The Charity Shop Conundrum

Charity shops are wonderful places – havens of discovery where you can find anything from vintage tea sets to the novel you’ve always meant to read. However, one thing you won’t find, unless you squint and dig, is a thriving men’s department.

 

It’s a peculiar fact: in most charity shops, the men’s section is often a tiny rack, tucked away in some forgotten corner, as though men’s clothing is a rare and exotic find. Contrast this with the women’s section – racks upon racks of tops, dresses, and accessories, all clamouring for attention. The disparity is almost comical.

But here’s the twist: the shortage of men’s clothing isn’t because it doesn’t get donated. Quite the opposite.

Let’s talk about a key player in this mystery – the wife or partner. Many men know the moment all too well: you’ve got a jumper, shirt, or pair of jeans you love. It might not be trendy or pristine, but it’s comfortable and familiar. Then one day, it’s gone.

When you ask, you’re met with the calm, matter-of-fact response: “Oh, I took it to the charity shop. You haven’t worn it in ages.” The definition of “ages,” of course, is often open to interpretation. Last week, for example, might not count if you wore it to paint the shed.

In many households, it seems men’s clothes are operating on a one-month probationary period. Fail to wear something for 30 days, and it’s deemed surplus to requirements. No discussion, no appeals process.

The situation takes an ironic turn when men go shopping in charity shops. Many have experienced the odd moment of recognition while flicking through the limited men’s section. “Hang on,” you think, pulling out a jumper. “This looks a lot like mine. Actually… it is mine!”

It’s an almost surreal experience. There you are, considering whether to buy back your own clothes, now helpfully re-priced and labelled. Do you admit defeat and purchase it? Or do you leave it as a quiet protest against its untimely exile from your wardrobe?

So why, despite the steady stream of men’s clothing donations, does the men’s section in a charity shop remain so sparse? There are a few possible answers.

Firstly, demand. When something good does appear – a well-cut blazer, a decent jumper – it’s snapped up quickly. Men’s clothing tends to be more utilitarian, less fashion-driven, so a good-quality piece can sell almost immediately.

Secondly, supply. Men’s wardrobes often consist of fewer items to begin with. That favourite jumper or trusty pair of jeans gets worn to the bitter end, leaving little to donate. Combine this with the aforementioned wardrobe purges, and the overall volume is lower.

If there’s a takeaway from all this, it’s this: men, keep an eye on your wardrobe. If there’s something you love, make sure to wear it regularly – even if it’s just around the house. And if you notice gaps appearing, check your local charity shop. You might just find your own wardrobe waiting for you on the rack.

For those overseeing the donations, a word of caution: what might look like an unworn, unloved jumper could actually be a treasured companion. Sometimes, a man’s connection to his clothes isn’t obvious – it’s just quieter than we might expect.

As for the men’s department in charity shops, perhaps it will always remain small – a tiny corner of mystery and intrigue. Or maybe one day, it will expand, giving men the same array of choice as their counterparts. Until then, we’ll keep hunting – for bargains, for our clothes, and for answers.

The Relentless March to Oligarchy

I've been crafting and rewriting this over a couple of weeks.

The slow march of oligarchy has often been disguised as democracy’s natural evolution. But peel back the layers of rhetoric and national pride, and what you’ll find is an increasingly concentrated sphere of power, where the line between wealth and influence has become as blurred as a foggy Cotswold morning.

 

Democracy, by its nature, is meant to disperse power across the many – government of the people, by the people, for the people, or so the line goes. Yet, in practice, modern democracies have increasingly become playgrounds for the wealthy few. What was once a system designed to reflect the will of the people has steadily morphed into one that prioritises the interests of those with the deepest pockets. We can see it clearly in the post-pandemic political landscape: billionaires saw their fortunes swell, while ordinary people were handed inflation and austerity measures wrapped up as "necessary economic policies."

Take the UK, for example, where our political class appears to be little more than an extension of the boardroom. The revolving door between Westminster and big business spins faster with each passing year, and politicians are more likely to answer the phone to hedge fund managers than their constituents. While the government preaches “levelling up,” the truth is that wealth and power have never been more concentrated at the top. It's not democracy at work; it's oligarchy with a democratic paint job.

In the United States, the oligarchic tilt is even more blatant. Political campaigns are eye-wateringly expensive, and those bankrolling them are hardly philanthropists with a pure love of democracy. They're investors expecting a return – in the form of deregulation, tax cuts, or legislation that favours their industries. The Supreme Court's Citizens United decision was the final nail in the coffin, opening the floodgates for unlimited corporate spending in politics under the guise of “free speech.” When money talks, democracy walks.

Even in Europe, where many nations pride themselves on a more egalitarian tradition, we’re not immune to creeping oligarchy. The rise of technocratic governance, where unelected officials and corporate interests hold sway over policy decisions, has distanced everyday citizens from the levers of power. Meanwhile, the EU’s handling of crises often reveals a stark prioritisation of markets and financial institutions over people’s livelihoods.

Russia? Well, it speaks for itself and is what stares us in the face.

The result of all this is a profound disillusionment with traditional democratic institutions. People feel – and rightly so – that they are no longer participants in democracy, but spectators. This sense of alienation is fertile ground for populism, nationalism, and extremism, as voters grasp at anything that promises to break the oligarchic stranglehold. But beware: these movements often end up reinforcing oligarchy, simply swapping one elite for another while stoking division to distract from the power grab.

The sad irony is that oligarchy thrives best in democracies. In authoritarian regimes, power is seized by force, but in democracies, it’s bought – quietly, insidiously, and often legally. And because it wears the cloak of democracy, it’s much harder to call out.

To fight this erosion, we need more than platitudes about accountability and transparency. We need to overhaul the very structures that allow wealth to translate into power. Campaign finance reform, lobbying restrictions, wealth taxes, and decentralisation of media ownership would be a start. However, when the solutions are held hostage by the oligarchs and their well-placed clients in government, democracy needs a more primal intervention. You can’t politely ask an entrenched elite to loosen its grip on power – it has to be wrested from their hands, and history shows us this usually happens when people start looking beyond the ballot box.

The problem with traditional democratic solutions like campaign finance reform, lobbying restrictions, and wealth taxes is that they require the consent of the very people who benefit from not implementing them. Asking a government stacked with former bankers, hedge funders, and corporate executives to regulate themselves is like asking a fox to reconfigure the security on the henhouse. It’s simply not in their interests to deliver meaningful reform – they’ve got too much to lose.

So, what’s left when the system itself is rigged? Civil disobedience and grassroots movements. Not the soft kind where people stand around waving placards for an afternoon, but sustained, organised disruption that forces those in power to take notice. The oligarchs thrive in stability – predictable markets, steady cash flows, and a docile populace that grumbles but ultimately plays along. Disruption unsettles that balance. Think about the suffragettes chaining themselves to railings, the labour movements of the 20th century grinding industry to a halt, or more recently, movements like Extinction Rebellion bringing cities to a standstill. These actions remind those in power that their wealth and comfort are built on the cooperation of the many – and that cooperation can be withdrawn.

But here’s the catch: to succeed, such movements need to be intelligent and broad-based. The powers that be are experts at exploiting division – they’ll pit middle-class homeowners against renters, public sector workers against private, and rural communities against urban ones (does that ring a bell with the likes of the right wing press in the UK). They’ll deploy the full force of the media to paint protesters as extremists or criminals, all while quietly tightening their grip on power. The challenge for any movement is to overcome those divides and focus on the common enemy – the oligarchic system itself.

There’s also an uncomfortable truth to reckon with: you can’t defeat an entrenched elite without causing some discomfort to those around you. The same middle classes who complain about inequality also tend to vote for stability – they’re often unwilling to rock the boat if it means short-term economic pain. But history shows that real change only happens when people are willing to endure hardship for a greater cause. It’s not a pleasant thought, but there’s no easy way out of this mess.

And let’s not forget the role of the media. In its current form, much of the press acts as a mouthpiece for oligarchic interests, keeping the public distracted with culture wars and scare stories while the real looting happens quietly in the background. One solution is to push for decentralised, independent media that isn’t beholden to billionaire owners – platforms that can cut through the noise and expose the cosy relationship between wealth and power.

Finally, there’s the digital front. The internet could be democracy’s best tool or its downfall – it all depends on how it’s wielded. Oligarchs have capitalised on digital platforms to spread propaganda and crush dissent, but the same tools can be used to organise, educate, and mobilise people in ways that were unimaginable a few decades ago. Decentralised platforms, encrypted messaging, and online communities offer new ways to challenge power – provided people are savvy enough to see through the distractions and focus on the core issues.

The truth is, if you wait for oligarchs to hand you the keys to democracy, you’ll be waiting forever. Real change comes from below – through solidarity, disruption, and the willingness to make those in power deeply uncomfortable. In short, democracy isn’t something you vote for once every few years. It’s something you take.

The two world wars broke the backs of the old oligarchies, but as we’ve seen, those backs are remarkably good at straightening themselves over time. The wars forced a reckoning that toppled the old elite order, bringing about an era of redistributive democracy – a temporary moment in history when the wealth and power amassed by the few were forcibly redistributed for the benefit of the many. Yet here we are, less than a century on, watching the pendulum swing back toward oligarchic dominance, as if none of it ever happened.

Before the Great War, society was firmly in the grip of aristocrats and industrial magnates. In Britain, landowners ruled the roost. In Europe, emperors and their courts played geopolitical chess, with ordinary people as pawns. In the United States, the Gilded Age had spawned its own oligarchs – the Carnegies, the Rockefellers, the Morgans – who wielded more power than many governments. Democracy, as we understand it today, was in its infancy, and where it did exist, it was largely a facade – a thin veneer over a deeply unequal society.

Then came the horrors of the First World War, which shook that old order to its core. The aristocrats who sent millions to die in the trenches lost their legitimacy. The Russian Revolution swept away the Romanovs and sent a shiver down the spines of oligarchs everywhere. In Britain, returning soldiers – men who had been promised a "land fit for heroes" – began to demand more than crumbs from the table. Universal suffrage followed. The working class, who had borne the brunt of the slaughter, started to realise their collective strength.

But it was the Second World War that truly reshaped the world. The devastation left no room for the old elites to cling to their privileges. The economies of Europe were in ruins, and rebuilding them required a new social contract – one that prioritised fairness, opportunity, and security for all, rather than the preservation of wealth for the few. The welfare state was born out of this necessity. In Britain, the Beveridge Report laid the foundation for a cradle-to-grave social safety net. In the U.S., Roosevelt’s New Deal had already laid the groundwork for a more regulated, redistributive economy.

Key to this transformation was the recognition that peace could not be sustained if inequality remained unchecked. The war effort itself had been a massive exercise in redistribution – the state took control of production, rationed resources for all, and mobilised entire populations. After the war, it was impossible to simply hand power back to the old oligarchs and pretend none of it had happened. The working classes had fought, died, and sacrificed – they weren’t about to go back to tugging their forelocks.

Remember this when the wealthy try to persuade you to sacrifice everything to growth; sluggish growth is not the bogeyman they would like you to believe it is. The obsession with GDP growth is outdated and often misleading, but persists among the wealthy. What matters is not how fast an economy grows but how well it distributes the gains, maintains stability, and preserves the environment. Sluggish growth is not necessarily a problem; it can be a sign of a mature, stable, and sustainable economy. Policymakers should focus less on chasing growth for growth’s sake (and the bank balances of the wealthy) and more on improving quality of life, reducing inequality, and addressing the climate crisis. In the end, a slower, more thoughtful approach to economic growth might be exactly what the world needs.

In the grand sweep of history, it’s clear that aristocratic and oligarchic rule brought far more frequent wars than democracy has. Democracies, for all their flaws, have generally been more peaceful and restrained. However, as democratic institutions erode and power becomes more concentrated in the hands of wealthy elites, the risks of unnecessary conflict rise once again. If we don’t reverse this trend, we may find ourselves returning to a world where wars are waged not for security or justice, but for the profit and prestige of a few (the military industrial complex) – a grim echo of the aristocratic past.

Porkies

Imagine picking up a jacket labelled "A product of Yorkshire," only to spot a smaller label to the right saying, "Made in Rwanda." I did last week in a charity shop.

Confused? You’re not alone. This kind of labelling mix-up isn’t just baffling for shoppers; it’s likely skating on thin ice legally.

 

Under UK law, anything slapped on a label needs to be honest and clear. "A product of Yorkshire" suggests the jacket was made, processed, or somehow closely tied to Yorkshire. If it was actually made in Rwanda, that’s a problem. Misleading consumers is a no-go and could land the company in hot water under the Consumer Protection from Unfair Trading Regulations. It’s not just about misleading claims, either. A product’s country of origin isn’t a trivial detail. When one part of the label says "Yorkshire" and another says "Rwanda," it creates a contradiction that undermines trust.

Of course, there are exceptions. Maybe the design is Yorkshire-born and bred, while the production happens in Rwanda. That might make sense, but only if the labels explain it properly. Something like "Designed in Yorkshire, made in Rwanda" would be a lot clearer. Without that kind of clarification, it’s all too easy for shoppers to feel duped. It's cheeky, to say the least.

This sort of thing isn’t just a slap on the wrist offence, either. Trading Standards can get involved, products might need to be pulled, and fines could be on the cards. So, whether it’s jam, tea, or biscuits, businesses need to think carefully about what their labels say. Shoppers, meanwhile, should always read the small print and not take big claims at face value. They're out to get you.

The Dual Flush Cost

Dual flush toilet systems: the supposed saviours of water conservation and modern plumbing innovation. Yet, behind the veneer of eco-friendly marketing lies a grotesque irony — these devices are a triumph of poor engineering masquerading as progress, a blight upon household plumbing that leaves us longing for the reliable simplicity of the old-fashioned syphon flush.

 

First, let's look at the selling point of dual flush systems: water savings. We're told these marvels of modern design will save gallons of water by offering a half-flush option for liquid waste. But what the manufacturers and government water boards conveniently omit is the hidden cost of these so-called advancements - the slow, insidious leakage that occurs when slime builds up on the seals, rendering them useless at holding back water. The result? A constant trickle of water down the pan that no amount of eco-conscious half-flushing will ever offset. This leakage isn't just a minor annoyance, it’s a scandalous waste of water that runs counter to the very purpose of these systems.

The problem is inherent in the design. Dual flush mechanisms rely on rubber or silicone seals to prevent water from escaping the cistern. These seals, sitting in a perpetually damp environment, inevitably attract slime and biofilm. Over time, this muck builds up, compromising the integrity of the seal and allowing water to seep through. It’s a maintenance headache for the homeowner and a boon for plumbers who make a tidy sum fixing these predictably failing contraptions for homeowners without DIY skills. Contrast this with the old syphon flush system, which doesn’t suffer from such indignities. The syphon mechanism relies on a vacuum created by the action of the flush - a beautifully simple and reliable system that, crucially, has no seals to degrade and leak.

Ah, but the syphon flush isn't sexy, is it? It doesn't tick the boxes for government water-saving initiatives or give manufacturers a chance to flog overpriced, overengineered gadgets. It just works - year after year, flush after flush, without the need for endless tinkering and replacement parts. But in a world obsessed with the new, the sleek, and the supposedly sustainable, simple reliability has fallen out of favour. Instead, we get dual flush systems that are essentially designed to fail, keeping us locked in a cycle of repair and replacement.

Consider the environmental impact of this. We’re told dual flush toilets save water, but how much water is wasted when thousands upon thousands of these systems start leaking within a few years of installation? How much energy and material goes into manufacturing replacement parts, transporting them, and installing them? The old syphon system, by comparison, requires none of this ongoing maintenance or waste. Once installed, it’s a set-it-and-forget-it solution that genuinely stands the test of time.

And let’s not forget the user experience. Who hasn’t stood in front of a dual flush toilet, bemused by the two buttons, wondering whether to press the big one or the small one, only to find that neither seems to deliver a decisive flush? The syphon system had no such ambiguity. You pulled the handle, and it did its job with no fuss and no fanfare.

In truth, the dual flush system is a perfect metaphor for our times - style over substance, complexity over simplicity, and short-term gains over long-term reliability. It’s a solution that creates more problems than it solves, a sop to environmental concerns that ends up being anything but eco-friendly in practice.

We’d do well to remember that not all progress is progress. Sometimes, the best innovations are the ones we already had. The syphon flush is a case in point - a stalwart of British bathrooms for decades, quietly getting the job done without leaks, without waste, and without the need for endless intervention. It’s high time we flushed the dual flush fad down the pan and gave the syphon flush the respect it deserves. Now there’s a truly sustainable solution.

Faux Outrage

The recent clamour from certain quarters (not all) about the child grooming scandal is, let's face it, a thinly veiled exercise in stoking racial tensions. If anyone genuinely believes that the far right's sudden and vociferous interest in child protection stems from a heartfelt concern for the welfare of vulnerable children, they're either naive or deliberately obtuse. Let's call it what it is – a racist dog whistle.

 

The loudest voices demanding a public enquiry – again – aren't interested in justice or safeguarding. They're interested in perpetuating a narrative that frames entire communities as threats. The likes of Tommy Robinson, who has made a career out of peddling fear and division, have shown time and again that their motivations are self-serving. His grandstanding outside courtrooms has jeopardised trials and risked letting perpetrators walk free. Imagine that – claiming to stand for justice while actively undermining it. The hypocrisy is staggering.

A public enquiry has already been conducted, the issues were laid bare, the failures exposed, and the recommendations made. What has been lacking is the political will to implement those recommendations. This reluctance stems partly from fear of backlash from powerful institutions implicated in past failures, a desire to avoid political controversy, and an aversion to being perceived as criticising law enforcement or local authorities. Local authorities, police forces, and social services were called out for their shortcomings. But rather than addressing these systemic failures, the focus has shifted to pointing fingers at entire ethnic groups. It's a grotesque deflection.

The irony is that this renewed furore – fuelled by xenophobic rhetoric – has, in a twisted way, spurred some action, such as increased police operations targeting grooming gangs and the review of safeguarding policies in certain councils. However, these actions align only partially with the recommendations from the previous enquiry, which emphasised systemic reforms over reactionary measures. But let's not mistake cause for virtue. The action taken isn't a result of moral awakening but of political expediency. Politicians, ever wary of the tide of public opinion, are acting to quell outrage rather than to right wrongs.

And let's be honest – if the grooming gangs in question had been predominantly white, the outrage wouldn't be anywhere near as loud. The far right isn't mobilising because of the crimes themselves but because the perpetrators are from minority communities. This is evident from figures like Tommy Robinson, who repeatedly emphasises the ethnic backgrounds of offenders to stoke division rather than focusing on the crimes themselves, and the likes of Britain First, who have historically exploited such cases for anti-immigrant propaganda. It's a racist agenda dressed up as concern for victims. A Home Office-commissioned study in 2020 found that group-based child sexual exploitation offenders are most commonly white males under 30, but the refrain; "Pakistani gangs," is a constant refrain.

What we don't need is yet another public enquiry. Dragging survivors through another round of questioning, forcing them to relive their trauma, would be cruel and unnecessary. The findings are already there. The solutions are known. What we need is action – decisive, robust, and informed by the recommendations already made. We need to see those in positions of power (or past holders of power - who are also bleating loudly) held accountable for their inaction. We need systemic change, not more platitudes and performative concern.

The far right's opportunism in exploiting these tragedies for their own ends is sickening. They don't care about the victims. They care about furthering their agenda of division and hate. And the media, ever eager for sensationalism, gives them the platform to do so. It's a cynical dance of outrage, where the victims are used as pawns in a game they never asked to be part of.

Let’s stop entertaining the notion that those crying the loudest are doing so out of compassion. They’re not. Their track record makes that abundantly clear. Real compassion would see us implementing the solutions already identified and ensuring that no more children fall through the cracks of a broken system. Real compassion would see us rejecting the poisonous rhetoric that seeks to blame entire communities for the actions of individuals. Real compassion would demand justice, not vengeance.

The real reason the far right is calling for another enquiry is simple: it gives them a platform to continue spouting their racist rhetoric for another seven years. They don't want solutions – they want a perpetual grievance to weaponise. It's a calculated move to keep the focus on ethnicity rather than accountability and to ensure that their divisive narrative remains front and centre in public discourse.

Old Person TV

We seem to be watching rather a lot of what we jokingly call Old Person TV. You know the type – cosy Downton Abbey reruns, the repeated, gentle musings of Bob and Paul on Gone Fishing, repeats of Canal Boat Diaries and just about anything that graces the airwaves of PBS America (even though its programming schedule seems to operate on an eternal loop of repeats). 

There’s a comforting predictability to it all, a balm in an era where mainstream television has seemingly traded quality for quantity, pumping out a conveyor belt of popular fare that might titillate, but rarely informs, educates, or truly entertains in the sense Lord Reith envisaged. Admittedly, the BBC still manages to champion meaningful content now and then, but even its offerings feel like a diminishing oasis in a desert of banality.

It’s not that I actively set out to become a devotee of Old Person TV. It just sort of… happened. Bit by bit, I found myself drifting away from the cacophony of Love Island confessionals, overly produced reality shows, and dramas so formulaic they could be assembled by IKEA. Instead, I’ve embraced the slower pace and charm of programmes where nothing much happens but happens beautifully – a heron landing on a misty riverbank, a knowing glance between two Victorian-era servants, or a thoughtful documentary voiceover reminding me of forgotten corners of history.

It’s an odd sensation, this creeping acknowledgment of tastes mellowing with age. My younger self would likely have scoffed at my newfound penchant for the sedate, but there’s a satisfaction in leaning into it. I’d even argue it’s a quiet rebellion against the algorithms that dictate so much of modern entertainment. Not every moment needs to be a dopamine-charged thrill ride; sometimes, it’s enough to sit back and let the stories unfold at their own pace.

Still, I catch myself wondering if this is the beginning of some slippery slope. Today it’s Downton, Gone Fishing, and PBS America; tomorrow, am I doomed to start researching the merits of cremation packages, browsing glossy brochures for over-50s river cruises, or – heaven forbid – installing a walk-in bath? It’s a slightly unnerving thought, though not entirely unwelcome. After all, there’s a certain appeal to simplicity and comfort as the years march on.

For now, I’ll keep revelling in the unhurried joys of Old Person TV while keeping one eye on the streaming service offerings for that occasional nugget of modern brilliance. Perhaps it’s not so much about growing older as it is about seeking out what feels genuine in an increasingly artificial world. If that’s the case, I’ll gladly take my cup of tea, my cosy blanket, and another episode of something that soothes rather than screams - and retire to bed at 8pm. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll hold off on the walk-in bath or cremation plan for a little while longer; however, the latter could be achieved simply by leaving the gas on in the house and lighting a match - it would benefit from being a home cremation.

I wonder if GB News is considered Old Person TV, not that I'd ever watch it. GB News allegedly sounds like the televisual equivalent of a Werther’s Original – comforting, vaguely familiar, and firmly lodged in your nan's handbag of viewing options. It's where presenters deliver the news with the urgency of someone reminiscing about ration books, and every segment feels tailored to the eternal battle against avocado toast and youth culture. The channel is a haven for anyone who thinks Wi-Fi sounds like a type of cardigan and firmly believes the best way to solve a modern problem is with a good grumble. Watching GB News is less about staying informed and more about basking in a cosy, parallel universe where it's perpetually 1953 and everything new is suspicious by default.

Musk's Gameplan

What's Elon Musk really up to by being so obnoxious?

 

Elon Musk isn’t just being difficult for the sake of it – there’s a method to the madness. His antics might look like chaotic outbursts, but peel back the layers and you’ll see a more calculated pattern emerge. Musk is playing a high-stakes game where attention, influence, and legacy are the currency. But why the endless provocation? Let’s break it down – before he launches tweet, at us.

Musk has crafted an image as the world’s most unpredictable tech mogul. He’s built a loyal following by being the maverick genius who doesn’t follow the rules. It’s part of a broader strategy to make himself harder to pin down and harder to hold accountable. After all, it’s tough to corner a man who’s already on Mars in his mind.

Take his acquisition of Twitter (now X, although few actually call it that and the posts are still tweets, not Xs). He turned a perfectly functional platform into a firestorm of controversy – and still managed to convince people it’s all part of a master plan. It’s like buying a car, crashing it into a tree, and then insisting you’ve invented a new form of urban landscaping.

This unpredictability isn’t just about ego; it’s about legacy. Musk wants to be remembered as a revolutionary figure, not just a businessman. The problem is, revolutions often leave a mess – and someone’s got to clean it up. In Musk’s case, it’s the remaining Twitter employees, assuming there are any left by the time he’s done.

Musk seems intent on testing how much he can get away with, whether it’s regulatory boundaries or social norms. From Tesla’s self-driving promises to his decisions about where Starlink can operate in war zones, Musk is carving out a new role for billionaires: unelected geopolitical actors. Because when you’re richer than some countries, why not start behaving like one?

He’s positioning himself as a man above the rules – one whose decisions can shape world events. But with great power comes little accountability, it seems. After all, if it all goes wrong, he can always escape to one of his rockets and claim he’s conducting vital Martian research – a noble mission to ensure humanity survives, assuming he hasn’t already made Earth uninhabitable in the process. It’s all part of his grand vision: if you can’t fix the planet you’re on, just move to a different one.

Musk seems to be following Dominic Cummings' philosophy that to rebuild something, one must first destroy it. Cummings famously championed this approach during his time as a key adviser to Boris Johnson, pushing for radical reforms by bulldozing through established norms and institutions. Whether Musk’s target is the the Republican Party, the USA, the global world order, or just social media, the wrecking ball is certainly swinging. The only question is: what exactly does Musk want to rebuild? Is it the crumbling foundations of the USA, or the entire global world order? There’s a tantalising possibility that he believes he’s doing it all with some noble intent, though the rest of us are left picking through the wreckage to figure out what that might be.

And then there’s the irony of Trump hypothetically sending Musk to broker a trade deal with the UK – while Musk simultaneously tweets calls for the overthrow of the UK government. Musk's tweet about Scotland needing to 'secede from the UK' is just one example of his penchant for stirring political pots he's not even cooking in. It’s like sending a pyromaniac to negotiate a fire insurance policy. But that’s the level of absurdity we’ve reached in global politics: the billionaires are now the wildcards, and nobody seems to know who’s holding the deck. You couldn’t make it up, but that’s the level of absurdity we’ve reached in global politics.

When things aren’t going well, Musk knows how to distract. Bad Tesla production numbers? Starlink controversy? What better time to post an inflammatory tweet or make an outlandish claim? It’s like tossing a grenade into a room to change the conversation – effective, but not exactly subtle.

It’s classic PR: create a spectacle to bury the bad news. People remember the circus, not the financial report. And in Musk’s circus, he’s the ringleader, the clown, and the chap walking the tightrope – often all at once.

So what’s his goal? Musk’s long-term ambition is to reshape civilisation – think Mars colonies and AI regulations. But his short-term behaviour points to something simpler: preserving his relevance. After all, why be remembered for one or two groundbreaking companies when you can be remembered for crashing the entire internet’s mood with a single tweet?

By staying obnoxious and unpredictable, he guarantees he’s always part of the conversation. Love him or hate him, you can’t ignore him. He’s like the internet’s version of Marmite – except, instead of a savoury spread, he’s serving up a buffet of chaos.

I do have a faint suspicion that he's taking a wrecking ball to the far right, no matter where. He's managed to ingratiate himself with that end of the spectrum, but now seems intent on causing it as much harm as possible. Could it be remotely possible he's clandestinely aiming to destroy the far right from within? His chaotic behaviour, frequent platforming of controversial figures, and apparent disdain for traditional institutions could be part of a deeper, subversive strategy to collapse extremism by amplifying its absurdity until it self-destructs.

In Musk’s world, there’s no such thing as bad press – only attention. And he’s getting plenty of it. After all, why worry about public opinion when you’ve got a backup planet?

Utterly Pointless Gadgets

 Spotted this in a shop the other day - a log splitter.

You place a log on the knife edge and bash it with a lump hammer.

You can achieve exactly the same effect by using an axe on its own, which is 50% fewer tools. I've no idea how much the log splitter costs, but it won't be cheap.

Then there's the omelette maker. One of those kitchen gadgets that sounds like a good idea until you actually use one. And then you realise you’ve paid for a contraption that takes up half a cupboard and does a job that a frying pan has been doing quite adequately since time immemorial. Honestly, who’s got time to be faffing about with an electric gadget when the good old frying pan is hanging there on its hook, ready to go?

Let’s think about the process here. You whisk your eggs, maybe add a bit of salt, pepper, a splash of milk if you're feeling decadent. So far, so simple. Then, instead of just pouring the mixture into a hot pan like a sensible person, you’re supposed to dig out this omelette maker, plug it in, wait for it to heat up, and pour your eggs into these weird little moulds. What’s the point? By the time you’ve done all that, I’d have my omelette cooked, plated, and halfway eaten. And there’s something immensely satisfying about the sizzle of eggs hitting a hot pan, isn’t there? None of that with an omelette maker. Just a dull silence as it plods along, doing in ten minutes what the pan could do in two.

And the shape. Let’s talk about that. Omelette makers give you these neat, perfectly oval, pod-like omelettes. But who’s asking for that? Not me. I like my omelettes a bit rustic, with crispy edges where the egg has met the pan and decided to caramelise ever so slightly. That’s where the flavour is. An omelette with character. These machine-made ones look like something you’d get in a motorway service station – uniformly bland, a bit soulless. Where’s the charm in that?

Then there’s the cleaning. Oh, the cleaning. Non-stick, they claim. I’ve yet to meet a non-stick gadget that lives up to the hype. Inevitably, there’s a bit of egg that gets stuck in a corner, and you’re there with a sponge, scrubbing away while muttering under your breath. A frying pan, on the other hand? Quick wipe, and you’re done. If you’ve seasoned it right, it practically cleans itself.

I reckon the whole omelette maker idea stems from this obsession we seem to have with overcomplicating the simple things. Making an omelette isn’t rocket science. It’s one of the first things people learn to cook. Eggs, heat, a bit of wrist action with the spatula – job done. But somewhere along the line, someone decided we needed to mechanise even that. Probably the same people who brought us the electric can opener. Another unnecessary contraption that’s more hassle than it’s worth.

I’m not entirely against kitchen gadgets. Some of them have their place. A decent food processor can be a game-changer. A slow cooker, brilliant for stews when you’ve got a busy day ahead. But there’s a line, and the omelette maker crosses it. It’s a solution in search of a problem. A gimmick for people who like the idea of cooking more than the actual act of it. For the rest of us? Stick with the frying pan. It’s a classic for a reason.

Christmas Cards

This past Christmas, my old friend, in a moment of festive virtue, WhatsApped me to announce that he and his wife were not sending Christmas cards this year. Instead, they’d be donating the money to charity. Lovely sentiment, of course, but I couldn’t resist a cheeky reply: “Too late! I've already sent you a Christmas card. I'm prepared to feel smug when it arrives.”

 

I’ll admit, it was satisfying knowing that my card would grace his mantelpiece as a small, glitter-dusted monument to tradition while he was busy patting himself on the back for his charitable wisdom. I imagined the scene: his front door creaks open, my card falls onto the doormat. He picks it up, and there I am - rubbing it in with a holly-encrusted “Merry Christmas!”

But, not one to let the festive spirit stop at irony, I followed up with another WhatsApp on New Year’s Day wishing him a Happy New Year. This time, I added, “Next New Year, I’ve decided not to send WhatsApps."

He saw the funny side, thankfully. We laughed, as old friends do, at the absurdity of one-upping each other’s seasonal sentiments. In truth, whether it’s a card, a WhatsApp, or a donation to charity, the real gift is the thought behind it - even if it comes wrapped in a layer of good-natured mischief.

So, to my remaining friend, consider yourself warned. Next year, expect nothing. Or maybe something. Who knows? But rest assured, it’ll come with a side of humour - charitable or otherwise. Perhaps I'll send Christmas cards, but put a codicil in them to the effect that I'm only sending them the following year to people I like....

Mobile Phone's and Cars

The rapper, Stormzy, has been banned from driving while using a mobile phone in a car.

The modern car interior has become a strange paradox. On the one hand, drivers are legally prohibited from even brushing a finger against a mobile phone while the vehicle is in motion – and rightly so, given the dangers of distracted driving. On the other, car manufacturers are churning out vehicles with dashboard screens that require a level of attention better suited to solving a Rubik’s Cube than safely operating a motor vehicle.

 

Gone are the days when adjusting the heating or switching radio stations involved a quick twist of a knob or press of a button. Now, drivers must navigate through menus, submenus, and a bewildering array of touchscreen options just to raise the cabin temperature by a single degree. Worse still, these screens are often poorly designed, requiring pinpoint accuracy and multiple taps. If you miss, you might accidentally turn on the heated seats instead of increasing the airflow – a minor inconvenience at a standstill, but potentially disastrous while doing 70 on a motorway.

The inconsistency is laughable. Lawmakers are eager to condemn mobile phone use because it takes eyes off the road, yet these built-in infotainment systems are essentially tablets welded into the dashboard. Some even offer full internet browsing capability, as though binge-watching a series on Netflix was the logical next step for the morning commute. The cognitive load involved in using these systems is far greater than that of sending a text message, yet they're exempt from the same scrutiny.

There’s also the matter of muscle memory. With traditional knobs and dials, a driver could adjust settings by feel, without needing to glance away. Screens, however, demand visual confirmation for every interaction. You’re forced to look away from the road, even briefly, just to ensure you’ve pressed the right spot. It’s ironic that in a world obsessed with reducing distractions, car interiors have become a distraction factory.

Proponents might argue that many systems now include voice control, eliminating the need to use touchscreens altogether. In reality, these systems often misunderstand commands or require such rigid phrasing that drivers end up repeating themselves in frustration. By the time you’ve successfully convinced your car to “play BBC Radio 4,” you might have been better off fumbling through the menus after all.

The solution isn’t to ban these systems outright; they’re undoubtedly useful when used responsibly. But there’s a clear need for better regulation and design standards. Cars should prioritise simplicity and ergonomics over flashy tech. Essential functions – heating, ventilation, and audio controls – should always be operable with tactile, intuitive buttons and dials. If such measures aren’t taken, we risk a future where the act of driving itself becomes secondary to the overwhelming task of operating the car’s controls.

Ultimately, the current state of affairs is nothing short of absurd. We’ve legislated against mobile phone use for good reason, but we’ve turned a blind eye to the distracting chaos built into modern vehicles. It’s high time for a rethink – before the roads become an even greater battlefield of divided attention.