Author: admin

From Gattaca to Minority Report, films have taught us to see digital IDs as sinister. As the UK government prepares to roll out its own version, the real challenge isn’t the technology, it’s the story people choose to believe.

In the films, a digital ID usually means you’re in trouble. In Gattaca, it tells you your DNA isn’t good enough. In Minority Report, shop walls shout your name while you’re just trying to buy a pair of socks. In Blade Runner 2049, identity checks decide whether you’re human or something less. Even in lighter stuff like Black Mirror, the idea of an all-encompassing identity system usually spirals into social scoring and surveillance. On screen, digital IDs are almost always a bad sign.

Now, the UK government’s version couldn’t sound more ordinary. A digital wallet on your phone, linked to the gov.uk app. Not to decide your destiny. Not to predict crimes. Just to prove your right to work. No more photocopying passports. No more digging out old gas bills.

But here’s the communications problem: Hollywood has already written the story. And when people hear “digital ID,” they don’t picture someone getting a job without dragging a battered folder of paperwork into HR. They picture Tom Cruise running from drones, or a faceless bureaucrat scanning their DNA.

That challenge is amplified by the way people now consume information. Social media is no longer a shared public square, it’s a collection of echo chambers of interest-driven silos. People see what they’re primed to believe. If you’re suspicious of government, your feed serves up stories about surveillance and slippery slopes. If you’re optimistic about tech, you see promises of efficiency and security. Each camp becomes more entrenched.

This is why communication around digital ID is such a minefield. On the one hand, the practical benefits are clear: less bureaucracy, faster checks, fewer opportunities for fraud. On the other, the cultural baggage is huge, decades of films, TV shows, and dystopian novels telling us that IDs are about control, not convenience.

And government isn’t starting from a position of trust. Public confidence in official messaging has taken a hit over the past decade. For many, it doesn’t matter how many times a minister says, “This isn’t surveillance.” What matters is the narrative people already believe, reinforced daily by their own curated media streams.

So the real question isn’t whether digital ID works, technically, it probably will. The question is whether people accept it. That won’t be decided in Whitehall, or even on the gov.uk app. It’ll be decided in the stories people choose to share, the cultural references they fall back on, and the media ecosystems they live inside.

Which means that for communicators, the hard part isn’t designing the system. It’s rewriting the story.

Social Media is Dead.

For years, social media meant exactly that: content pushed to the people who followed you. Your reach was shaped by your network, your connections, your audience size. But we’re in a new era now.

We’re no longer in the social media era. We’re in the interest media era. This is where algorithms don’t just serve your content to people you know, but to people who care about the topic. A post can go from zero followers to millions of views if it hits the right interest at the right time.

TikTok probably pioneered this change, but it’s safe to say every platform now works this way. The algorithm is the new network.

The old rules of vanity metrics, follower counts and engagement pods matter far less now. Organically earned views are the real currency, and they can translate directly into business results.

I’ve seen this up close.

Outside of work, I’ve been helping my kids run a small, faceless YouTube channel. It’s mostly football memes and Sunday league clips, but I’ve used it as a way to teach them video editing, storyboarding and that there’s more to being a YouTuber than just posting daft videos (at least to start with).

They’ve built a modest subscriber base of about 5,000 people. But here’s the interesting part: their monthly audience is between 4,500,000 and 5,500,000 people. In the last 90 days alone, they’re about to hit 15.8 million views.

That’s reach on a completely different scale to their follower count. And because of YouTube’s partner programme, they’re technically about to start earning money (although in their heads, this means imminent millionaire status, bless).

From a marketing perspective, this is the power of interest media in action. You don’t need a massive follower base to reach a massive audience. The right content, hitting the right interest, can explode in reach and visibility far beyond your immediate network.

And with AI video generation now so slick and accessible, anyone can produce professional-looking content in hours. But that also means audiences will get bored quickly. Production quality alone won’t cut it for long. Storytelling, authenticity and emotional connection will be the real differentiators.

For brand awareness and student recruitment, this is a huge opportunity:

• A single short video explaining a unique course or showcasing student life could land in front of hundreds of thousands of prospective students who have never heard of you before.
• Alumni success stories could travel globally, reaching not just alumni networks but people with shared passions or career ambitions.
• Content could start conversations and build recognition in markets you’ve never actively advertised in, without the cost of traditional campaigns.

The potential is to market to a much bigger audience while using budgets more efficiently, putting spend where it will really make the difference.

So what now?

If you want to take advantage of this shift, the biggest mistake is to treat it like the old social media era. Interest media rewards a different mindset. Consistency matters, not just because the algorithm likes it, but because each new post is a fresh chance to find the right audience at the right time.

Experimentation is your ally. Try different formats, lengths, and tones. See what resonates. Sometimes the unexpected angle, the “I didn’t know that” fact or the “I’ve always wondered” question, is the one that travels farthest.

In an environment where attention is brutally short, the first three seconds are everything. Lead with the hook. The story should grab before the viewer even knows what’s happening.

Polish has its place, but story beats production value every time. Interest media is about clarity, authenticity, and making the viewer care enough to watch to the end and then share.

Above all, don’t quit too soon. Some posts catch fire immediately. Others smoulder quietly before suddenly taking off weeks later. The point is to keep going. Consistency compounds, and over time it’s what separates the occasional viral hit from a sustained, trusted presence.

That’s the real opportunity here. Interest media isn’t about shouting the loudest, it’s about showing up, staying curious, and telling stories that stick.

When safety becomes a loophole

What Malcolm Gladwell got me thinking about with self-driving cars, street football, and unintended consequences

I saw something recently with Malcolm Gladwell talking about self-driving cars in urban settings, and it’s been sitting with me ever since.

The point he made was simple but brilliant: the problem with driverless cars isn’t that they make mistakes, it’s that they don’t.

In Phoenix, where Waymo cars operate, Gladwell ran alongside one during a test. He deliberately cut in front of it, circled it, even stood still in its path. The car, perfectly calibrated for pedestrian safety, just… waited. Patiently. For as long as it took.

Which led him to this thought: what’s to stop a bunch of streetwise kids from playing football in the middle of the road if they know a self-driving car will always stop? No risk. No danger. No angry driver beeping. Just a flawless system doing exactly what it’s designed to do even if that means grinding traffic to a halt.

And he’s right. I can picture it already, a group of savvy 11-year-olds deliberately stopping a fleet of self-driving Teslas just so they can use the headlights to light up their winter kickabout.

When predictability becomes a feature and a flaw

Gladwell’s point is a useful reminder that systems don’t exist in a vacuum. They exist alongside people. And people adapt.

Make something perfectly safe and predictable, and you don’t just create confidence, you create opportunity. People will find the loophole. They’ll push the edges. They’ll repurpose the system for something it was never meant to do.

That’s not cynicism. It’s reality.

So the question isn’t just “how do we make something work?” but “what might people do with it once it does?”

What a chaotic AI-generated TV commercial tells us about where content creation is heading

It’s only been a few weeks since Veo 3 launched, and we’re already seeing AI-generated content hit prime-time TV.

Earlier this month, the betting platform Kalshi aired a completely AI-generated ad during the NBA Finals, a surreal, nonsensical 30 seconds featuring cowboys, chihuahuas, aliens chugging beer, and someone swimming in a pool of eggs. The voiceover speculates on what people might be betting on: egg prices, hurricanes, and which teams are in the finals.

Absurd? Yes. But it also cost just $2,000 to make — and that should make every content team sit up and take notice.

According to creative director Tom Accetturo, the entire process took one person about 2–3 days to complete. Using Gemini to draft a script and generate prompt-ready shot lists for Veo 3, he produced around 300–400 clips to extract just 15 usable shots. The final edit was assembled using CapCut and Adobe Premiere Pro.

That’s a 95% cost reduction compared to a traditional TV ad. Not by cutting corners — but by changing the nature of the production process altogether.

Right now, this sits firmly in the “can we?” phase of AI video creation. The novelty is the point. The weirdness is the brand. But it’s also a clear signal that generative video is no longer just a social experiment or a speculative tool — it’s entering mainstream channels, fast.

For those of us working in comms, marketing or content strategy, that raises a few big questions:

• How do we define production value in a world where chaos is deliberate and polish is optional?
• Where’s the line between creative risk and reputational risk?
• And if this is what one person can produce in a weekend, what happens when this capability becomes widely accessible?

What I’m thinking about

As someone who leads content creation in a resource-conscious environment, I’m not about to suggest we swap out our campaigns for surrealist egg-pool chaos. But we are rapidly approaching a point where video production becomes as fast, iterative and accessible as writing. When that happens, and it’s closer than most think, the challenge won’t be how polished something looks, but whether it’s credible, purposeful and trusted.

Rethinking digital strategy for a university website in an age of AI-generated answers

In my last post, I wrote about the increasing reality that more and more people will encounter our institution without ever visiting our website. AI tools are changing how people search. Chatbots are summarising content, pulling in information from across the web — and increasingly, LSTM will be part of those answers whether we design for it or not.

That post was me thinking out loud. This one is a reflection on what that means in practice, and the direction we’re starting to take as we build the next version of our website.

Here are some of the areas we’re actively exploring.

We’re shifting from designing for pages to designing for extraction.

One of the first things we’re considering is how we structure key pages. Rather than assuming someone will read from top to bottom, we’re starting to think about how our content might be quoted or summarised in isolation.

We plan to rewrite priority pages so the most important information — delivery mode, start dates, location, entry requirements — is visible in the first third of the page. This isn’t just about SEO. It’s about shaping what AI tools might pull out when users ask a question.

We’re also reviewing our approach to long-form content, and starting to test modular blocks with clearer subheadings and standalone sentences. We want to make our content more paraphrase-friendly — without compromising depth or nuance.

We’re beginning to experiment with prompts, not just keywords.

Rather than focusing solely on search engine rankings, we’re exploring the types of prompts real users might give to AI tools. Things like:

“Which UK universities offer MScs in global health with part-time options?”
“What’s the best university for research on neglected tropical diseases?”

We’re starting to feed these into tools like ChatGPT, Gemini, Perplexity and Claude to see:

• Do we show up?
• How are we framed?
• Which content is being pulled?
• What’s being left out?

This early work is helping us prioritise what needs rewriting, what needs simplifying, and where our broader digital footprint might be holding us back.

We’re rethinking what it means to “be visible.”

We’re beginning to shift our thinking away from traffic alone and towards a broader sense of presence and representation.

We want to understand:

• Are we included in the kinds of AI answers our audiences are seeing?
• Are we being described accurately and consistently?
• Do we show up even when the question isn’t directly about us?

This is pushing us to look beyond our own site: partner content, staff profiles, media interviews, and alumni mentions. Our goal is to create a digital presence that can be surfaced and trusted across a wider ecosystem.

We’re expanding how we define performance.

We still care about analytics, but we’re starting to think about other signals too.

What would it look like to track:

• How often LSTM is mentioned in AI answers?
• How we’re described or summarised?
• Whether our voice and tone are consistent across platforms?

We’re also exploring how we can capture these kinds of interactions — even when they happen without a single click.

What we want to do next

These are early ideas, but they’re shaping how we approach the next phase of our website project. Here’s what we’re hoping to explore in more depth:

• Mapping which pages are most likely to influence AI-generated answers, and treating them as high-impact content.
• Developing patterns for content structure that help maintain clarity and consistency across teams.
• Exploring tagging and metadata models to make research and academic content more accessible to machines.

Conclusion

The first blog was about the shift we’re seeing. This one is about the questions we’re starting to work through.

Because if AI is going to explain who we are, we want to help shape what it says. We may not control where users land, but we can influence how our story is told.

We’re not chasing traffic. We’re laying the groundwork to earn trust. And in a world of disappearing homepages, that’s what will matter most.

How AI is quietly rewriting the rules of search and why that changes everything about how we build websites

The first website I built was at the University of Liverpool in the late 1990s. It was for a project, and it was exactly what you’d expect from a late-90s student site: a few basic pages, a single photo (that took too long to load), and a hit counter proudly ticking away at the bottom of the screen.

It was primitive. But it did the job.

People found it the way everyone found things back then – they typed something into a search engine (Ask Jeeves, if you were fancy), clicked the homepage, and off they went. Simple. Logical. Linear.

Fast forward to now, and I’m leading the redevelopment of a new Liverpool School of Tropical Medicine website. But the task in front of us couldn’t be more different.

Because today, people aren’t visiting websites in the same way. In many cases, they’re not visiting at all.

Instead, AI search tools, ChatGPT, Perplexity, Google SGE are doing it for them. Scanning, scraping, summarising. Students ask a question like “Which UK universities offer a master’s in global health?” and they don’t get a list of links. They get an answer.

Not a click. Not a session. Just a sentence.

That shift is seismic. Because it means we’re no longer just designing for humans reading web pages. We’re designing for AI agents deciding which answers humans get to see.

In this world, the landing page isn’t the front door anymore. It might not even be part of the journey. The path to our content is mediated by systems we don’t control, built on training data we don’t curate.

So the job of building a new university website in 2025 is no longer just about structure or design or user journeys, although those still matter. It’s about reimagining how we show up in a world where our audience might only ever meet us second-hand.

It’s about making sure our voice, our credibility, our distinctiveness survives the scrape.

That’s a scary thought. But it’s also freeing.

Because it gives us permission to think differently. To stop obsessing over tidy navigation menus and start focusing on meaning. Clarity. Authority. Connection.

To invest in content that answers real questions. To structure information in ways that make sense to people and machines. To speak in a voice that’s unmistakably ours – whether a chatbot or a teenager in Nairobi is doing the listening.

It’s easy to feel overwhelmed. But if that student site I built in the 90s taught me anything, it’s that the best digital work doesn’t start with certainty – it starts with curiosity.

The tools are changing. The expectations are changing. The nature of search is changing.

But the opportunity? That’s never been bigger.

Because if we get this right, if we build a site that still informs, engages and earns trust even when it’s not the final destination, we’ll have done more than launch a new website.

We’ll have created a platform that’s ready for how people actually find and experience us in the age of AI.

Rethinking the “Newsletter” — A year in the data, and a shift in perspective

Reflections from Liverpool School of Tropical Medicine website redevelopment project

We’re deep into our website redevelopment project — rethinking not just how the site looks and works, but how it serves people. How it communicates. How it earns attention and trust.

One of the areas we’ve been revisiting is how we handle email updates — specifically, those familiar “newsletter” messages we send to prospective students and researchers.

And after more than a year of looking closely at the data — open rates, user journeys, behaviours before and after emails are sent — something interesting has started to emerge.

It’s not that newsletters don’t work.
It’s that the word newsletter may have been leading us down the wrong path.

A year of data, and a pattern emerges

For months, we assumed the problem was content or timing. That emails weren’t always landing because of subject lines, or too much text, or lack of imagery.

But when you step back and look across dozens of email campaigns, a broader truth becomes clearer: people aren’t waiting for news.

They’re not looking for monthly round-ups. They’re not tuning in for announcements.

What gets opened, read and clicked are the emails that offer something useful. Not just informative — insightful. Not just about us — but relevant to them.

It’s not news people want. It’s perspective.

The newsletter we’ve outgrown

Calling it a newsletter sets a certain expectation: a broadcast, a round-up, a list of things that happened. Which works well for institutional updates, but less so when the goal is engagement, action, or decision-making.

Especially for prospective students — whose inboxes are already full of university comms — a “newsletter” feels like something they’ll read later. If at all.

The emails that performed best over the last 12 months didn’t follow that pattern.

They:

• Opened with a clear, relevant insight
• Spoke directly to the reader’s current challenge or question
• Offered value — not just updates
• Sounded like a person, not a platform

In short, they didn’t feel like newsletters at all.

So… Should we stop using the word?

Maybe not.

One of the insights we’ve come to through this project is that terminology isn’t the problem. It’s the expectations we attach to it.

If we can redefine what a newsletter is — if we treat it as a space to deliver insights, not just news — then perhaps it still has a role. Not as a content container, but as a format that earns attention by being useful, human, and well-timed.

We can’t expect people to engage with content just because we’ve published it. That was the old model. The new model is about relevance. Recipients should feel we’re speaking to them, not at them.

And sometimes, all it takes is shifting the tone of a subject line. Or writing the way we’d speak. Or saying, “Here’s something we’ve learned — and we thought you might find it helpful.”

That’s when people respond. That’s when email starts working with the website, not just sitting alongside it.

Where we go from here

As we build out the new site, email isn’t a bolt-on — it’s a key part of the user journey. Whether it’s an update for prospective students, a research digest for partners, the aim is the same:

To make every message feel intentional, relevant, and easy to act on.

If we can do that — whether we call it a newsletter or something else entirely — then we’re on the right track.

Because ultimately, this isn’t about terminology.
It’s about trust.

Pressure, potential, and the quiet power of letting people find their own way

In leadership, we’re encouraged to focus on potential. Spot it early. Nurture it. Keep people moving forwards. And when someone shows promise – whether they’re a new recruit or the steady pair of hands we’ve quietly come to rely on – we tend to picture where they could be in six months, a year, maybe more.

But here’s the uncomfortable bit: when someone with clear ability steps back, it can feel like a personal setback. We talk about growth and resilience, but underneath it all, many of us carry a quiet fear that if someone stops – if they walk away – it reflects badly on us too. That we’ve missed something. Or worse, lost something.

I’ve always told myself I understand this. People develop at their own pace. Timing matters. Not everything is linear. I’ve said all of that to my team – and, I’d like to think, believed it.

And then my ten-year-old son gave up cross country, and it turned out I didn’t understand it as well as I thought.

He’d had a strong season. Ran for Merseyside, ran nationally, kept up with older boys, and was named the best Year 5 in Liverpool (awarded to him by Chris Price in memory of his inspirational sister Kate). Then, almost straight after, he said he didn’t want to race again. The pressure had got to him. The nerves. It just wasn’t fun anymore.

Outwardly, I did what most parents would do – I nodded, supported the decision, said all the right things. But inside? I was disappointed. Not in him, but in the sense of something slipping away. All that potential. Gone. And, if I’m honest, a bit of me mourned the small glow of pride I’d felt watching him do so well. It was irrational. But still there.

A year later, something shifted. He told me he’d do one race. No fanfare. No great declaration. Just one.

He won it.

Then another. Same outcome.

He ended up running eight races across Liverpool this season. Won all eight. Quietly. Calmly. On his own terms. City Champion.

He went on to the Merseyside Championships and finished second. Beaten by someone who ran a clever, aggressive race. He took it well. And then, with just a few days’ notice, he decided to run in the National Championships. No pressure. No expectation. He came second in the country.

There’s no big punchline here. Just this: whether you’re managing people at work or raising children at home, sometimes the best thing you can do is let people stop. Let them pause. Let them walk away.

We treat quitting like a failure. But often, it’s just space. A moment to reset. And if they choose to return, they come back stronger. Not because you pushed them. But because you didn’t.

So yes, I’ve learned a lot about potential in the workplace. But I’ve learned just as much standing on the edge of muddy fields, doing my best to say very little, and watching my son quietly get on with things.

Turns out, letting go is a skill too.

In a previous role, I found myself establishing Liverpool City Council as the first council in the UK to launch on TikTok. At the time, I identified it as a key platform to deliver critical outreach goals, and the impact proved substantial. Fast forward a few years, and now at Liverpool School of Tropical Medicine, I find myself more reluctant to suggest a similar position when it comes to Bluesky. For me, it’s not about being first — it’s about delivering real impact and achieving measurable results.

Why TikTok Was the Right Move

TikTok’s meteoric rise was more than a trend; it marked a cultural shift in how younger demographics consume content. By launching Liverpool City Council onto TikTok, we unlocked significant opportunities to:

• Reach New Audiences: TikTok’s young and highly engaged user base allowed us to connect with residents who might have been disengaged through traditional communication channels.
• Foster Authentic Connections: The platform’s emphasis on creativity and relatability enabled us to humanise the council and communicate in a way that resonated.
• Leverage Viral Trends: From challenges to localised storytelling, TikTok amplified our messages and showcased Liverpool as a vibrant, innovative city.

This wasn’t just about being first; it was about meeting people where they are and delivering impact. TikTok offered the perfect conditions for us to achieve that goal.

Bluesky: Challenges and Realities

Bluesky, on the other hand, has felt like a harder sell. While it shows promise as a new platform, the dynamics that currently govern it present challenges:

1. Entrenched Social Capital: Bluesky’s “starter packs” and curator systems heavily favour creators who were already influential on platforms like Twitter. New voices, no matter how talented, face significant barriers to visibility.
2. Discovery Limitations: Unlike TikTok’s algorithm, which promotes fresh content irrespective of follower count, Bluesky’s discovery mechanisms amplify established voices, making it harder for new players to gain traction.

That said, Bluesky has definitely seen an increase in usage among academics. We’re noticing this trend, and we’re watching it closely. This gradual adoption by a specific, engaged demographic suggests that Bluesky is carving out its own niche, and that’s something worth paying attention to.

Why Bluesky Still Has Potential

While Bluesky’s challenges are real, it’s important not to dismiss its potential. Here’s why:

• Quality Over Quantity: Bluesky’s smaller but more engaged user base creates opportunities for deeper, more meaningful conversations.
• A Chance to Shape Culture: As a newer platform, Bluesky is still evolving. This creates room to establish early influence and advocate for better discovery systems that prioritise emerging voices.
• Platform Evolution: Bluesky’s flaws — such as its reliance on entrenched influencers — aren’t permanent. By identifying the gaps and encouraging innovation, organisations can play a role in shaping a more equitable platform.

It’s Not About Being First — It’s About Impact

At Liverpool School of Tropical Medicine, we’re not focused on being first to adopt a platform; we’re focused on impact. TikTok was the right choice for Liverpool City Council because it delivered on its promise to connect, engage, and inspire. Bluesky’s potential lies in its ability to evolve into a platform that prioritises inclusivity and emerging voices — something we should advocate for.

The lesson here? It’s not about jumping onto the next big thing for the sake of it. It’s about understanding the platform’s dynamics, aligning them with your goals, and ensuring you’re delivering real value. TikTok showed us what was possible. Bluesky — with the right adjustments — could be next. But for now, it’s about waiting, observing, and ensuring that when we move, we move with purpose.

Let’s reflect on what’s truly important in kids football. Amidst the buzz of competition, the essence of the game seems to be getting a bit lost. It’s not merely about scoring goals or lifting trophies; fundamentally, it’s about our young players and their journey, on the pitch and beyond.

There’s a bit of a snag with the way some coaches are approaching the game these days. They’re so fixated on winning that they’re forgetting they’re kids – kids who should be relishing the game, building friendships, and developing their skills. Instead of fostering a love for football, some seem to be treating every match as if it’s a do-or-die affair, which sidelines the real goals of youth footy!

Look, let’s not dismiss the importance of winning, especially from the perspective of ten-year-olds. To them, winning does matter, and it’s thrilling. But here’s the thing: having been at the helm of a team that has seen its fair share of both victories and defeats, I’ve noticed that the lessons and the ethos remain constant, regardless of the outcome. Winning is fantastic, yes, but it’s the journey, the learning, and the development that hold the true value.

Positive reinforcement stands at the core of this journey. It’s about championing effort and progress, not just results. Have a player who’s not the fastest but gives their all? That deserves a round of applause. Witness a moment of excellent teamwork or a player trying something new, even if it doesn’t work out? That’s what we’re here for. This approach nurtures confidence in our young players, ensuring they feel valued and an essential part of the team, no matter their level.

There comes a time when it’s essential to match kids with the right level of play in football to keep the game enjoyable and beneficial for them. Not all kids have the same skills or interest, so when they play at a level that’s too easy or too hard, it can dampen their enthusiasm and growth. Just as in any educational or developmental scenario, finding the right challenge level is key to fostering both growth and a love for the activity. If Adjusting their play level helps them stay engaged, enjoy the game more, and develop their abilities in a positive, supportive setting. This balance ensures they get the most out of football, including teamwork, resilience, and the joy of achieving personal goals.

Mistakes, too, play a pivotal role. They’re not just inevitable; they’re invaluable. They’re the stepping stones to improvement, teaching resilience, and adaptability. But when the pressure to win overshadows the learning experience, players may shy away from taking risks or pushing their boundaries. We need to shift this perspective and celebrate mistakes as opportunities for growth. Every missed opportunity or misstep is a lesson, a chance to learn and get better.

Confidence is crucial. A confident player is engaged, enjoys the game more, and, unsurprisingly, often plays better. Building this confidence requires a supportive environment, one that values encouragement and the freedom to experiment and fail.

So, here’s our balanced approach: winning is important, and it brings its own set of lessons and joys. But throughout the years, whether in seasons flush with victories or marked by losses, the message has been consistent. It’s all about the love of the game, personal growth, teamwork, and perseverance. Let’s ensure football remains a space where kids can thrive, learn, and above all, enjoy themselves. Because, at the end of the day, if our players are leaving the pitch with smiles, eager to return, then we’ve truly won the most important match of all.