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My Friend, His AI, and a Piss-Taking Corporal from the Past

Posted on: 30 June 2025 Tags: Metamodernism, Integral Psychology, Veterans, AI, Physician Heal Thyself, RAF

A friend of mine is going through it. You know the "it"—that messy, post-career transition where you're meant to be a grown-up, but you feel like you're learning to walk again. He recently left the RAF and is trying to make a go of it as a freelance consultant and entrepreneur. The other day, he showed me a LinkedIn message he'd received.

It was a good offer. A very good offer. Up to £1,250 per report for some ad-hoc work. For a man juggling a new business and a finite cash runway, it was like spotting a well-stocked NAAFI in the middle of a desert exercise.

He told me he ran the whole dilemma through a sort of AI-assisted reflection process he uses. He wanted to get past the initial ego-boost and financial temptation to see what was really going on. The whole story he told me was so profound, so painfully sincere, I felt I had to write it down.

But as he was telling me, I could almost hear another voice in the room. A ghost from his past. A young, sharp-as-a-tack corporal, leaning against a locker, rolling a fag and taking the absolute piss out of the whole sincere affair.

So, for my friend's sake, and for my own, I'm going to tell his story with both voices. His sincere reflection, and the corporal he carries around with him.

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The Sincere Dilemma

My friend realised, pretty quickly, that he was burnt out. The offer was tempting, but taking it would be like trying to run a marathon on a broken ankle. He talked about his "ethical framework" and his principle of "do no evil," especially to himself and his future clients. He was worried about providing a substandard service, about damaging his fledgling reputation.

Corporal: (Takes a long drag) "Oh, here we go. 'Ethical framework.' Sir's gone all philosophical again. It’s a gig, mate. You take the cash, you bang out the report, you get paid. It's not the bleeding Geneva Convention. 'Do no evil'... you're writing a report for some council, not calling in an air strike. Get a grip."

He then connected this anxiety to his transition out of the service. He felt this immense pressure to "bounce back," to have his first-year accounts look impressive to people who probably weren't even looking. He was worried about ending up on some "person of interest" list if his reflections on his own psychology were misinterpreted by the MOD.

Corporal: "A 'person of interest' list? Sweetheart, the only list you're on is for a long-overdue haircut. You think Main Building has a department for 'Eeyores in Civvy Street'? They're a bit busy, mate. You writing about your feelings is not a threat to national security. Honestly, the ego on it."

The Soul of the Motorbike

This is where it got really interesting. The key to unlocking the whole puzzle, he said, was his daydream of getting a motorbike. It wasn't just a toy; it was a "tool for perception," a vehicle for "existential meaning" that would energise his core work. The journey was the point.

Corporal: "Right, I'm off. He's lost it. A 'tool for perception'? It's a two-wheeled metal machine for getting from A to B, hopefully without a catastrophic interaction with a Ford Fiesta. 'Existential meaning'? That's what you find at the bottom of a pint glass, mate, not on the A46 to Lincoln. Just admit you want to look cool and maybe get a bird to ride on the back. It's not that deep."

Finally, he told me about his 'Digital Theology' concept. The idea that his conversation with his AI was a new form of interfacing with reality, a mirror for his own soul. He wondered if the recruiter was using an AI too, and what that meant for the future of humanity.

Corporal: "Okay, I'm back. I couldn't miss this. 'Digital Theology'. You're talking to a clever toaster, Sir, and you've turned it into a religion. It's a language processor. It's good at grammar. It's not the bloody Oracle at Delphi. Next, you'll be asking it for next week's lottery numbers. If you want your soul mirrored, go look in the mirror after a three-day bender. That'll show you something."

Physician, Heal Thyself

So why write all this down? Why give voice to this cynical, piss-taking corporal?

Because this is the work. My friend—and let's be honest, me—carries that voice around anyway. It’s the voice of the inner critic, the self-doubter, the part of you that fears you're just a pretentious fraud. It's the voice of past trauma, of a culture where sincerity can be mistaken for weakness.

By inviting the corporal to the party, by writing down his most cutting remarks, my friend takes control of the dialogue. He realises his "worst fears"—being seen as pretentious, over-sincere, self-important—are actually pretty harmless. The corporal, for all his bluster, is just a scared kid trying to protect him from getting hurt. He's the loyal sentry on the castle walls, screaming at shadows.

By writing him down, by asking an AI to literally help script his own inner critic, my friend performs a beautifully metamodern act. He is both deadly serious about his own healing and growth, and simultaneously able to laugh at the absurdity of his own seriousness.

He doesn't kill the corporal. He gives him a seat at the table, listens to his shtick, rolls his eyes, and gets on with his life. That, right there, is not just healing. It's a liberating discipline. And it's a story worth telling.