Cat Food

You'd think that after thirteen-odd years of me dutifully serving as her butler, chef, and general skivvy, my cat would have figured out how to open a pouch of cat food herself. It's not as if she doesn't know where they are - she watches me retrieve them from the cupboard with the intensity of a MI5 operative monitoring suspicious activity. And it's certainly not due to a lack of tools. The claws alone should be more than adequate for the job, not to mention the teeth that can shred an armchair in record time.

 

But no. She sits there, staring at me with a look of disdain that says, “Are you seriously this slow?” She’ll even throw in a dramatic tail flick for good measure, just to underline her frustration at my apparent inability to read her mind and have the pouch opened before she even deigns to request it. Meanwhile, I’m fumbling with the sachet, trying to tear it open while Her Majesty waits, unimpressed.

Now, don’t tell me she’s not capable of figuring it out. Cats are clever creatures. I've seen her open doors that should have required a locksmith’s touch. She can leap onto the highest shelves, manoeuvre through the narrowest gaps, and expertly bat ornaments off ledges with consummate precision. But apparently, the art of pouch opening remains beyond her grasp? I don't buy it.

No, this is a calculated move on her part. Why should she put in the effort when she’s got me to do it for her? Cats are experts at outsourcing tasks they deem beneath them. If they had opposable thumbs, I suspect they’d have us signing contracts before long, agreeing to lifelong servitude in exchange for the occasional purr or headbutt. You think you're in charge, but deep down, you know the truth - you're staff.

And she’s not shy about making her demands known. She’ll miaow loudly to attract my attention if I’m too slow to catch on. If that fails, she taps me with her paw - a gentle but insistent reminder that dinner isn’t going to serve itself. It’s quite the performance, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t work every time. The combination of the miaow and the tap is a masterclass in feline manipulation. I’m wrapped around her little paw, and we both know it.

Feeding her when Jumbsie, the neighbour’s cat, is in the house is a nightmare. He only visits for warmth and to find food - he's mercenary and doesn’t get on with Kitty. The moment there’s the slightest scent of food in the air, he’s there like a shot, muscling in with all the charm of a bouncer at closing time. Meanwhile, Kitty glares at him with utter contempt, and I’m left playing referee between two disgruntled cats.

The worst part? If she ever did manage to open her own pouch, I'd bet good money she'd help herself to two. Or three. And then claim she hadn't eaten all day when I walk in, because cats have mastered the art of deception better than any politician. “What? Me? No, this empty pouch? It must have been that fox that broke in. Can we focus on the fact that I'm starving, please?”

In the end, it's all part of their grand design. They keep us guessing. They let us think we’re needed. And they get their food served with just the right balance of exasperation and affection. It’s a game of cat and mouse - only the mouse is a pouch of chicken-and-liver dinner, and the cat is the undisputed champion of psychological warfare.

So, here I am, after thirteen years, still opening pouches, still getting splattered with gravy, and still apologising to a creature who’s probably laughing at me on the inside. And do you know what? I'll do it all again tomorrow. Because that's what it means to be owned by a cat.

A Politically Illiterate Electorate

The working man fought tooth and nail for the right to vote. He marched, he rioted, he suffered indignities and beatings, and yet he persisted. He won, eventually. But what did he win? The right to scrawl an 'X' on a bit of paper every few years, usually in the direction of whichever snake oil salesman managed to tickle his fancy that week. Because, while he won the right to vote, he was never given the tools to use it properly.

You see, democracy isn't just about having a vote – it's about understanding what that vote means. And this is where the system, that great bastion of British fairness and justice, completely and utterly failed him. The education system, which should have equipped him with the knowledge to dissect policies, scrutinise candidates, and understand the machinations of governance, instead left him floundering in a swamp of soundbites, misinformation, and media manipulation. He can probably name Henry VIII’s wives but can’t explain the mechanics of a budget deficit. He can rattle off Pythagoras’ theorem but has no idea how tax bands work. He can regurgitate Shakespeare’s soliloquies but doesn’t know the difference between broadening the tax base to self-fund borrowing and increasing taxes.

And whose fault is that? Successive governments, of course – because an educated electorate is a dangerous electorate. Keep the masses ignorant, and you can sell them any old tosh. Promise the impossible, deny the obvious, shift blame like a street magician palming a coin. A public schooled in the art of critical thinking wouldn’t fall for the nonsense spewed by the likes of Johnson, Farage, and their ilk. They wouldn't swallow slogans like 'Take Back Control' or 'Get Brexit Done' without asking – control from whom, and at what cost? What does getting Brexit 'done' even mean?

Instead, our schools churn out generation after generation of politically illiterate citizens, armed with just enough knowledge to scrape by but not enough to challenge the grift that governs them. Politics and governance should be on the National Curriculum – not some half-hearted, tick-box exercise buried in citizenship lessons, but a proper, rigorous subject. Teach kids how the economy works, what a central bank does, how laws are made, the power of a manifesto promise versus the reality of governance. Explain the possible, the impossible, and the inevitable consequences of different policies. Let them debate, let them argue, let them question.

Take trickle-down economics – a con of the highest order, pushed as the gospel truth despite its utter failure to deliver anything but more wealth for those who already have it. Or population decline – a looming crisis caused by economic insecurity, rising living costs, and short-sighted policies that have made raising a family a financial impossibility for many. Then there’s taxation – how it funds public services, how cuts to those services impact society, and how the wealthy continually dodge their fair share while the working man shoulders the burden. These are things every voter should understand before stepping into the polling booth.

Then there’s the erosion of workers’ rights – another disaster born from a lack of political education. Trade unions, once the backbone of labour protections, are demonised in the press, leaving workers vulnerable to exploitation, stagnant wages, and insecure contracts. And let's not forget the privatisation scam – essential services like healthcare, water, and transport stripped of public accountability and handed over to profit-driven conglomerates, who then charge through the nose for declining standards.

Of course, the argument against this is always the same – we mustn't indoctrinate children. But the real indoctrination is what we have now – an education system that conditions young minds to accept politics as something that happens to them rather than something they have a stake in. Imagine if we gave them the tools to actually scrutinise policy instead of just choosing between red or blue based on tribalism.

The grim truth is that an electorate capable of spotting a fraudster from a hundred paces would be an existential threat to those in power. And so the cycle repeats – a deliberately underinformed public, duped into voting against its own interests time and again. And we call it democracy. 

Take Reform, currently enjoying a surge in the polls. Ask a Reform supporter how much extra tax their policies would cost, and you’ll likely be met with a vacant stare – most haven’t read the manifesto and instead take Farage’s bile on GB News as gospel. 

Reform’s tax plans would add nearly £90 billion a year to the bill: £41bn to raise the personal allowance to £20,000, £18bn to lift the higher rate threshold to £70,000, and more on top. Independent analyses suggest the real figure could be even higher. To cover this, they propose £150bn in cuts to public services, debt interest, and benefits – the same public services already on their knees (the largest spends are health and pensions). And just like Brexit, the experts warning this doesn’t add up are being ignored, despite being proven right before. Meanwhile, the tax cuts would overwhelmingly benefit higher earners, leaving those on lower incomes with little to show for it. In short, Reform's economic plan is a fiscal fantasy – but, as ever, people will vote for it anyway because they're swayed by immigrant-centred emotion, not facts.

As an aside, it's worth noting, ironically, that immigration has blunted some of the worst Brexit effect by widening the tax base. Tell a Reform voter that and you'll be accused of lying, despite it being glaringly obvious to the untrained mind. Naturally, the Reform supporter will insist, with no evidence at all, that all these immigrants are on benefits.

We won the vote. Now we needs the power to use it in an informed manner.

The Blood Donor

You’d think giving away a pint of blood would be simple enough – after all, there’s no shortage of people out there willing to spill it over a car park disagreement. But no, the noble act of donation has become something of a saga for me over the past year.

April last year, I rolled up my sleeve and gave what I thought was just another routine contribution to the great British blood bank. The next appointment, however, didn’t quite go to plan. It turns out my iron levels had dropped below the acceptable threshold, meaning my otherwise perfectly serviceable blood was deemed unworthy. Not to be outdone by my own biology, I embarked on a robust diet of iron tablets and black pudding – the breakfast of champions (and the slightly anaemic).

By the time I was next due to donate, my iron levels were back in the green, but there was another snag – I’d had a tattoo. This, according to the NHS, puts you in the ‘potential biohazard’ category for a few months. Fair enough. I bided my time, eager to get back on the donor schedule. Just as I was about to, I went and got a second tattoo. Another delay.

January rolled around, and at long last, I booked in a session for a couple of days ago. Everything was set. No dietary deficiencies, no fresh ink – just me and my perfectly good blood. But fate, it seems, had other plans. The day before, I found myself wrestling with bitumen tape on an office container ceiling, which resulted in a delightful little accident involving molten bitumen and my knuckle. The result? A rather nasty, suppurating burn.

As anyone familiar with blood donation knows, the service can’t take any chances with infection. No one wants a pint of potential sepsis in their veins, after all. So once again, I was turned away, my good intentions thwarted by bad luck and questionable DIY practices.

I did, however, get them to test my blood iron, which I passed with flying colours - it was sufficient to stick me to a welding magnet.  

At this rate, I’ll be lucky to donate again before I start getting offers for funeral plans. But I remain undeterred. The battle to give away my blood continues – assuming I don’t inadvertently set myself on fire or take up a hobby involving rusty nails in the meantime.

Immigration

Imagine a nation on the brink. A population growing at 5% a year might sound like prosperity − more workers, greater demand, expanding tax revenues. Businesses thrive, infrastructure improves, and the economy hums. 

But what happens when that trend reverses? A steady 5% decline each year. In a decade, nearly 40% of the population vanishes. Not relocated, not redistributed − simply gone. Streets empty, businesses shutter, and tax revenues collapse. The burden of an ageing population falls on a shrinking workforce, stretching public services beyond breaking point.

This isn’t alarmism, it’s economic reality. When working-age people leave, they take their spending, skills, and tax contributions with them. Those left behind pay the price − stagnation, higher costs, crumbling infrastructure. Businesses struggle to hire, innovation slows, and productivity falls. Wages might rise in response to labour shortages, but without enough workers to sustain industries, inflation soars. Less productivity, higher costs, fewer customers. The downward spiral continues.

Immigration isn’t the problem, it’s the answer. The NHS depends on foreign doctors and nurses, the tech sector thrives on skilled programmers and engineers, and social care would collapse without migrant workers supporting an ageing population. Logistics, food processing, financial services, and creative industries don’t just survive on migration − they flourish because of it. The UK needs 350,000 net migrants annually just to hold the line. Without them, economic contraction is inevitable. The idea that immigration is a burden is economic illiteracy. Without fresh skills, investment, and tax revenue, the country withers.

Yet Farage and Reform peddle the fantasy that closing the doors will restore prosperity. It won’t. The NHS would crumble, construction would stall, and major industries would flounder. Britain’s history is built on migration − fueling innovation, driving industry, sustaining public services. Slashing migration doesn’t solve economic problems, it creates them.

Attracting the right skills is crucial. The UK needs healthcare workers, engineers, and advanced manufacturers. Policies must align visas and sponsorships with economic demand to prevent shortages in key sectors while avoiding oversaturation in others. Migrants don’t just show up hoping for work. The claim that people arrive with no employment prospects is largely a myth. Unless they are refugees, most come to fill gaps where demand exceeds supply. Even refugees must be considered carefully − if they are unlikely to find employment and become a permanent economic drain, the numbers must be managed accordingly, but tempered with compassion.

The conversation doesn’t end with migration. AI and automation pose another challenge − job displacement. Some claim fewer workers will be needed, but history suggests technology reshapes economies rather than eliminating jobs. The real issue isn’t whether AI replaces work − but who benefits from it.

AI will make business owners richer while leaving workers scrambling for a foothold. While automation drives corporate profits, it will also create roles in AI maintenance, data science, and robotics. But the transition won’t be seamless. Many low-skilled workers will be displaced, forced into lower-paid roles or unemployment. Efficiency gains from automation will mean surging profits for corporations but shrinking tax revenues and weaker consumer spending. The current tax system, built around human labour, is unfit for an AI-dominated economy.

The tax regime must change. Businesses raking in profits from AI-driven efficiency must contribute fairly. Higher corporate taxes on AI-enhanced firms, levies on automation-driven job losses, and wealth redistribution measures are essential - in any economy. The proceeds must fund a robust safety net to prevent displaced workers from falling into poverty.

With a declining population and AI-driven job losses, the property market will nosedive. Fewer people mean fewer buyers and renters. House prices will plummet, dragging banks and mortgages with them. Investors who once saw property as a safe bet will see their assets crumble, while landlords struggle to fill vacant homes. This isn’t just an economic downturn − it’s a collapse.

Public services will suffer. Fewer taxpayers mean less funding for healthcare, education, and infrastructure. The NHS, already stretched thin, will see longer wait times and worsening staff shortages. Local councils will struggle to maintain roads, social care, and waste management. In the hardest-hit areas, schools may close, emergency services may be cut, and transport networks may shrink − deepening economic stagnation and prompting further emigration.

The numbers don’t lie. A shrinking population, an ageing workforce, an AI-driven corporate gold rush − together, they spell disaster. Without bold, proactive policies, Britain risks becoming a hollowed-out economy, drained of talent, burdened by debt, and locked in decline.

So the next time someone claims mass emigration is nothing to worry about, or that immigration is a crisis, show them the facts. Show them the trajectory. Show them the reality of ignoring economic fundamentals. Because once the spiral begins, reversing it becomes almost impossible. And those left behind? They’ll be the ones picking up the pieces, long after the opportunists have walked away.

DEI in Action

Donald Trump is back in the White House, and his second term has already delivered the sort of “meritocracy” we’ve come to expect from his brand of governance. In scrapping diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) policies across federal agencies, he’s proudly declared that only the most qualified individuals will be given jobs. And yet, his own Cabinet picks suggest he’s implemented a new kind of DEI – Dimwits, Eejits, and Imbeciles.

Let’s take a moment to admire the raw talent on display. For Secretary of Transportation, Trump has chosen Sean Duffy, a former reality TV star and congressman whose most notable experience with transport involves riding in the back of a campaign bus. What’s his primary qualification? He’s a regular Fox News talking head – and that, in Trumpworld, trumps actual expertise.

Then there’s Robert F. Kennedy Jr., the man tapped to run the Department of Health and Human Services. This is a man who’s made a career out of peddling anti-vaccine conspiracies and pseudoscience, yet he’s now in charge of America’s public health system. Meritocracy? Hardly. It’s like hiring a flat-earther to run NASA.

And let’s not forget Pete Hegseth, the new Secretary of Defense. Hegseth, a television host and former National Guard officer, is best known for railing against handwashing and spreading dubious military takes on Fox News. Despite never having run so much as a battalion, he’s now responsible for the world’s most powerful armed forces.

Trump promised to get rid of “woke hiring” and bring back meritocracy. What he’s actually done is prioritise morons over experts, which is DEI in action – just with a different set of criteria. Instead of ensuring representation across race, gender, and background, Trump has ensured representation for the utterly clueless, the proudly ignorant, and the deeply unqualified.

This isn’t meritocracy – it’s the political equivalent of handing the controls of a 747 to the bloke down the pub who “reckons he could land one.” Trump doesn’t care about ability. He cares about blind loyalty, media presence, and an unwavering willingness to parrot his nonsense. If they can string together a Fox News soundbite and gaze adoringly at their leader, they’re in. Competence is irrelevant.

So, while Trump and his cronies cheer the death of DEI, the rest of us get to watch his new version flourish. Dimwits, Eejits, and Imbeciles – all elevated to positions of power, because in Trump’s America, that’s what really counts.

Ve Haff Vays Off Making You Beleef

I was listening to a German scientist on the radio explaining the findings of a research project and had a thought:

There’s something about a German accent that makes people sit up and pay attention, especially when the speaker happens to be explaining quantum mechanics or the finer points of particle physics. It’s almost as if we’ve all been conditioned to assume that a scientist with a German twang is a bona fide genius – the kind who probably sketched out a new theory of everything on the back of a beer mat while waiting for their schnitzel to arrive. But why is this?

First, we must consider the pantheon of famous German scientists. Albert Einstein, with his mad-scientist hair and his relatively brilliant theories, looms large in the collective imagination. Even people who think E = mc^2 is some sort of vitamin will nod sagely at the mention of his name. Then there’s Max Planck, Werner Heisenberg (whose name alone screams “you don’t understand this, but trust me”), and Erwin Schrödinger, who made us all feel clever and confused at the same time with his infamous cat.

But let’s bring this closer to home. Remember Heinz Wolff? The genial professor with the fluffy white hair and the thick German accent who charmed the nation on The Great Egg Race. Here was a man who could make building a contraption to transport an egg across a table look like a pivotal moment in scientific history. His enthusiasm was infectious, his explanations baffling yet brilliant, and his accent seemed to add an extra layer of authority.

The German accent’s association with scientific authority isn’t entirely accidental. Historically, German-speaking countries have been at the forefront of science and engineering. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, Germany was the undisputed heavyweight champion of science, producing groundbreaking discoveries and Nobel Prize winners faster than you could say “Technische Hochschule.” British institutions eagerly imported German professors, journals, and ideas, cementing the stereotype that if it’s scientific and German, it’s probably brilliant.

And let’s not forget Hollywood’s role in all this. Think of any film with a brilliant but slightly eccentric scientist, and there’s a good chance they’ve been gifted a German accent. From Dr Strangelove’s apocalyptic genius to Doc Brown in Back to the Future (who’s not German but channels the ethos), the media has done its bit to reinforce the idea that scientific authority often comes with a hearty “Ja!” and a touch of guttural consonants.

Of course, it’s not just the accent. Throw in a white lab coat, and the effect is magnified tenfold. The lab coat is the universal symbol of scientific credibility, a wearable badge of intellect that immediately tells the world, “I know what I’m doing.” Pair it with a German accent, and you might as well start handing out Nobel Prizes. Even if the wearer is just explaining the finer points of boiling an egg, the combination of the coat and the accent makes it sound like groundbreaking culinary physics.

Of course, this can backfire spectacularly. Imagine a German-accented scientist trying to explain something utterly mundane, like how to reset a router. Suddenly, the gravitas vanishes. Instead of sounding like Einstein, they sound like an IT support line that’s overpromising. The magic, it seems, only works when the topic is suitably mysterious and complex. Or when there’s a blackboard involved.

So, next time you hear a German-accented professor waxing lyrical about quantum tunnelling or the mysteries of dark matter, take a moment to reflect. Are you genuinely impressed by their insights, or is your brain subconsciously equating the accent with intelligence? Either way, it’s a clever trick. Almost as clever, dare I say, as the Germans themselves.

Flood The Zone With Shit

Holocaust Memorial Day is a moment to pause and reflect on the darkest depths of humanity’s capacity for cruelty. We remember the systematic extermination of six million Jews and millions of others deemed undesirable by a twisted ideology. It’s a day of solemnity – a reminder of what happens when hate goes unchecked and moral principles are crushed under the weight of expedience and prejudice. It should be a rallying cry to prevent such atrocities from ever recurring. Yet, today, we are confronted with chilling echoes of history.

In an appalling display of hubris and moral bankruptcy, Donald Trump – a man who has never hidden his disdain for nuance or compassion – has called for the ethnic cleansing of Gaza. His language is unambiguous: an insistence on forcibly removing an entire population under the guise of security and vengeance. And disturbingly, there are factions within Israel's government who echo this sentiment, giving credence to the notion that such actions are acceptable, even necessary. It’s a grim indictment of how far political discourse has fallen – when the language of war crimes is normalised, and the lessons of the Holocaust are conveniently ignored.

Let’s be clear: collective punishment, forced displacement, and targeting civilians are not "defence" or "self-preservation." These are crimes under international law. The Fourth Geneva Convention explicitly prohibits the transfer of populations in occupied territories and the targeting of civilians. Yet the siege of Gaza – with its relentless bombing, restrictions on humanitarian aid, and calls for its people to simply "leave" – fits the textbook definition of ethnic cleansing. This is not hyperbole; it is fact. And no amount of spin from apologists can obscure the reality on the ground.

The hypocrisy is staggering. Israel was founded in the aftermath of the Holocaust as a haven for those who had suffered unspeakable horrors. Its founding ideals promised justice, freedom, and equality. Yet today, elements within its government are advocating for policies that mirror the very oppression they vowed to escape. The occupation of Palestine – and the dehumanisation of its people – has become a moral stain on Israel’s history, one that threatens to erode the legitimacy of its founding narrative.

As for Trump, his support for such policies is no surprise. This is a man who once floated using nuclear weapons as casually as he orders a Diet Coke. A man who called neo-Nazis “very fine people” and has built his career on pandering to the worst instincts of humanity. His endorsement of ethnic cleansing isn’t some rogue statement – it’s entirely consistent with his pattern of embracing authoritarianism and division. But that does not excuse those who align themselves with him or his rhetoric. Israel's leaders, who nod along to such calls, cannot claim ignorance of history. They know what this language means. They know what ethnic cleansing looks like – because their own people were its victims within living memory.

And where is the international community? Once again, it is feckless, issuing statements of "concern" and "regret" while failing to take meaningful action. Western leaders who endlessly invoke the Holocaust to justify their support for Israel now find themselves paralysed by their own double standards. If the mantra "Never Again" is to mean anything, it must apply universally – not just to one group or one moment in history. Otherwise, it’s empty rhetoric, a platitude to soothe collective guilt while atrocities unfold before our eyes.

This moment feels eerily reminiscent of Sinclair Lewis’s It Can’t Happen Here, the 1935 novel warning of fascism’s creeping rise in America. The title was both a reassurance and an indictment, mocking the arrogance of those who believed their democracy immune to tyranny. Lewis painted a portrait of how authoritarianism doesn’t always arrive with jackboots and salutes; sometimes, it comes wrapped in the guise of populism, cloaked in "protection" and "order." Trump, with his appeals to base instincts and disdain for the rule of law, embodies Lewis’s warning. The same applies to those in Israel’s leadership who use fear and nationalism to justify their policies.

As we grapple with the moral failings of leadership today, it’s important to recognise that Trump’s relentless media strategy may be no accident. Steve Bannon, Trump’s former chief strategist, infamously described this approach as “flooding the zone with shit” – overwhelming public discourse with constant controversy, inflammatory rhetoric, and disinformation to confuse and desensitise. This strategy echoes the Nazi tactic of "Gleichschaltung," or "coordination," a process by which every aspect of society was flooded with propaganda to enforce ideological conformity. Over time, the Overton Window – which once confined extremist rhetoric to the fringes – is pushed wider, making what was once unthinkable appear reasonable. For the Nazis, this meant shifting public acceptance from discriminatory laws to the horrors of the Holocaust. Today, we see similar attempts to normalise division and authoritarian impulses, turning cultural and political descent into inevitability.

Meanwhile, here in Britain, Kemi Badenoch has chosen to champion another favourite authoritarian trope: the exploitation of tragedy to stoke division. Her remarks linking the heinous crimes of Axel Rudakubana to a supposed failure of “integration” are as predictable as they are dangerous - and she couldn't provide a shred of evidence when asked. Badenoch claimed, "We need to be clear that integration is not optional," a statement that, while superficially unifying, carries a veiled accusation against immigrants and minorities. The subtext is clear – to shift blame onto these communities for broader societal ills, regardless of the facts. Her rhetoric is a masterclass in dog-whistle politics, thinly veiled as concern for "British values," while fuelling the same fear and scapegoating that erodes social cohesion. On a day meant to remind us of the perils of dehumanisation, her remarks serve only to underscore how easily history’s lessons are forgotten – or ignored – by those in power.

But what does "integration" mean to Badenoch and her ilk? Based on their rhetoric, it would seem to demand the erasure of cultural distinctiveness, with minorities forced to conform to a narrow and subjective vision of "Britishness." Yet, data tells a different story. Studies by the Office for National Statistics show that immigrant communities contribute significantly to the UK economy and public services, with nearly half of NHS doctors coming from ethnic minority backgrounds. Furthermore, British Muslims and other minority groups are increasingly engaged in civic and political life, disproving the notion of a “failure to integrate.”

If integration is to be judged by contribution and participation, minorities in Britain are succeeding – often in the face of systemic discrimination. Meanwhile, surveys like the British Social Attitudes Survey have found that 26% of Britons admit to racial prejudice, exposing the uncomfortable reality that prejudice is far from confined to minorities. Badenoch’s suggestion that integration has failed would be better directed at addressing these ingrained biases. If she truly seeks to address societal division, she would do well to start by tackling these prejudices, rather than exploiting them for political gain.

In the wake of Holocaust Memorial Day, we must confront not just the atrocities of the past but the insidious ways in which modern leaders weaponise apathy and exhaustion to advance their own agendas. The echoes of history demand vigilance – silence and disengagement are precisely what this strategy depends on, and we cannot afford either.

The Working Week

There comes a point in life when days of the week stop behaving like well-trained Labradors and start acting more like feral cats – slipping through your fingers just as you think you’ve got a firm grasp. For some, this affliction is simply an inevitable side effect of age. Retirement, I’m told, brings with it the delightful confusion of every day feeling like a Saturday. For me, however, the days went rogue for a very different reason - the curious case of the seven-day workweek.

 

Yes, you read that right – seven days. The whole lot. No weekends off for good behaviour. And it’s not because I’m some sort of workaholic martyr or driven by a misguided Protestant work ethic. No, I’ve simply found myself perpetually on call for ad hoc driving jobs that can pop up at any hour, on any day. Consequently, Saturday and Sunday have lost their distinct flavour, blending seamlessly into the porridgey mush of the week. My work hours are often of my own choosing, though I’ve never once turned down a job. The upside? One of my larger pension pots remains untouched, funding fripperies like restoring old cars or buying expensive tools.

Now, I can hear some of you gasping in horror. “But weekends are sacred!” you cry. And yes, for the nine-to-five brigade, they are. But when your calendar is dictated by the whims of a dispatcher or a last-minute job request, the weekend becomes little more than an outdated concept – like a VHS player or the phrase “Please be kind, rewind.”

Take last week, for example. I was happily bumbling along, convinced it was Wednesday, only to be told it was Friday. Friday! How did that happen? It’s like finding out you’ve skipped a chapter in a book – disorienting and mildly infuriating. And then there are those embarrassing moments when you wish someone a pleasant weekend on a Monday. Or worse, ask someone how their weekend was... on a Thursday.

It’s not just the days of the week that have gone astray. The entire concept of time has become a hazy blur. There’s no longer a clear distinction between working hours and leisure hours. You’d think this would result in a luxurious sense of freedom, but it mostly results in a sort of temporal vertigo. One moment you’re enjoying a cup of tea, the next you’re hurtling down the M5 because someone needs a last-minute car delivery to Devon or there's a car at an auction in Manchester that needs collecting.

Of course, there are upsides to this perpetual weekday shuffle. For one, I’ve become adept at dodging the dreaded Monday blues. It’s hard to dread a day when it might as well be a Tuesday or a Friday. And let’s not forget the smug satisfaction of doing one’s weekly shop on a random Tuesday morning, when the supermarket is blissfully free of weekend hordes. It’s the little things, really.

But there’s a danger in all this temporal trickery. When every day has the potential to be a workday, it’s easy to forget to carve out proper downtime. Without clear boundaries, rest can become an afterthought, rather than a necessity. And, before you know it, you’re running on autopilot, wondering why you feel perpetually knackered.

Still, I soldier on, calendar-less and confused, greeting each day with the same question: “What day is it again?” It’s become a bit of a ritual, really – a daily reminder that time is a fluid construct and that weekends are a societal invention I’ve managed to accidentally unsubscribe from.

So, if you ever catch me rambling on about my weekend plans on a Wednesday or insisting that it’s Tuesday when it’s clearly not, just humour me. I’m not entirely lost – just a little adrift in the great sea of days. And if all else fails, there’s always tea. After all, tea time is timeless.

Parental Guidance & Thatcher

I heard a very interesting viewpoint on the Southport tragedy this week from a retired psychiatrist:

In a world obsessed with efficiency and "streamlining," there’s a cruel irony in the Southport tragedy. A system designed to save money and reduce the role of the state instead created the perfect conditions for a catastrophic failure – a failure that cost lives. The death knell of institutions like Parental Guidance during the Thatcher years wasn’t just about cutting red tape; it was about cutting lifelines.

The Parental Guidance initiative was more than a well-meaning programme; it was a lifeline for struggling families. It offered specialist early intervention for those dealing with complex behavioural, emotional, and mental health challenges. Families could receive tailored advice, access to parenting workshops, and referrals to targeted support services – all designed to catch problems early, before they spiralled into crises. It was about creating strong foundations, not patching things up after they’d crumbled.

When this vital service was merged into the NHS, it became just another underfunded branch of an overstretched system. Health visitors and general practitioners, though invaluable in their roles, were never equipped to take on the specialised work Parental Guidance provided. The personalised care it offered became yet another casualty of "streamlining," leaving vulnerable individuals like the Southport perpetrator to fall between the cracks of a fragmented system. It filled the gaps that Social Services, Mental Health Services, PREVENT and the anti-terror institutions couldn't fill because of their narrow focus.

Why does this matter? Because small-state ideology – the belief that less government intervention is always better – leaves people to fend for themselves in a world increasingly designed to favour the privileged. Vulnerable families don’t need fewer services; they need coordinated, properly funded ones. Without them, individuals like the Southport perpetrator fall through the cracks. We all know what happens when cracks widen.

The tragedy lays bare the myth that smaller government equals better governance. A properly funded "large state" isn’t a bureaucratic monstrosity; it’s a safety net. It’s early intervention. It’s recognising that the cost of neglect – in human and financial terms – far outweighs the price of robust public services.

Psychiatrists have long pointed to cases like Southport as the logical conclusion of short-termist thinking. Prevention was Parental Guidance's purpose. It was proactive, targeted, and specialised – exactly the kind of thing the NHS, overstretched as it is, can’t be. The decision to fold it into the healthcare system wasn’t just a bureaucratic reshuffle; it was a quiet dismissal of the very idea that the state has a role in addressing complex social issues before they explode.

Those who champion the small-state mantra might argue that individuals and families should take responsibility. But responsibility doesn’t mean much when you’re drowning without a lifeline. It’s easy to pontificate about personal accountability when you’ve never had to navigate a system that actively works against you.

The Southport killings aren’t just a tragedy – they’re a lesson. A lesson in what happens when ideology trumps compassion. A lesson in the importance of recognising that society functions best when it takes care of its most vulnerable. And, crucially, a lesson in why the state must be big enough, bold enough, and compassionate enough to step in where others can’t.

We shouldn’t need tragedies like this to remind us of the cost of neglect. But if ever there was a case for a "large state," Southport is it. The price of prevention may seem high, but it’s nothing compared to the cost of letting people fall.

Cupboard Love

Well, it appears we've reached a new stage in the ongoing saga of feline eccentricities. Kitty – our resident furry anarchist – has decided that the kitchen cupboard, formerly reserved for tins of soup, olives, and an overabundance of mixed beans, is now prime property for her afternoon naps. Who knew that the humble kitchen cupboard would become a cat condominium?

 

It began innocently enough. We left the cupboard door ajar, an oversight that in any household with a cat is akin to issuing an engraved invitation. Kitty, with all the subtlety of a Victorian explorer discovering new lands, promptly claimed it as her own. One moment, I was reaching for a tin of butter beans; the next, I was met with a pair of suspiciously squinting eyes, nestled snugly between jars of pickles and a packet of lentils.

The scene is something out of a domestic comedy sketch. Imagine opening your cupboard in search of ingredients for dinner, only to be met by a black-and-white puffball, curled up as if to say, “This is mine now. You can have the olives, but don’t even think about disturbing my nap.” Kitty has arranged herself on a makeshift throne of a tea towel (which, let’s be honest, was never destined for greatness in the first place), adding a touch of regal disdain to her expression.

Of course, this new perch has presented us with logistical challenges. Every time we need a can of soup, we’re met with a dilemma – disturb the cat, or endure the cat's glare of righteous indignation? Spoiler: The soup stays put. It's amazing how quickly one can be trained to adapt to feline preferences. Meals are now planned around which cupboard Kitty isn't occupying.

The funny part is that this cupboard isn’t even particularly warm or comfortable by human standards. But therein lies the feline logic: if it’s inconvenient for you, it’s perfect for them. In Kitty’s mind, she’s found a prime piece of real estate with a panoramic view of the kitchen – the perfect spot from which to observe the culinary goings-on below while remaining majestically above it all.

We’ve considered gently evicting her, but let’s face it – anyone who has ever cohabited with a cat knows how that would end. She’d simply relocate to a more inconvenient cupboard. Perhaps the one where we keep the pasta. Or worse, she’d take up residence on the kitchen counter, a move that would result in endless debates about hygiene and the futility of trying to outmanoeuvre a determined cat.

For now, we’ve resigned ourselves to our new cupboard arrangement. Kitty seems content with her dominion over the pantry, and we’re learning to live around her whims. It’s a classic case of feline takeover – one cupboard at a time. Next up, the bread bin? Let's hope not. Still, there’s something undeniably charming about it. Seeing her there, snoozing among the tins, adds a bit of whimsy to our daily routine. It's a reminder that life’s little surprises often come with whiskers and an attitude problem.

And really, who wouldn’t want a cupboard cat? It’s all the rage in unconventional interior decor these days, surely. If Kitty had an Instagram account, she’d be trending by now.

Same Old Farage

Apologies - an addendum to my trilogy with an apposite example.

I said only the day before yesterday that Farage regularly used the demagogue's technique of  plausible denial propaganda. Well, he only went and did it again yesterday, serving up his trademark mix of insinuation and innuendo with all the subtlety of a pub bore who’s had one too many pints. 

His latest contribution to public discourse is to opine about the Southport killings and whether they were terror-related – without evidence, naturally – "I just wonder whether the truth is being withheld from us. I don’t know the answer to that. I think it is a fair and legitimate question. What I do know is something is going horribly wrong in our once beautiful country." 

He doesn’t know, of course, but that doesn’t stop him from planting the idea, like a dog leaving its calling card on the village green.

It’s a classic far-right tactic, isn’t it? Ask a leading question, sow doubt, and let the rabble fill in the blanks with their own prejudices. It doesn’t matter that a judge has already ruled this wasn’t terrorism – Farage is here to stoke division, not deal in facts. And as ever, he rounds it off with a misty-eyed lament about "our once beautiful country," as though he hasn’t spent his career pouring petrol on the flames of intolerance.

What exactly is the "truth" he’s hinting at, but too cowardly to state outright? He doesn’t know, he says. But he knows something’s going "horribly wrong." Yes, Nigel, something is going wrong, and it’s the relentless drip-feed of fear and loathing from your ilk, poisoning the well of public debate. If you’re so concerned about the state of the nation, perhaps start by looking in the mirror – though I wouldn’t blame the mirror for cracking under the strain.

The Lure of Dictatorship

The final installment of my trilogy.

There’s a chilling statistic that’s been making the rounds - apparently, 16% of young men and 13% of young women aged 16 to 26 aren’t averse to the idea of a strong dictator. That should send a shiver down the spine of anyone with a smidge of historical awareness. How on earth did we get here? Has the social contract crumbled to the point where tyranny seems preferable to democracy? Or is there something deeper at play - a loss of generational memory that once acted as a bulwark against authoritarianism? I’d wager it’s a bit of both, and we’ve got a lot to answer for.

 

Let’s start with the obvious: the social contract has failed many of these young people. They’ve grown up in a world where housing is a pipe dream, job security is a quaint relic, and the political class seems more interested in its own survival than in solving real problems. They’ve watched governments dither and prevaricate, launching endless consultations and inquiries that lead nowhere. Is it any wonder they’re yearning for decisive action? And who’s more decisive than a dictator, right? The image of a strongman who can cut through the red tape and make things happen is undoubtedly seductive when you’ve never been taught to fear the consequences.

But here’s the rub: they haven’t been taught. The generational memory of dictatorship and its horrors has faded, and with it, the instinctive wariness of authoritarianism. I had teachers who had served in WWII. They weren’t reading about it in books; they’d been there. They’d seen the consequences of unchecked power, and they brought that experience into the classroom. History wasn’t abstract to us. We heard firsthand accounts of what happens when a nation falls under the sway of a dictator, and we were taught to be sceptical of anyone promising easy answers through strong-arm tactics. We also had TV programmes on WWII, like All Our Yesterdays and The World at War, as well as endless WWII films.

That connection is gone, and while history textbooks can tell you what happened, they can’t convey the visceral reality of it. They can’t replicate the moment when your teacher - who once faced enemy fire - looks you in the eye and tells you why you must never, ever fall for the rhetoric of tyranny.

And let’s not underestimate the importance of family narratives. Many of us grew up hearing stories from parents or grandparents who lived through the wars. Those stories weren’t just about battles; they were about the moral choices people had to make in the face of authoritarianism. They were about neighbours disappearing overnight, about the slow erosion of freedoms, about the banality of evil creeping into everyday life. Those stories taught us that democracy, flawed as it is, is worth fighting for.

But what happens when those stories aren’t passed down? When the last WWII veterans have gone, and with them the firsthand accounts of what dictatorship really looks like? What happens is what we’re seeing now: a generation that views democracy as just another option, one that hasn’t delivered for them. And when democracy looks broken, authoritarianism starts to seem like a viable alternative.

This isn’t entirely their fault. They’ve grown up in a world where populist strongmen have dressed themselves in the language of pragmatism and common sense. Viktor Orbán in Hungary, Donald Trump in the US - these aren’t caricatured villains in jackboots, they’re men in suits who frame their authoritarian tendencies as practical solutions to broken systems and, without that historical connection, it’s easy to fall for it.

We need to confront this generational amnesia head-on. It’s not enough to rely on textbooks and documentaries. We need to ensure that the stories of the past are passed down in ways that resonate. We need to make it clear that the lure of the strongman is a siren song that leads to disaster. We need to remind young people that the freedoms they take for granted were hard-won, and that those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.

Most importantly, we need to rebuild the social contract. We need to show this generation that democracy can work for them, that change is possible within a democratic framework. Otherwise, they’ll continue to look for alternatives - and the alternatives they’re considering should terrify us all.

The last generation that understood the true cost of dictatorship is fading away. It’s up to us to ensure that memory doesn’t fade with them.

FEAR-GRIP

Continuing yesterday's thread.

Imagine a situation where an ambitious far-right leader spots an opportunity in an otherwise mundane piece of news – say, an increase in food prices linked to climate change. This leader seizes the moment, spinning a tale of a shadowy, foreign-backed conspiracy to "control food supplies and starve native populations." They don't bother with credible evidence – a few cherry-picked headlines, a misleading graph or two, and ominous warnings about "dark forces" suffices. "Just asking the question," is a well-used refrain for those wishing to stir up disorder.

The phrase "I’m only asking the question" is a sly psychological tactic designed to sow doubt while shielding the speaker from accountability. It pretends to be neutral, but its true purpose is to plant an idea in the listener’s mind – one often rooted in insinuation or distrust. By framing a claim as a mere question, the speaker avoids outright lying or making a provable statement, instead inviting others to connect the dots themselves. This creates a nagging sense of uncertainty, even when the "question" has no basis in fact. The tactic is well understood in psychological and political circles, as it exploits a cognitive bias where people unconsciously associate the question with the possibility of truth. It’s the hallmark of conspiracy theorists and manipulators, a subtle nudge that leaves the listener wondering, "What if?" while the instigator steps back with faux innocence. Farage has used it to great effect.

The campaign begins with social media – the perfect breeding ground for outrage and misinformation. "Have you noticed the price of bread lately?" they might post. "It's not inflation – it's infiltration! Globalists are in league with foreign powers to destroy our way of life! Wake up!"

Soon, useful idiots latch onto the narrative. Amateur sleuths on TikTok, the bloke in the pub, and your Aunt Carol on Facebook start sharing "proof" – dubious screenshots, out-of-context quotes, and poorly edited videos. The far-right leader and his client press fan the flames, positioning himself (or herself) as the only person willing to tell the "truth."

Naturally, the government, economists, and food industry experts dismiss the claims as nonsense. This is perfect for the far-right leaders. "They're covering it up!" they bellow, pointing at anyone who questions them as a collaborator in the grand conspiracy. "The establishment doesn’t want you to know because they are the establishment!"

The outrage grows, and people start demanding action. The far-right leader steps up their rhetoric, declaring, "We need to be ruthless. These conspirators must be stopped at any cost – or there won’t be a country left to save." Calls for extreme measures, like strict border controls, mass deportations, or bans on imports from certain countries, are met with uncritical, mindless cheers from their base.

The movement swells, gaining votes. Suddenly, they’re in power – "for the people," of course. They waste no time introducing "emergency measures." The judiciary, a counter-majoritarian institution, will be argued as an obstacle to swift action. "We can't have unelected judges hampering our efforts to save the nation," they declare. Laws are passed to restrict the judiciary's power, and opposition politicians find themselves under investigation for alleged ties to the fabricated conspiracy.

Then come the elections – or rather, the suspension of them. "We can’t afford the distraction of elections during a national emergency," the leader announces. Their supporters cheer mindlessly, again. Critics are silenced, arrested, or forced into exile. The machinery of democracy grinds to a halt, all in the name of "saving the nation."

By the time the public realises the danger was never real, it’s too late. The far-right leader has solidified their grip on power, and any dissent is ruthlessly crushed.

This sequence, while hypothetical, mirrors historical tactics used by authoritarian regimes to manufacture crises, manipulate fear, and consolidate power. It serves as a stark warning of how easily democratic systems can be subverted when outrage and misinformation are weaponised and put in the hands of useful idiots.

A useful mnemonic for this process is FEAR-GRIP. It's a compound noun that accurately describes a feeling, but the letters themselves can be used to spell out the process as harnessed by populists. 

• Fabricate a threat – Invent a danger that feels plausible, leveraging public fears or current events. 
• Engage outrage – Use social media to spread the narrative and stir anger. 
• Amplify with allies – Encourage "useful idiots" to share and expand the story. 
• Rebuke the truth – Dismiss evidence and accuse those in power of a cover-up. 
• Garner support – Position yourself as the only solution and gain votes by promising action. 
• Restrict opposition – Undermine the judiciary or legal systems that could challenge you. 
• Introduce "emergency" powers – Justify extreme measures as necessary to address the fabricated crisis. 
• Perpetuate control – Suspend elections and consolidate power under the guise of protecting the nation. 

"FEAR-GRIP" captures the cyclical, manipulative nature of this method – using fear to tighten a political stranglehold. 

The best way to counter these fabricated dangers is to shine a big, bright spotlight on them – expose the lies, the motives, and the absurdity behind the fear-mongering. Misinformation thrives in the dark, so factual debunking, clear evidence, and a bit of good old-fashioned ridicule can do wonders. Show people where these narratives come from and why they’re being peddled – usually by opportunists looking to score a bit of power or cash. At the same time, arm the public with the tools to see through the nonsense. Media literacy – knowing how to sniff out a dodgy claim or a sensationalist headline – is the first line of defence.

But it’s not enough to just say “that’s rubbish” and move on. You’ve got to address the real concerns lurking underneath the hysteria. People fall for this rot because they’re scared – scared about jobs, housing, or their future. So, tackle those fears head-on. Create spaces where people can talk without being shouted down, and encourage unity over division. Governments, meanwhile, need to grow a backbone – be transparent, communicate clearly, and avoid the temptation to play along with the outrage brigade. And for heaven’s sake, protect our institutions – once the judiciary or elections start getting tampered with, it’s a slippery slope to authoritarianism.

Addressing false concerns can work as a strategy if you focus on the real anxieties driving them – such as economic insecurity or poor public services – without validating the fabricated danger itself. People latch onto false narratives because they feel ignored, so acknowledging their fears and offering practical solutions can build trust and defuse tension. However, engaging too directly with the falsehood risks legitimising it or giving it more attention. The best approach is to tackle the underlying issues while reframing the conversation around facts and real challenges, avoiding any unnecessary oxygen for the fabrication itself. It’s a delicate balance but can be effective if handled carefully.

Post-truth populism thrives on the notion of representing "the people," but this is a carefully curated illusion. The term "the people" is never an inclusive or universal concept in their rhetoric. Instead, it refers to a selective, often exclusionary group that aligns with the populist's agenda. The so-called enemies of "the people" – usually scapegoated minorities, intellectuals, or political opponents – are cast as threats to this narrow definition of society, fuelling division and distrust. Far from serving the interests of all citizens, post-truth populists work to erode solidarity, fragmenting communities and sowing discord.

Solidarity, in the populist worldview, is not about unity or collective well-being. It is aggressively anti-solidarity in a broader sense, rejecting the idea of shared humanity or common purpose across diverse groups. Their version of solidarity is tribal, thick in its allegiance to the in-group but brittle and exclusive. Those who fall outside this group – whether because of race, religion, class, or ideology – are vilified and dehumanised. This strategy ensures the perpetuation of an "us versus them" narrative, which keeps the populist's followers focused on an external enemy rather than questioning the failures or corruption within.

The "outsider" is a vital construct in populist rhetoric, serving as a scapegoat for societal grievances. These outsiders are deliberately portrayed as powerful, malevolent forces, often with exaggerated or entirely fabricated influence. This magical thinking attributes almost supernatural abilities to the outsider – from controlling the economy to undermining cultural values – stoking fear and resentment among the in-group. The outsider's perceived power is deliberately inflated to justify increasingly draconian measures, stripping away rights and freedoms in the name of protecting "the people."

Populist solidarity is thick, as it is deeply rooted in a narrow, often identity-based allegiance. However, it is not wide or inclusive. It draws sharp boundaries between who belongs and who does not, fostering an exclusionary mindset that undermines broader societal cohesion. While traditional solidarity seeks to build bridges across divides, populist solidarity erects walls. It is built on fear, mistrust, and division, ensuring that the focus remains on external threats rather than internal inequalities or systemic failures.

In this way, post-truth populism becomes a self-perpetuating cycle. By claiming to speak "for the people" while simultaneously fracturing society, it creates a feedback loop of fear, exclusion, and misplaced loyalty that keeps the populist in power while undermining the very fabric of democracy and shared citizenship.

Rather a long diatribe; however, there will be final post, following this narrative, tomorrow.

Just a quick aside, while I remember it, but I was listening to a Trump supporter yesterday opining that; "Trump is going after the criminals - next he'll go against the non-criminals." The speaker was oblivious to the nonsense he was speaking, but he said this as Trump released 1,500 actual criminals for storming the Capitol and trying to overthrow the government. Strangely, Trump didn't pardon the main ringleaders, merely commuting their sentences. 

This selective clemency raises questions about his conviction in the "stolen election" narrative. On the one hand, pardoning the rank-and-file participants signals support for his loyal base, portraying them as wronged patriots who acted in defence of democracy. On the other hand, refusing to fully pardon the ringleaders, leaving their convictions intact, suggests a reluctance to completely align himself with their actions and rhetoric.

It implies a degree of strategic ambivalence. By commuting sentences rather than issuing full pardons, Trump distances himself from outright endorsing the insurrection while still appeasing his supporters. It hints that his belief in the election being "stolen" might not be as steadfast as his public statements suggest. Instead, this approach appears politically calculated – offering just enough support to retain his base without fully tying himself to the most extreme elements of their actions.

This half-measure clemency undermines the idea of unwavering belief in the righteousness of their cause. If Trump truly viewed the insurrection as justified, a blanket pardon would seem more in line with his rhetoric. Instead, the move appears more about optics and self-preservation than principle, raising doubts about the sincerity of his claims regarding the 2020 election.

That was a rather long aside.....

However, here's another aside - I think Trump will have to create a new dictionary, as he clearly does not understand the meaning of the terms 'gender' or 'criminal'. What would he call such a tome? The "Patriot's Lexicon" – because nothing says 'anti-woke' like wrapping it in the flag and a sprinkle of nationalism. Or perhaps the "Truth-tionary," where truth means whatever suits the moment. It might even go full-on absurd and be called "The Real Words," implying that the OED and Merriam-Webster was part of some woke conspiracy all along.

Perhaps he'll ban gender neutral nouns......

Oh, and Musk didn't do a Nazi salute - he was pointing to Mars.....

OK, OK, I'm off.

Neo-Fascist Oligarchic Kleptocracy

Donald Trump’s second inauguration marks a turning point in modern American politics. With his return to power, the fears expressed during his first term are now tangible realities. Trump has made no secret of his disdain for the institutional checks that constrained him previously, and the judiciary sits squarely in his sights. His first administration left a profound mark on the Supreme Court, and his return is set to deepen those scars.

The Supreme Court, already leaning heavily conservative after Trump’s first tenure, is now poised to become an outright instrument of his will. With an eye on any potential vacancies, Trump has indicated his preference for judges who align closely with his agenda. These aren’t jurists committed to interpreting the Constitution; they are ideologues whose loyalty lies not with justice but with the man who appoints them.

This has chilling implications. A Trump-stacked Court would rubber-stamp policies that dismantle democratic safeguards, entrench minority rule, and roll back decades of progress on civil rights, environmental protections, and social justice. With lifetime appointments, these decisions would reverberate long after Trump’s presidency, reshaping America into a shadow of its former self – a country where justice comes pre-approved by the executive branch.

Judicial independence is the cornerstone of democracy. It acts as a check on executive overreach and protects the rights of the minority against the tyranny of the majority. Under Trump, this independence is at grave risk. His first term saw him openly criticising judges who ruled against him, labelling them as partisan enemies rather than respecting their role as impartial arbiters. His second term promises more of the same, but with greater impunity.

The danger isn’t just theoretical. History offers grim lessons about the consequences of undermining the judiciary. From Russia’s pliant courts enabling Putin’s kleptocracy to Turkey’s judiciary becoming an arm of Erdoğan’s authoritarian rule, the playbook is depressingly familiar. Dismantle the checks, consolidate the power, and silence opposition under the guise of legality. Trump, a student of power if not of governance, is poised to follow suit, inching the United States closer to becoming a shadow of its former self. The White House might want to consider a plaque for this new era: "For services rendered to self-interest and loyal friends.""

What makes this moment especially perilous is the groundwork already laid. Trump’s appointments during his first term have shown a willingness to erode voting rights, weaken regulatory protections, and prioritise the interests of corporations and the wealthy over those of ordinary Americans. With the Court as a compliant partner, these trends will accelerate, locking in policies that favour the few at the expense of the many – a system where the "rule of law" becomes an optional extra.

For Americans, the time for complacency is over. Trump’s second term represents an existential threat to the principles of democracy, not because of any single policy but because of the systemic erosion of the institutions designed to uphold it. The judiciary must remain independent, but that independence is only as strong as the will of the people to demand it.

The stakes could not be higher. With a judiciary compromised by loyalty to a single leader or ideology, the United States risks descending into the kind of neo-fascist oligarchic kleptocracy (I've coined that descriptive) that thrives on concentrated power and widespread apathy. If Americans are to preserve their democracy, they must fight not just for policies or parties, but for the institutions that protect their freedom. Trump has taken office again – now the question is whether America’s institutions can withstand the assault. And if they don’t, we might as well replace the eagle with a golden golf club and be done with it.

More on this tomorrow.

The Man Cave

I have no time for this 'man cave' nonsense. It’s a term that suggests a sort of retreat from domestic life, a bolthole for men to do ‘manly’ things - watching sport, drinking beer, fiddling with gadgets. Essentially, a parody of masculinity, wrapped up in overpriced neon signs and a faint whiff of desperation. Call it what you will, but if your garage has been turned into a themed boudoir for middle-aged blokes, you’re not fooling anyone. It’s not rugged or rebellious; it’s just sad.

 

A garage, if it is to be worthy of the name, should smell faintly of oil and rubber. It should have a corner filled with useful bits of timber that you refuse to throw away because one day you’ll need exactly that length of 4x2. There should be a proper workbench, not some flat-pack nonsense bought for the aesthetic. The floor should bear witness to years of activity – oil stains, sawdust, the odd dropped spanner that left a gouge in the concrete. This is the essence of a garage: functionality, practicality, utility.

The ‘man cave’, on the other hand, is a consumerist fantasy. It’s a room designed to be seen, not used. Leather armchairs, a vintage fridge stocked with craft beers, walls adorned with faux-retro metal signs proclaiming the virtues of petrolheads or bacon. All very Instagram-friendly, but where’s the vice? Where’s the angle grinder? Where’s the sense of purpose?

The whole concept feels like a capitulation. It’s as if some men have decided that the rest of the house is beyond their domain, and instead of asserting themselves in shared spaces, they retreat to a themed shed. Worse still, they’ve bought into the idea that this is what they’re supposed to do – that masculinity can be packaged and sold back to them as an experience, complete with beer mats and novelty coasters. It’s infantilising.

Give me a garage that is unapologetically rough around the edges. Give me a place where you can actually get things done, where tools are within arm’s reach and there’s always a project on the go. A place where the kettle is more likely to be a battered old tin affair that’s seen better days than some shiny coffee machine you’d find in a yuppie’s kitchen. I want to see shelves sagging under the weight of jars filled with mismatched screws, not LED strip lights and framed posters of 1970s pin-ups.

The man cave is a symptom of a broader malaise – a society that encourages men to buy into a shallow caricature of masculinity instead of living it. Real men don’t need a designated space to assert their identity. They don’t need a curated experience to feel at home. They get on with things. They fix, they build, they tinker. Their garages are functional, because life itself is functional. Anything less is a betrayal of that basic principle.

So let’s ditch the man cave, and reclaim the garage. Let it be a workshop, a storage space, a sanctuary of productivity. A place where you can change the oil in your car, weld a broken gate, build a birdhouse for the garden or restore a classic, 1972 Triumph GT6. Let it be a place of purpose, not a monument to the commodification of masculinity. Because at the end of the day, a man’s worth isn’t measured by the neon sign on his wall, but by what he’s made with his own two hands.

The man cave is for the hen-pecked husband who needs a refuge.

We British

I could change my Dutch surname – lop off a few syllables, change it to something like Burgess, maybe even throw in a cricket reference – and no one would bat an eyelid. To most, I'd be indistinguishable from your average Brit. My accent doesn’t give me away, my habits don’t stand out, and my cultural references are well in line with the pub quiz crowd. I’d qualify as 100% British. No questions asked.

But here's the thing: a person of colour could do the exact same thing – speak with a cut-glass accent, know all the words to “Jerusalem,” and have a name like James Smith – and they'd still be greeted with a raised eyebrow by a sizeable chunk of the population. Not because of anything they've done, but because of the colour of their skin. And that's the quiet hypocrisy of British identity.

For all the talk about Britain being a multicultural society, the reality is that many people cling to a narrow, outdated notion of what a Brit looks like. Spoiler alert: it's usually white, with a surname you can trace back to the Domesday Book. If you're white and vaguely European, you're already halfway in. Think of names like Kowalski, Schmidt, or Rossi – all of which are now fairly unremarkable on the British landscape, their origins forgotten or ignored once they fit neatly onto a tax return. Even Huguenot names like Martineau and Duval slipped seamlessly into the British narrative, their foreignness washed away by time and convenience. Throw in an anglicised surname and a fondness for marmalade, and you're practically hosting the village fete.

Meanwhile, people of colour (or looking Chinese) born and raised in Britain, who’ve never known another home, are still met with suspicion. There’s always that underlying “Where are you really from?” question lurking, no matter how perfect their grasp of British cultural cues. It’s not about language or integration. It’s about appearance – pure and simple.

The truth is, Britishness has never been a static concept. It’s evolved over centuries, shaped by Celts, Romans, Saxons, Normans, and every wave of immigration since. There’s no such thing as a native Briton – not really. Yet some people insist on clinging to this imaginary ideal, a fixed notion of British identity that conveniently excludes anyone who doesn’t fit the mould. It’s a fantasy, a comforting myth for those who fear change.

The hypocrisy is even more glaring when you realise that “integration” discussions almost never target white Europeans. No one’s fretting about whether the bloke named Jörg from Bavaria is British enough. But if someone with darker skin claims British identity? Suddenly, it’s a national crisis.

Let’s call it what it is: racism dressed up as cultural concern. It’s the last bastion of an empire that’s long since crumbled. The British Empire may be gone, but its ghost lingers on in these unspoken biases. The idea that Britishness is reserved for those who "look the part" is absurd when you consider how varied and diverse Britain has always been.

And yet, here come Farage and his merry band of culture warriors, banging the drum of the past and lamenting the loss of some mythical Britain that never really existed. The irony, of course, is that even Farage himself is of foreign descent – his Huguenot ancestors fled persecution in France and settled here. Reform UK, the latest iteration of this nostalgic nonsense, pitches itself as a party of common sense but barely hides its dog-whistle politics. They’re quick to wrap themselves in the flag, but their vision of Britishness is narrow, exclusive, and, frankly, tedious. It’s a rallying cry for those who yearn for a Britain that’s long gone – or never was.

It's time to bin the outdated definitions and acknowledge that British identity is, and always has been, a patchwork quilt. If you're here, if you belong, if you contribute – that's British enough. It’s not about surnames, accents, or how long your family’s been here. It’s about who you are now, in this moment.

So no, I won’t be anglicising my surname. But maybe it’s time the definition of Britishness caught up with reality.

Vauxhall Grandland

The advert for the Vauxhall Grandland boasts about its 50,000 IntelliVent LEDs as though sheer quantity somehow equates to quality. Vauxhall would have you believe their car is less a vehicle and more a celestial entity, beaming forth enlightenment on every journey. But behind the flashy marketing and relentless obsession with illumination lies a simple, unglamorous question: what happens when these 50,000 LEDs start to fail?

 

LEDs, for all their energy efficiency and long lifespans, are not immortal. They will inevitably degrade or outright fail, particularly when subjected to the harsh conditions of a moving vehicle, such as vibration, temperature fluctuations, and exposure to the elements. Yet, Vauxhall’s advert gives no indication of how easy or costly it might be to replace even one of these 50,000 LEDs, let alone an entire cluster. Will you need to replace an entire assembly? Call in a technician? Mortgage your house?

In practical terms, this obsession with "intelli-everything" seems more like a clever way to upsell a costly and cumbersome feature under the guise of innovation. Want to change a headlight in your Grandland? Sorry, mate, that’s a dealership job now. You'll likely be billed hundreds of pounds to replace a light source that cost pennies to manufacture. Meanwhile, the environmental toll of throwing away entire LED assemblies, rather than swapping out a bulb, is conveniently ignored.

And what of the necessity? Do we really need vehicles with 50,000 lights? For context, the average human eye can distinguish about 10 million colours. Are we expecting to hold a light show or land a plane with this car? Or is this yet another example of automotive manufacturers stuffing cars with gadgets no one asked for while ignoring the fundamental priorities: efficiency, reliability, and affordability?

Vauxhall’s fixation on this absurd LED count smacks of a desperate bid to stand out in a crowded SUV market. It’s all razzle-dazzle to distract you from asking the hard questions about the car’s engine, fuel efficiency, or how it compares to its competitors. After all, a Grandland packed with LEDs is still, at its core, just another family SUV with a hefty repair bill lurking in the shadows.

So next time you see the Grandland gliding along, resplendent in its luminous glory, remember this: those 50,000 LEDs aren’t a feature. They’re a future headache.

As an aside, I delivered a Porsche Macan to a customer in Cardiff the other day. The centre console was like the console of a 747. It took me till the Prince of Wales Bridge to figure out how to turn down the heat, diverting my attention from driving.

Ridiculous!

Myths and Miracles

Here’s a head-scratcher for you: why is it that we casually refer to the stories of Zeus, Thor, and Odin as myths but we tiptoe around the word when it comes to Moses parting the Red Sea or Muhammad flying to heaven on a winged horse? They’re all cracking good yarns with plenty of magic, yet some are filed under "mythology" while others are labelled "religious truth." Let's dig into why that is - and no, it's not just because the Greeks wore togas.

Let’s be honest. The Greeks and Vikings lost the PR battle centuries ago. Their religions fell out of favour, their gods packed it in, and suddenly Zeus throwing lightning bolts became a story rather than a sacred truth. Christianity and Islam, on the other hand, took centre stage with massive empires backing them up. And when your religion has an army (or two) behind it, or you're threatened with being burned on a bonfire, people are less likely to call your stories "myths." Funny how that works, isn’t it?

The truth is, once a religion stops being widely practised, its stories tend to get bumped into the "myth" section of the library. Think of the Norse gods: they had a good run until Christianity came along and told the Vikings to put their hammers down. Now Odin’s wisdom and Thor’s strength are quaint tales ( (or Marvel series) rather than divine truths.

Here’s where it gets really amusing. A Christian might say Jesus turning water into wine or walking on water is a miracle, but if Hermes straps on his winged sandals and flies off, well, that’s a myth. Why? Because one’s in the Bible and the other’s in a dusty old tome marked "Greek Myths."

But really - what’s the difference? Both involve a bit of magic, some suspension of disbelief, and a healthy dose of moral messaging. It’s all about perspective. One person's miracle is another person's bedtime story.

This whole "myth or truth" game largely depends on whether the religion in question is still kicking around. If it is, people are much more cautious about slapping the "myth" label on it. Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Hinduism - they’re all still very much alive and well, so their stories are treated with reverence. Meanwhile, Greek and Norse gods haven’t had a decent worshipper in centuries, so their tales are fair game for Hollywood blockbusters and kids’ books.

Let’s face it: if Zeus still had temples with sacrifices going on, people would think twice before calling his stories myths. It’s all about how much clout your god still has.

Here’s the ironic bit - many religious stories are recycled from older myths. Take the Great Flood, for example. You’ll find it in the Bible, sure, but it also shows up in Sumerian myths, complete with a bloke building a big boat. Virgin births? Osiris did it before Jesus. Resurrection? Osiris again. Seems like the ancient world was big on people coming back from the dead.

So really, today’s religious stories aren’t all that different from ancient myths. They’ve just been given a new coat of paint and, crucially, a following that insists they’re absolute truths rather than allegories.

At the end of the day, it all comes down to power. Religions that have political and cultural influence get to define their stories as truth. Christianity became the state religion of the Roman Empire. Islam spread across empires. Their stories were protected, preserved, and promoted as divine revelations.

The Greeks? Well, their empire crumbled. The Norse gods? No match for missionaries. Once a religion’s power fades, its stories become quaint tales of yesteryear - the stuff of myths and legends rather than divine truth.

Here’s a thought to contemplate - if Christianity or Islam ever faded away like the old Greek and Norse religions did, future historians might treat the stories of Jesus and Muhammad as myths too. It’s all about who gets to tell the story, and how many people are still listening.

So next time you hear someone scoff at the idea of Thor riding a chariot pulled by goats, just remember - to someone else, parting the Red Sea or walking on water sounds just as far-fetched. It’s all about perspective. Or as the old saying goes, "Your gods are myths. My myths are gods."