onionbagblog

I’ve been trialling out Wispr Flow as part of my new workflow process. Basically it’s a nifty AI tool that takes dictated text and cleans it all up.

Oh wait. AI tool, you say. Steady the buffers etc. Isn’t this some kind of scary shit? Well not really.

What Wispr Flow does is to listen to your dictated text and then clean up all of the messy bits that might be in there. It can also be stylised to add specific punctuation and even snippets of code that fit in with your style of writing.

I’ve got it set up across mobile and desktop. Mobile is a bit sketchy to be honest. The iPhone keyboard interchange can get a little bit fiddly as you switch between the standard keyboard and Wispr Flow, as well as emojis. It seems to work far better on desktop where you simply hold down the function key on the Mac and start talking.

The idea was to use it for dictating blog posts. This is the first one that I’ve done. There’s something about it that I don’t quite feel comfortable with. Writing per se is where the enjoyment and freedom comes for me. Dictating a blog post limits the flow of words and any style an individual might have, and the emotions that you want to create. Dictation is more about shopping lists,, right?

Wispr Flow is proving to be rather good for AI prompts however. The more rambling and lengthy prompt you give to any AI tool then usually the better outcome is delivered at the other end.

I’m still on the free model for Wispr Flow. I’m not sure how much the service will be reduced when my free trial with all the added on features expires, but so far it’s proving to be far better than the inbuilt dictation on an iPhone or even desktop. Apple really should be building in their own AI tool to help with this process.

I can’t but help think that this is Dukes of Hazzard outtakes. Country rock is cool; country soul is even cooler. Sadly this is neither really. It’s bloody annoying banjos. They did my nut in tbh. It did pick up right at the end with the Don’t Be Cruel cover. Country rock ‘n’ roll is early Elvis, right?

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I just played my two summer albums. That’s my two summer albums of 2025 - Weller’s excellent El Dorado, and Emma Jean’s Weirdo. Both got rinsed heavily from around July onwards through until Autumn. The recent run of Estuary Wilds SCORCHIO weather triggered a muscle memory within me to fire them up.

I’m clearly in need of some summer jams, as the kids may say, for 2026. I bloody love a good summer album. It’s something that defines those early starts, taking you through into hazy afternoons, and then carrying through until the end of the day. Repeat, repeat, repeat. I’m not sure what’s out there right now tbh.

Weller always finds me. There’s not a lot of algorithm dropping going off there. Emma Jean came via Gilles Peterson. Most of my new music is through GP these days, with occasional input from R over text.

A summer album does have a special quality. The seasonal thing needn’t be obvious, but there has to be a hint of a change of the season. It also helps if it’s running music, something I can fire up, and then head out plodding for an hour long leg stretcher - assuming my six month muscle injury ever heals.

I might just stick with the Weirdo album. It’s lush, introverted and has a head nod at celebrating the freaks. I fit in there quite well.

A sugar rush of a sunshine prog rock album that landed unexpectedly in my feeds this morning. There’s an interesting Beatles non-backstory here. That pulled me in. 3:47 EST is an innocent, often naive album. It tries to create what The Beatles might have been in the mid ’70s. It’s an endless speculation that I find hard to escape. “If The Beatles don’t exist, you don’t exist,” etc. I love the optimism and the bubblegum pop. It’s also why punk had to happen.

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Happy Happy Joy Joy. The early 80’s were bleak. Someone needed to soundtrack it. But you can have humour in amongst all the nuclear fall out. The Two Tribes videos shows you how. The Final Cut is so far up its own arse that it can’t connect with the audience - either mainstream or even muso snobs. It’s an empty album that talks to no one but itself. It’s the sound of a band being slowly put to sleep. Instant gratification would have been better.

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Yeah yeah - I’ve gone down something of a prog rabbit hole this morning. Aphrodite’s Child is the album that Pink Floyd should have made as their final sign off. It rambles on and on and bloody on. But it still kept my attention whilst going about my morning tasks. It must all mean something. I’ve no idea what. That the appeal of prog, right? The band name is awful, as is the album art. Never judge a book, etc. Decent.

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After the heatwave of the past couple of days, temperatures around the Estuary Wilds had dropped five degrees or so this afternoon. The wind had also picked up - warm wind. Which can only mean one thing: a return to the outdoor wind ball. It was swaying around, giving the impression that some killer spin had been applied. It hadn’t, obvs.

This was a lazy game for a lazy early, early summer’s day. We both couldn’t be arsed after a bit of a challenging start to the day earlier. Hey hoe. Whatever. We pressed on, taking the odd point off each other. With the scoreline stuck on 3-3, we both walked away whilst we still could.

A complete hairdryer of an album - in every respect. Style and substance. I don’t know why it’s called soft rock. There’s nothing half, erm, hearted about this. It’s ridiculous of course. I quite like the pantomime feel to the bangers like What About Love and These Dreams. Heart were never cool, and neither was I.

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“The one little trumpet fluff on the bridge of the final theme statement is the dropped stitch in the Persian rug, included by the weaver in acknowledgment that true perfection belongs only to Allah.”

Richard Williams on Miles at 100

HYPE ALERT: The opening two tracks that segue Kayleigh into Lavender gives The Beatles' closing tracks on Abbey Road a run for its money. Blimey. Hype over. Misplaced Childhood is still a bloody great album, completely out of step, then and now. Marillion stood out like, well, like a time machine gone wrong back in 1985. It was quite a bold move during such tribal times. I could never commit to them back in the day, despite secret bedroom playbacks. I don’t give a shit these days. I bloody love Marillion. Fish. He’s a one.

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