Montgomerie as he urged hirpling Andy Murray to do everything in his power to extend his tennis playing career. That’s easier said than done, of course, but there’s no shortage of star-studded advice for oor Andy these days. In fact, his aches and pains could feature in a Ronnie Corbett monologue. “I asked the doctor for something for a creaky hip joint ... so he gave me two tickets to Ronnie Scott’s.”

The Herald:

*HOWZAT! The England cricket chiefs were forced to deny claims that Stuart Broad was dropped for the first Test against the West Indies because he was suffering from bed bug bites around his, ahem, mid-wicket. Reports claimed that Broad had got a few of the pesky blighters in his jock strap. The old Brian Johnston gaffe, “the batsman’s Holding, the bowler’s Willey” is quite apt?

*NOT for, er, prophet? Chelsea outcast Victor Moses is being loaned to Turkish club Fenerbahce after falling out of favour at Stamford Bridge. The Nigerian fullback was a £9 million purchase back in 2012, which reminded the diarist of the old Tommy Docherty line about another Moses transfer back in the early 1980s. “Half a million for Remi Moses? You could get the original Moses and the tablets for that price.

*THE Tynecastle renovation is taking so long, they could have re-pointed the entire Great Wall of China in the time it’s taken the builders, plumbers, sparkies and chippies to polish off the various fixtures and fittings in the new stand. Amid the unfinished chaos, the Dundee fitba correspondent trying to find the media suite was asked by a steward, “do you know where you’re going?” to which he responded with a very dry, “aye, the bloody Championship.” Amazingly, relegation haunted Dundee beat Hearts to move off the bottom. Wonders will never cease. It may be asking too much to get Tynecastle finished up, though.

The Herald:

*THINGS that go bump in the night. Nocturnal activities didn’t got down too well with British tennis player Jo Konta during the Australian Open in Melbourne recently. Konta’s match with Spain’s Gabrine Muguruza didn’t start until 12.30am local time and she finally exited the tournament with bleary een at 3.15am in front of barely 100 hard-core fans. Even the midnight oil had lost interest and had burned itself out by then. “I don’t agree with athletes having to physically exert themselves in the wee hours of the morning,” said Konta with a gaping yawn. The great carouser, George Best, would surely have disagreed with that observation.