Deep Blue, anal beads and the end of civilization

The cheating, according to Elon Musk, one of the most obnoxious people inside the solar system and beyond it, was carried out by a device equipped with artificial intelligence that Hans Niemann had inserted into his rectum, the vibration of which allegedly directed the American player to make the right move at any given moment. Niemann, facing reigning world champion Magnus Carlsen, barely blinked as he heeded the advice coming from the end of his small intestine and decided, based on the information received, if the physiological morse code indicated that he should pull a Scholar’s mate or a Queen’s gambit from his sleeve, or wherever else it happened to be. If you have made it this far, you probably have an idea of how difficult it has become to cheat at chess, the queen of metaphors of this thing we call life.

The technique by which the 19-year-old Niemann, at least according to Musk’s theory, managed to beat the greatest chess player of all time is a reminder that one day technology will rule over us all. And above all, to remember that it will not care how unpleasant or uncomfortable the method may be, because submitting to it will always will be worth it. I recall the day we saw the expression of horror on Garry Kasparov’s face when he was beaten by the IBM Deep Blue supercomputer. I was 16 years old and watching the contest on television with my father, who back then had the habit of playing on an electronic chess board that, supposedly, Kasparov himself had trained on (or at least that is what it said on the box). An industrial engineer by trade, he was fascinated by the definitive combat between man and machine. I, with few ambitions beyond being in a punk band having mastered three chords on my guitar, sat on the couch feeling like Sarah Connor taking on Skynet.

Niemann, based on what we know to date, is an odd guy. But it transpired that Carlsen, who also accused him of cheating, if not with as much detail as Musk, had no proof of any underhand tactics on the part of his opponent. Now the Norwegian faces a $100m defamation lawsuit.

In the same era as Deep Blue v Kasparov, in 1996, something similar happened to my friend Nacho. One day, his girlfriend intercepted a love letter addressed to another girl. It was a cheesy construction in which he promised all manner of poetic adventures that rhymed. My friend elected to pass the letter off as the work of the devil. He literally told his girlfriend that Beelzebub himself had written it in his own hand and that it had nothing to do with him: a simple ruse. She was left with a face like Carlsen’s when he heard that his opponent had inserted a vibrator in his anus to beat him at chess. But the most relevant thing about it, despite how unbelievable she must have found the whole affair, is that she didn’t leave Nacho. At least not right there and then.

Cheating, especially when it is done right in the face of the sufferer, is still profitable. And the best method. We see it in relationships and in politics. And also in soccer. On June 22, 1986, a poor clearance from England defender Steve Hodge sprung the offside trap and looped towards his goalkeeper, Peter Shilton, who leapt to punch it to safety. It was the sixth minute of the second half and Diego Maradona, 20 centimeters shorter than Shilton but 100,000 times cleverer than the entire Azteca Stadium, lifted his fist and pulled off what could be described as the Sistine Chapel of cheating in sport. He even did it glancing sideways at the referee and the linesman but fixing the gaze of an entire nation as arrogant as England. That is how cheating should be done, not by concealing objects in your backside, Maradona would no doubt say today. Because the end of civilization is nigh, and it is better to be surprised in comfort.