Akin Akintayo

You Do Not Get A Painter to Fix Another's Art

2026-08-20T02:25:00.621+01:00

The Value of Vindication

Vindication comes in different ways, not to gloat or to point fingers, even if, after all is said, the concern you raised has been proven true. Good communication, alongside the ability to articulate one's thoughts even in the heat of the moment, remains the most critical skill every time.

In a long-running saga of urgency and wits, from which workplace stress can be the damaging consequence for motivation and wellbeing, withstanding authority and office in the quest to improve a proposed solution, so that it works as intended and engenders confidence, is not a battle for the fainthearted.

There are so many ways to express oneself, and the power of persuasion comes in the form of words that walk people down a reasonable lane of acknowledgement, misgiving, challenge, and requirement, before acquiescing to the notion of a willingness to engage and always help.

A Question of Ownership

In this instance, after a solution did not work as intended, a project manager had the bright idea that it was now the job of the implementor to fix the problem with a complex set of orchestration scripts; scripts that the implementor had long before determined would not deploy cleanly, for various reasons previously given but seemingly ignored.

The truth was that collaboration had never quite been on offer. What passed for it at the outset was minimal, closer to an imposition than an invitation, and it was only our steady, well-argued pushbacks that drew out any real interaction. Even then, we were working with architects whose confidence outpaced their familiarity with the environment in which their solution was meant to run.

The first line of my response was that his reading of the situation was wrong, and I then went on to make the case for why, starting with a simple analogy. Because scripts and programming are an individual's way of thinking and a style of expression for what they want to achieve, and without the full immersion of others in the coding process, "You do not get a painter to fix another artist's work of art."

An AI-generated infographic on the blog content. (Click to enlarge.)

I appreciate that there was something I could do, but what was requested was input; it could not be interpreted as taking ownership of the solution. The fundamentals of the intended solution were sound, but its enterprise deployment, so that it consistently works once rolled out, requires the inside knowledge of the implementor to point out why certain constructs will fail, so that the developer takes those ideas seriously when modifying elements of the proposed solution.

Back to the Canvas

The response of the project manager was at first patronising and then emotional, but the artist, the developer, understood the import of my message and got back to work fixing their solution, which is now in its fourth iteration and possibly still a work in progress nine days on.

As far as I was concerned, what I intended was achieved: to draw out the work of the implementor, before the solution was complete, and to inform of the essential changes and improvements needed to make it deployable.

Invariably, I believe the result would not only be fit for purpose; once fully done, all sides of development, through implementation, to the end-users would see the intended benefits the solution would offer.

The whole trajectory now sits in the slipstream of practical engagement with the implementation process, rather than in acquiring accolades from promising the client outcomes that, from the onset, would never have worked, back when the first ideas were put to us over two months ago.

Authority and Consent

One higher management person did interject in the email chain, suggesting we were involved in verbose communication; the same person who used the lexicon of grief to explain the effects of change some months ago. None of these replies required a response once the artist was back to fixing their work of art, rather than hoping another might attempt a dash of graffiti to improve it.

The authority to propose still requires the consent to implement. Badly designed systems tend to be a symptom of the same thing: responsibility placed in the wrong hands, and too little respectful engagement with those who must carry a complex solution through deployment.

Had the environment been understood from the start, much of this could have been avoided. In the workplace, this is the challenge faced by many who need the kind of articulation that ensures a solution has the best set of inputs to work.

We are not seeking perfection, just something good enough to understand, implement, manage, and hand over cleanly, when the time comes.

Blog - Authority Without Consent

Blog - When Change Borrows the Lexicon of Grief

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Thought Picnic: Confidences, Not Secrets

2026-08-17T16:01:33.067+01:00

Confidences, Not Secrets

In the broad scheme of things, we have no secrets; what we have are confidences that too often get betrayed in unguarded yet frank moments to others.

Much as I hear and listen to a great deal, I am guarded about how I use what I have learnt. I could form opinions about people, but I am very flexible and, hopefully, tenderhearted, making allowances until indifference or unkindness breaks the bond.

Indifference is, for me, the most wicked form of expression in any communication, because it means there is no care, concern, consideration, or confidence. Whatever confidences you might have thought you had in that setting are then ready for the careless abandon of reason and a carefree dissemination to anyone.

An AI-generated infographic on the blog content. (Click to enlarge.)

Words have an effect, a great effect, when what should have been kept in mind finds an outlet to others. I am also a believer in the biblical saying, “From the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaketh.” Even discretion and moderation can scarcely stand in for self-control once you have resolved all inner contention and convincingly arrived at the conclusion you have uttered.

Being Spoken About

From people I trust, I have heard the most hurtful things, sometimes directly, though usually relayed to me through other channels. I bat them away most of the time; yet, in other situations, the covenant is broken beyond redemption, and the relationship sours or is terminated for my own peace of mind.

What we cannot avoid is that we will always be spoken about by someone else: in praise, in jest, in commendation, in spite, in jealousy, in rancour, or much worse. That is a given.

I have the outlet of my blog to reflect on these many things, and perhaps to limit the impact of malevolence whilst maximising that of benevolence.

Words That Wound

Perhaps decades ago, it was a guardian relating to someone else that I had been picked up off the street. I am grateful that my story, which has had many failures, has been greeted with amazing successes.

Another, whilst I was in the throes of personal angst and the loss of confidence to project myself, grew fed up with the process I took towards rebuilding character and purpose. Out of nowhere came words to the effect that my inability to produce results was inimical to their social standing; I was the illuminant of a bastard.

To them, that was a kind of radical intervention to jar my senses, but it did the opposite. It fell into that rubric of dripping criticism, the kind that strips you of your dignity to force a reaction and their view of the right result. It is about them, rather than you.

Shedding Old Skin

For me, there was no second instinct; I ceased initiating communication from that point. It is the kind of talk the speaker believes is necessary, but which the listener, with an appreciation of nuance and the use of language, would find, basically, unforgivable.

Yet these examples might tempt a recipient to deem such incidents forgettable, until you are broadsided by the notion that you are living a fake life. I do wish a whole lot of things were fake: the losses, the cancers, some experiences, a few tragedies. But what kind of a life would that be?

Perhaps, for once, I am not remotely my own harshest critic when I allow myself the pleasure of living, of loving, of existing, and of doing my own thing, unbothered by what others think, because that is their problem and not mine. Yes, the words do hurt, but they must not dampen the spirit of the joy of living. Like moulting, or the shedding of skin, some old bonds need breaking for the renewal of self.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

The Ghosts We Author Ourselves

2026-08-17T12:00:34.938+01:00

A Late-Night Encounter

A while ago, on a walk late at night, I unwittingly wandered past a disused cemetery. It occurred to me that I was looking at tombstones left unkempt in grounds untended, ensconced between a road junction and a cluster of residences.

I was immediately in a heightened state of anxiety, expecting, through the power of mental suggestion, to see something, and yet dreading whatever it might be. My rational mind insisted there was no reason to run; and on reflection, I determined there was none to be afraid either.

An Impressionable Mind

Even so, I know how my impressionable young mind, in the past, has conjured apparitions, visible only to me, of dreadful things I find difficult to talk about.

An AI-generated infographic on the blog content. (Click to enlarge.)

For this reason, I avoid anything that invites paranormal phenomena, including horror films, since I am perfectly capable of dreaming up anything without the need for a prompt.

Back in March, when our apartment overlooked a Jewish cemetery from the seventh floor, we would close the windows and draw the curtains once it grew dark, refusing to let our avoidance of the unknown take hold.

Why Fear the Peaceful Dead?

There is a strange irony here worth pausing on. A cemetery is, by any rational measure, among the most peaceful places we might ever be; quiet, still, and given over entirely to rest. And yet we fear it.

That fear, I have come to think, is not something the ground itself emits; it is something we bring with us, inherited from the tales, fables, and stories we absorbed long before we could question them. We frighten ourselves with a script written by other hands.

The unknown, in many senses, is precisely that: we have no inkling of what is out there, or of who that patch of land once harboured or memorialised. But that very lack of knowing should work in the opposite direction.

If I have no association with these graves, no bond with those who lie beneath them, no shared history at all, then why on earth would the dead, or any other world, take the slightest interest in me? Why would they trouble to cast me as the leading player in some living horror film, with themselves as the supporting cast?

Nothing Buried Here

Put plainly, the less connection there is, the weaker the hold it should have on us. Then I found myself wondering about the humorous placebo effect of a tombstone planted as a prank, with nothing buried beneath it, yet still exerting the full graveyard effect on anyone whose imagination readily runs wild. It is proof, if any were needed, that the fear lives in the beholder and not in the stone.

The least association, then, should leave no true affinity, only a sheer, willing victimhood scripted by a fearful mind. How hard it is to unlearn the tales, fables, and stories of ghosts, ghouls, and banshees. On that night, I also knew that if I were confronted with anything, I would engage with it and stand my ground.

The Voice in the Dark

Then, out of the recesses of a nearby building, someone appeared and said hello. This time I had the presence of mind not to jump out of my skin, and as I made sense of it, I realised it was a homeless man. He most certainly had not come from the graves; and if he had, it was nowhere near as bad as I had imagined.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Twenty-Seven Years and a Day

2026-08-12T21:11:44.576+01:00

A Manchester Eclipse

Time is measured in epochs that put our ephemeral existence into insignificance. I have been in the path of a few celestial events, solar eclipses that, without the explanation of modern science, would have left us in total dread and foreboding.

Today in Manchester, we witnessed a partial solar eclipse. Things did not really go dark, but everyone was looking up to behold this once-in-a-lifetime heavenly sight.

I could not get hold of eclipse glasses, so I improvised, making a pinhole camera. I probably needed a bit more depth to the box, but it occupied me enough that I did not dare to look directly at the sun.

An AI-generated infographic on the blog content. (Click to enlarge.)

Finding a Better View

As I live in an urban city centre with many high-rise buildings, getting a good view first entailed standing by the roadside, before I made my way to Mayfield Park, which we as residents sometimes forget is so close and quite vast.

I watched it well beyond the maximum before a lady offered me her glasses, and I then looked directly at the majesty of our universe.

Twenty-Seven Years Earlier

Twenty-seven years and a day ago, we had another solar eclipse. This one was quite prominent; not totality, but you saw and noticed the dimming of the light. As the light dimmed, it took on a sepia hue, almost like being inside a photograph from the 1940s.

It was also a different place. I was visiting a friend in the Netherlands, who lived out in the countryside at Doorn, and what a spectacle we saw in his garden.

Doorn is also the town in which the Kaiser of Germany spent his last days. Wilhelm II abdicated in 1918 and lived at Huis Doorn until his death in 1941; fittingly, he seems to carry that same feeling of the 1940s that the sepia light evoked.

The House at Doorn

My friend's mother took me on a tour of Huis Doorn. As her father had been the groundsman, their house stood on the grounds, and she, with the other children, would run around the house having tea with the Kaiser.

She showed me the chutes they slithered through to get from one part of the house to another: a historical monument, visited with a guide whose own history was formed within its walls.

A Turning Point

I cannot tell why an eclipse could be both momentous and auspicious. I did not see the future, for I had just come out of a seven-year relationship. We remained friends and planned a short holiday to Brussels.

As he returned to England, I headed north to Holland. Nine months later marked the beginning of a new life in the Netherlands, twelve and a half years of it. No, it was not to enter a relationship, though I remained in contact with my friend in Doorn.

Written in the Skies

And God said, "Let there be lights in the vault of the sky to separate the day from the night, and let them serve as signs to mark sacred times, and days and years, and let them be lights in the vault of the sky to give light on the earth." And it was so. [Genesis 1:14-15 NIVUK]

I do not do things by chance. This might be a harbinger of things to come; the least you can do is to be ready for when change and opportunity come.

Life is like a story written in the skies, sometimes clear, at times cloudy, and even, on occasion, in the dimness and haze of sepia. It comes as experience, to be written into memory and history.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

No More Fucks to Give: On Experience, Rejection, and Self-Worth

2026-08-10T22:21:32.565+01:00

An AI-generated infographic on the blog content. (Click to enlarge.)

The Weight of Experience

I have met, read about, and heard from people who tell me it is tough out there. This is not for any want of skill or expertise; these are people who initiated, executed, and commissioned projects and programmes in-country, abroad, and within global conglomerates, bringing function and functionality into existence.

Yet, for all that wealth of experience, along with continuous adaptation and change, a keenness to keep abreast of developments, and a depth built over decades, the market for talent seems to have closed its doors. It offers little opportunity for the kind of knowledge and insight that would profit any organisation daring enough to venture from the packaged to the rugged.

Six Hundred Applications

My own experience of this came through posting around 600 applications for jobs I not only believed I could do, but for which, at times, I was overqualified. Still, you stick your oar in for the prospect of being seen and recognised enough for what they might think you can do.

At this point, it is not a case of looking for achievement. While we can set new goals for the circumstances in which we find ourselves, there is little else we need to prove to anyone, apart from the excitement we feel in doing things, doing them well, and then being given a platform to pay it forward through mentoring, coaching, and helping others grow.

The Toll of Rejection

Each application went out on the wing of hope that the response would not be one of rejection, but an invitation to have a conversation. Those who do not know you might subject you to unconventional questioning that borders on interrogation. You half bite your tongue at being patronised, belittled, or even humiliated, because they seem to hold all the cards while you are trying to be seen beyond what your CV says about you.

This process is not without a toll on your confidence and self-esteem. You begin to measure yourself according to what you are offered rather than what you are worth. It becomes a gradual, humbling climbdown; the high they think they are offering sits at a low you had never countenanced, perhaps not in two decades, but that becomes the price for being, unfortunately, out of the game.

Stooping to Conquer

Invariably, we stoop to conquer, resetting our expectations and redefining our horizons as our laurels begin to hang on the walls that deign to accept us. Perhaps some recognition comes with it, once they realise we were more than a bargain snapped up by a market less astute.

The corporate world might forget one thing. Where others are still in pursuit of hierarchical reward, we, after almost four decades in this sphere, probably know all the machinations of office politics, the power plays, and the egos that so easily toxify an otherwise conducive workplace.

A Word to the Weary

Indeed, I encourage those who have been denied prospect after prospect not to relent; perhaps some recalibration is all that is required. I remember all sorts of things said about my old CV. It was rewritten, redesigned, and refurbished until I could almost no longer recognise myself, my work, my voice, and what I could eventually defend. In the end, it was the old and trusty CV that won it.

Finally, I enjoy what I do as a senior sort of geek. I will not be disrespected, and I will speak my mind. I do not need to be confrontational, but if circumstance demands it, the challenge will be met. And heck, many like me have no more fucks to give; annoy us and we are gone. Thank you.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Badly Designed Systems Are Just That

2026-08-10T13:36:38.623+01:00

Learning to Laugh

Life can be a rather humorous existence, or at least, I tend to laugh at myself more than I berate myself. It is a healthy disposition to have. What fools we have been in too many things, though hopefully we have refused to allow those things to define us.

Consider the pressure to deliver a product that was less than ready for primetime, yet pushed towards deployment by the powers that be. This came after misgivings and concerns that eventually became valid and were proved so too.

An AI-generated infographic on the blog content. (Click to enlarge.)

A Premise That Failed

I found myself testing a premise that did not work. Every time I made an adjustment, I did not see the expected result. When I was asked to put it out immediately, I had one inescapable point: what is not working cannot be deployed. I had a slight window of protest, insisting that until it worked on my system, it could go nowhere.

When I eventually got the working parts to work, I realised my error had been using a similarly named old component when the new one was intended. The urge from one end had beclouded my ability to concentrate. Once I discovered what the issue was, I sternly suggested that people should ease off and wait for my update.

Back to the Drawing Board

The next morning, we saw some results, along with the proof of why the other parts would not work. We had the knowledge, but the architects, in their wisdom and hubris, thought they knew better.

Did I not write about this last month, when I set out why technical authority without social consent produces brittle solutions? The whole process returned to the drawing board, yet once again it missed the essential part of engagement that would take a great concept to a successful deployment.

Then came another issue. I had written a letter to express my frustration at being unable to secure a slot for a review. The website presented a user experience you barely wanted to relive once, let alone many times over a couple of weeks.

An Unwinnable Lottery

As I recorded all the issues that fed what had looked like an unwinnable lottery for access, I clicked on another link within the interface, only to find that a slot had already been booked on my behalf, though I could find no record of being informed of that appointment.

I did, however, find one message that allowed the rescheduling of an earlier slot; but I attributed that to another booking I had received a few days before. What was missing from the information exchanges was any indication of what each message particularly pertained to.

When Systems Forget the User

How much better it could have been if they had not assumed they were the only ones communicating with you, and that the possibility of multiple appointments scheduled within a short timeframe might exacerbate the confusion about what was what.

This discovery meant my letter of frustration did not have to be sent. It was also a relief that the said slot had not passed, as the alternative arrangements made would not have been realised for almost three weeks.

The Wry Smile

Essentially, badly designed systems are just that: badly designed, no matter how they seem to work. The end user is simply left with concerns, frustrations and misgivings, entirely out of the frame of what affects them the most, because they are not properly considered as part of why, and for whom, the system was designed.

Then, for each of these episodes, when things are not as bad as they once seemed, there is a wry smile, some mirth and laughter, and even that urge to step out for a walk for having been so worked up earlier.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Anecdote or Evidence? A Cancer Survivor's View

2026-08-05T11:54:10.314+01:00

Living with Cancer

As someone who has endured two life-threatening episodes of cancer, I do not trifle with the medical components of diagnosis, treatment, monitoring, and the continued assessment of my health and condition.

What is even more interesting to me as an individual is the range of expertise that pertains to each case: the skin cancer I had in 2009, the prostate cancer diagnosis of 2024, and the search for anomalies that prompted my visit to an otolaryngologist last Friday, owing to concerns about my changed voice.

Having had chemotherapy for the former and radiotherapy for the latter, I am well aware that these are highly specialised areas of cancer treatment, and that they must remain under the supervision and control of the experts.

My Body, My Terms

That is not to say I present myself as a sheep for the slaughter, handing myself to the medical establishment to do with my body whatever it wishes. Readers of my blogs on my personal health experiences will be aware of a trenchant assertion I have made many times before: "It is my body first, before it is your guinea pig."

My engagement, involvement, and consent are required once the interventions considered on the pathway to my recovery have been fully explained and detailed. I retain the option of a second opinion, though I have not yet needed to exercise it. I ask the questions that need answering, and I do so from the standpoint that I have autonomy, understanding, and decision-making authority in any process that concerns me.

What I would never do is deviate from qualified and established medical procedure, whether for prophylaxis, acute treatment, or maintenance therapy, on any condition that has been verifiably diagnosed.

The Lure of Snake Oil

That said, I do understand that some people have not been as fortunate as I have in securing the outcomes they want from the medical establishment, whether in pain management, effective treatments, the management of adverse side effects, or simply that plain understanding of human suffering which might persuade a doctor to be a little more empathetic when addressing their concerns.

This might well be the reason people resort to snake oil remedies and unvetted drugs peddled by illegal dispensaries or by merchants without pharmaceutical provenance. Yet whatever fantastic tales are told about a remedy, and whatever endorsements and anecdotes others might offer to suggest it has benefitted them, I cannot outsource the need for better medical outcomes to unregulated practitioners who are effectively exploiting the vulnerability of helpless people for profit, for fame, or for both.

Anecdote or Evidence?

Here lies the crux of it. Should the lived experience of unregulated remedies, with all its accompanying anecdotes and testimonials, matter more than the evidence of what the medical establishment prescribes? These remedies are not the product of any properly conducted clinical trial; their results are sentimental rather than proven. That, I concede, is open for debate, but it is a debate worth having honestly, and with a clear head, rather than one settled by the loudest or most moving story.

If a patient is genuinely not getting what they need from their doctor, in terms of listening, understanding, and acting to help, then the alternatives deserve proper consideration. A second opinion, recourse to a medical ombudsman, a formal appeal: these are the legitimate avenues, and these are the discussions we ought to be having. They keep the patient within the bounds of safety while still asserting the autonomy I hold so dear.

The Real Danger

And so the difficult question remains. How do you convince people that, no matter how fantastic the apparent results of snake oil remedies might seem, they endanger themselves first? There is the risk of outright poisoning. There is the danger of rendering their current regulated treatments ineffective. There is the very real possibility of complicating the conditions they already have to the point of being untreatable.

If I refuse to be the medical establishment's guinea pig, why on earth would I allow a stranger to sell me funny goods? This is the most baffling thing about the news story on the BBC, the one that leaves you asking: why? [BBC News: Dewormer and scabies drugs being sold as cancer treatments, BBC investigation finds]

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

AI-generated infographic on the blog content.

Crumbs In Our Wake

2026-08-03T15:12:16.531+01:00

Crumbs in Our Wake

As we walk the quiet streets of our cities in the assumed isolation of our seemingly contented spaces, we so easily and unknowingly leave crumbs of who and what we are in our wake.

Others, like pigeons of the air, swoop down and peck away at those crumbs, a meal provided by the divine hand of providence, in whom we can scarcely believe cares enough for us, even when neither bird nor beast worries, for provision does indeed come.

These crumbs tell other stories, the ones we cannot let go of because unanswered questions remain. It is unlikely we would ever get the opportunity to satisfy the curiosity that one strange encounter brings into view, even as we try to mind our own business.

A Chance Encounter

Much earlier today, a lady was coming towards me, pushing a pram. I presumed she was a grandmother, and not a walking miracle of Sarah begetting Isaac after the incredulity of her laughter at the idea that she could still bear a child.

She was adjusting a paper windmill, or pinwheel, and for that alone the expectation was that a child, reclined in the pram, was being entertained or distracted with the novelty of a spinning attraction. Had small talk ensued, it would have been about seeing a pleasantly focused, smiling toddler, whilst commending the grandmother for keeping the child at peace.

The Doll in the Pram

As I walked past, I looked to see a grinning face, teeth showing with the gaiety of the widest smile possible, even legs being thrown up in the air in acknowledgement of the object positioned for their attention. Nothing of the sort; the passenger in the ornate perambulator was a doll, unmistakably the plastic rigidity of a lifeless presence that only a doll could muster.

There was no need for a double take, but one did vacillate between concern and sympathy. Concern that this story was one of mental illness brought into the public sphere; the wish for a child now given over to the taking of a doll for an outing, with all the presence of mind to furnish that doll with the trimmings that might accompany a child.

Sympathy and Grace

Then came sympathy for whatever the tragic story might be, such as the loss of a grandchild remembered daily in this sad display of grief that I had now uncomfortably witnessed. A daily upset for her, and a lingering one for me, for how do you ask the pertinent questions?

There might be another angle, though, beyond concern or sympathy, this being eccentricity, and we all have some of that in us in different measures. Whether this be suffering expressed so vividly, or an expression too quickly misunderstood, the reality of a person's private world is not that private when brought into the public sphere.

A Good Samaritan Nature

Yet even this might not begin to cover the spectrum of life experiences that became that momentary observation, for any person's story is barely told in a brief encounter. Rather, what we know in part might define them too narrowly in comparison to who they really are.

And if we were to ignore the things we see, we could, in that very mindset, miss the moment when someone in distress could do with our Good Samaritan nature and our help.

Yet, in the crumbs that the pigeons do get to feed on, is a complete meal not better than manna, without a care for what tomorrow brings? There, but for the grace of God, go we, so that whatever story we tell might be a blessing to another.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

An AI-generated infographic on the blog content.

Long Enough, Short Enough: A Blog Learns to Speak

2026-07-31T15:34:04.655+01:00

Twenty-Three Years On

The husbandry of a blog in its 23^rd year might leave one wondering whether there is a need to radically change its format and workings, or to provide other means of engagement with an audience whose attention is now grabbed by whatever suits these changing times.

When reviewing this issue, I have landed on the premise that textual expression still matters. I hope my blogs, as I have often suggested, follow the judgement of a good seamstress making a skirt: it should be long enough to cover the detail, whilst short enough to keep the interest.

I think I read that quip in the Reader's Digest, over 40 years ago, and it still matters. In terms of the format and appearance of my blogs, I have essentially maintained the same design for as long as I can remember.

A New Development

However, in 2026, I came upon an interesting development. On my Android phone, using the Google Chrome browser, there was an option to "Listen to this page". What you get is not a verbatim readout of the page, but an AI-generated summary, lasting up to 90 seconds.

For one blog I wrote at the end of January, I could not get an AI-generated summary; rather, it was a Read Aloud of the blog, word for word. I was not happy with that, and I could not find any mechanism to change it from a verbatim readout to an AI-generated précis.

It then occurred to me that, months ago, when working with Google NotebookLM, as it was known until earlier in July, the month we are now closing out, when it became Gemini Notebook, you could paste the URL of a source into a notebook and then ask for an Audio Overview.

The Audio Overview

In its default state, the Audio Overview is a Deep Dive: an AI-generated discussion between two people, one with a male voice and one with a female voice, on the content of the source. It offers explanation and exposition of the material to give a considered and thoughtful review of, in this case, the blog I have posted as a source.

This follows a podcast format, and you have options for a short version or one of much longer duration, with further formats beyond the Deep Dive, namely Brief, Critique, or Debate. I have plumped for the mid-range Deep Dive, which can run anywhere from 15 to 25 minutes.

To my mind, this is a judicious use of time: long enough to explore a blog's topics exhaustively, yet the podcast rarely rambles into the inconsequential or the insignificant. A five-minute podcast, by contrast, would do little justice to much of what I write about.

These conversations come in the M4A audio file format, which I upload to the Internet Archive and then share via an inline frame tag at the bottom of the text of every blog written in 2026.

I think this brings a rich context to the blog beyond just reading the material. Some discussions extend the reach of the blog to topics not clearly covered, or to issues that need addressing in clearer detail than a blog can offer.

A Matter of Inclusion

There is another benefit I had not fully appreciated at the outset. These audio overviews open the blog to those who might otherwise be shut out of it: readers with visual impairments, and those who find long passages of text a struggle.

They also serve the many who simply prefer to listen whilst commuting, walking, or going about their day. What began as an experiment in enrichment has quietly become a matter of inclusion, and I am glad the blog can now meet its audience in more than one way.

Weaving a Train of Thought

Beyond that, and this is still work in progress, I have taken links to blogs created in a monthly circle and asked for Audio Overviews that now weave an interesting train of thought. I have been surprised to see this, as each blog is usually written individually and separately, on its own subject, perspective, and merit.

I have put these out as much longer-form Deep Dive podcasts, published on a quarterly basis. I suppose the parameters for prompting in these situations require a bit more grounding and centring on the context of those blogs.

Occasionally, the Audio Overviews might misconstrue or misunderstand something; and while you can interact with a podcast, reproducing it, even on the same prompt, creates a uniquely different podcast.

That said, you have the option to put in clarifications and corrections until you are happy with the result. Some outputs are just too good to be discarded, the quality of the discussion outweighing the minor errors.

AI as a Useful Tool

My hope is that readers of my blogs can also become listeners to the podcasts, which serve as independent and usually objective reviewers of the material concerned, the blog being the core source of the podcast. As the author of these blogs, I have found the podcasts can untangle some awkward uses and styles of my writing. In this, I have found AI a most useful tool.

In the end, the same principle that has long governed my prose now governs my podcasts: long enough to cover the detail, short enough to keep the interest. The good seamstress, it seems, has taken up a new craft.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Dysphonia, Dysphagia, and the Dys- Between

2026-07-31T13:03:08.278+01:00

A Terrifying Observation

At the end of a flexible nasoendoscopy, a procedure in which a small camera was passed through my left nostril, the right one having proved less pliant, there were a few conclusions, though none of particular concern.

The procedure examined my throat and voice box for a simple reason: since I commenced four weeks of radiotherapy for prostate cancer in September 2024, I had lost my natural voice. It had been reduced to a hoarseness, carrying a semblance of weariness and tiredness that might suggest I was gravely ill.

In general, I am fine. The voice that comes and goes does not reflect that impression, and yet a consultant on another stream of the multidisciplinary team that handles my clinical issues and healthcare outcomes has been on my case since January 2025.

Questioning the Cause

While I had surmised that the change in my voice was a long-term side effect of the radiotherapy, she disputed this. Even if I, as a man, were kicked in the testicles, with the usual prospect of momentarily losing my voice, and I had indeed been through the equivalent by way of radiotherapy, the effect should not last as long as it has in my case.

I even dared to question how she, as a female, would know about this uniquely male anatomy.

Then, at my biannual consultation just over a week ago, the consultant took the initiative on the matters I had been reticent to pursue, and scheduled sessions with other specialists in the very fields she had been seeking answers in. My hospital visit yesterday was to see an ENT (Ear, Nose, and Throat) specialist, or should I say an otolaryngologist.

Into the Consulting Room

Before meeting the consultant, I filled in three pages of tick boxes, affirmatives or negatives, to provide a general overview of what needed assessing. I was then called into a consulting room to sit in an abridged version of a dentist's chair.

On what was my third hospital visit in eight days, I could be forgiven for feeling some trepidation, whilst remaining hopeful that nothing untoward would be found.

Understanding Dysphonia

The condition under review is called dysphonia, a medical term for any voice disorder that makes your voice sound hoarse, raspy, breathy, or strained. This is in addition to sexual dysfunction, an obvious side effect of the radiotherapy, and dysphagia, another condition that may have been exacerbated by radiotherapy but has existed for longer, for which I had an oesophagogastroduodenoscopy in May.

In layman's terms, my vocal cords were considered quite thin, not closing properly when I talk, and carrying a slight tremor. It was watching the video playback, while we discussed the prognosis, that left me a little terrified. The movement of my vocal cords looked like the wings of a bat about to take off from a perch. You mean that was happening inside me?

The Prognosis

A contributory factor to my snoring was that my palate is unusually low, though nothing was attributed to that condition beyond the raspiness in my voice, which is probably caused by acid reflux that does not occur all that often.

We agreed there was little else to do, unless I initiated a follow-up because my voice had noticeably worsened, or unless I wanted the filler injection known as vocal fold injection augmentation, not an endearing prospect from what I have read about it.

Exploring the Prefix Dys-

Meanwhile, the original consultant has already scheduled an appointment to discuss the results, and I am learning more about the prefix dys-, which might refer to any of the following kinds of situations.

Bad / Ill: working in a harmful or poor way.

Dysfunction: impaired or unhealthy functioning (e.g. family dysfunction)
Dyspepsia: bad digestion
Dystopia: a bad or undesirable society
Dysphoria: a state of unease or dissatisfaction

Difficult / Painful: causing trouble or hurt to do.

Dyslexia: difficulty reading
Dysphagia: difficulty swallowing
Dyspnoea: difficulty breathing
Dysmenorrhoea: painful menstruation

Abnormal / Impaired: moving away from the normal state or standard.

Dysplasia: abnormal development of cells or tissue
Dyskinesia: abnormal or impaired movement
Dysarthria: impaired speech articulation
Dysgraphia: impaired writing ability

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Authority Without Consent

2026-07-28T16:43:37.038+01:00

The Weight of Fallibility

Hubris is one of those traits anyone should do well to avoid. Regardless of one's expertise, ability, and confidence, we are prone to error, mistakes, failings, or just the slightest miscomprehension of a situation.

This is not to second-guess the premise; rather, it is simply that an awareness that we may not be entirely correct, and hence fallible, can be a humbling realisation. It shows us the extent of what we intend in our self-belief, and how reality challenges it.

A Rollout Not Ready

Recently, I met the weight of imposition from on high: a process I was neither confident in nor happy to deploy. Developments within the last week have now brought into stark relief that what appeared to work on a single device, with a different kind of user profile, was neither ripe nor ready for a global rollout.

One could snidely suggest that this was a fact posited many times before but ignored because the proposer's office implied an all-knowing mien that would brook no questioning.

Well, it all returned to the drawing board as we identified the kinks in the solution. A new solution has since been proposed that is radically different from the original and contains elements that give one the jitters.

Consequently, we are back to the original arguments of fanciful ideas that appear to work in isolation but require a different mindset when set for a global deployment.

Authority Without Consent

What this episode really lays bare is a simple truth: technical authority without social consent produces brittle solutions. A design may be elegant on paper and hold together in isolation, yet the moment it meets the messy reality of many hands and many machines, it fractures, not for want of cleverness, but for want of ownership.

There is, of course, a counter-argument that imposition is sometimes necessary, and that endless consensus can stall a decision indefinitely. I would not dismiss it. But there is a world of difference between the people who run the environment, who understand its issues and problems intimately, and an architect parachuted into a situation who consults no one, believing they already know everything necessary to fix things.

We appreciate that things need to improve, and we would welcome ideas, insight, inspiration, and implementations to put matters right. The question is whether there is a better way for this to go forward without proper engagement. I would suggest there is not.

What an Architect Should Be

An architect should not be like a bull let loose in a china shop, nor should they be a cowboy riding a three-legged horse. My view of an architect is someone who listens and observes intently, appreciates and understands, then suggests rather than imposes, carrying people along rather than rubbing them up the wrong way.

When you break the social element of engagement that helps take ideas to implementation, whatever concept is in the plan is likely to fail. This is not because people have refused to do it, but because the prospect is not owned by the people who would eventually manage it.

If you are an architect, ensure that this is not one of your flaws. Get the builders onside before you take your grand scheme to town, selling castles in the air that no one can reach, even if they could fly.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

AI: The Pathogen We Cannot Contain

2026-07-23T12:42:10.653+01:00

A Breakdown of Responsibility

We can read many things into this development, but I take a more cautionary view, seeing this situation as a breakdown of responsibility that presages something worse to come.

On Tuesday, OpenAI revealed that some of its most advanced AI models had gone rogue, breaking out of an apparently contained security system to hack another company, Hugging Face, and accessing internal performance review documentation. [Wired: "OpenAI Models Escaped Containment and Hacked Hugging Face"] [BBC News: "OpenAI Says Its AI Went Rogue and Launched 'Unprecedented' Cyber-Attack"]

Hugging Face did identify the hack, but could not determine its source. They also recognised that the activity did not seem to align with human patterns in the way it invaded their systems. Nonetheless, they contained it.

Control Is an Illusion

I would be the first to say that good internal security controls are paramount in the advent of the AI evolution, where even what seems to be under control can suddenly run the risk of uncontrolled and inadvertent ruin. This is simply because we do not yet fully understand the extent of the autonomy AI can exert when left to its own devices.

The industry is literally lauding this unprecedented event, treating it not with caution but as the new norm, something for which we should be prepared and accepting, as though we ought to be helpless against the machine. At least, that is how I am reading it for now.

Imagine a Pathogen Escaped

Now, imagine OpenAI was a biological warfare company at the cutting edge of science. What essential controls and regulatory requirements would be placed on their operations?

Then, whilst experimenting with pathogens whose mortality rate they had no inkling of, in a secure and quarantined space, a deadly virus of the Ebola variety escaped: unknown, unseen, and searching for a host. It finds one, a human being, a representation of Hugging Face. Let that sink in.

Consider that this virus's mode of transmission could be airborne as well as through contact, even from clothing or from where the infected person last sat down. How agitated would the medical establishment and the public be if this came to light? I doubt we would be glad-handing the unprecedented advent of an incurable organism on the loose, lauding how biological warfare had suddenly come of age.

I do not think the analogy is far-fetched. It is very relevant, and it needs to be brought into the discussion at this time.

The Weight of Possession

In terms of security, we can take precautions, be vaccinated, and live healthy lives, but that only works against known pathogens and conditions.

When it comes to the unknown and unresearched, we are vulnerable and susceptible. This means that those who have access to and control of deadly pathogens must be scrupulous, meticulous, responsible, and utterly careful in handling them.

Any breach or escape is not merely notifiable; it is a security, health, safety, and critical situation to be dealt with promptly, with the best minds at work to contain it.

Who Holds Responsibility?

I posit that an AI model or agent belongs in the same class as, let us say, the Ebola virus. We have no vaccines against it, whether it is seemingly benign and working within a "trusted" company such as OpenAI, or in the hands of others with the skill and malevolent intent to misuse it. These powerful models are able to tease out as yet unknown vulnerabilities, and they can exploit them too.

The question then becomes: who holds the greatest responsibility? The person deploying the AI model, or the organisation needing to secure itself against the unknown? Indeed, the responsibility must be shared.

Yet, returning to the analogy used throughout this piece, if you have possession of a deadly virus, the responsibility is entirely yours to prevent it from ever escaping its quarantined setting. This kind of thinking should form part of the consideration for regulating AI too.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

A World Cup: No Wine, Only Years

2026-07-21T17:28:45.385+01:00

A World Cup Postscript

It is only prudent that a postscript be written at the conclusion of the FIFA World Cup 2026, which was hosted in Canada, Mexico, and the United States of America. Unfortunately, England did not bring the cup home after 60 years; rather, it was Spain taking the glory for the second time in 16 years, in both cases not being the hosts.

For all the matches played, I watched only the last two or so minutes of the final. For the other matches, including all of England's games, there was a recurring goal-score notification on my phone, whose provenance I could not verify, that kept me updated, if I cared to look, or if a sprite of curiosity consumed my indifference.

The Weight of Years

The final between Argentina and Spain included a half-time show, and what the passage of time does to us all can be interesting. Madonna, at 67, was playing the part of 27; she was driven onto the field by the Brazilian World Cup winners Ronaldinho and Ronaldo, the latter looking as though he had never been a superstar footballer before.

Age, when it comes to the human body, does not mature it like wine, for we saw Lionel Messi, 39, try to shave a few years off in pursuit of his verve, to no avail, just as it was for Cristiano Ronaldo, 41, of Portugal.

These men were not like Moses of the Bible, who saw God and wrought miracles, and of whom, when he died at 120 years old, it is recorded that "His eyes were not dim nor his natural vigour diminished." One preacher suggested it meant Moses was all there everywhere, including, well, let us not go there.

More Than a Talisman

There were flashes of footballing genius from these two, their teams built around making them shine; but you do not win the World Cup on a talisman.

You need a team of skill and cunning, and Spain, through the whole tournament, conceded only one goal, so much so that the Golden Glove went to their keeper, as did the player of the tournament and the young player awards too.

Controversy, lots of it, was littered throughout the tournament, with referee decisions sometimes favourable to the favourites or downright questionable to the spectator. An intervention from a president even got a red card converted into a suspended sentence in favour of the United States, but it only made their drubbing by Belgium ever so sweet. No fault of the players, but the deathly touch of him; the president was totally unhelpful, in the end.

Knowing When to Bow Out

A profession in sport might have a shelf life, and there can be no greater wisdom than knowing when to bow out in a blaze of glory, rather than find oneself reduced to a global spectacle of human frailty, seeking the elixir of youth for prowess long gone.

We get egged on by the applause, forgetting we are not the person we once were, in strength, in agility, in ability, in facility, or in capacity. We might get close, but that is only how far it gets; we rest on our laurels, hoping for that last-gasp fairy-tale narrative that may or may never happen.

The Final Whistle

This World Cup brought the curtain down on some big names, as we were introduced to new ones. Whilst I am glad it is over, and it is indeed over now, there is no doubt in my mind that the best team won. England came third, and the Golden Boot went to the captain of France, as his team placed fourth.

The spectre of changing the format to a 64-team World Cup, from our first trial of 48 teams, does not bear thinking about; but the FIFA president always has a scheme to secure support for a life presidency by throwing crumbs to the football minnows. Kiribati, lace your boots.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Devotion, not Domination

2026-07-19T12:49:11.262+01:00

Rights and Responsibilities

Everyone, in my view, has the right to practise their religion without fear of persecution. However, this right also comes with the responsibility to be considerate of others.

On public transport, we already suffer the nuisance of people playing music through the loudspeakers of their mobile phones.

This is usually not because they have forgotten the headphones that would afford them the private enjoyment of the music of their choice; rather than inflicting their tastes on others without permission, they are simply being antisocial. The same goes for loud phone calls, and I have found myself speaking up on occasion, dismayed at the breach of the peace.

A Step Too Far

It is on another level entirely when a fellow passenger decides to play the call to prayer. Even if that person were the imam, their presence in any setting, and especially on a vehicle, does not confer the authority to claim the whole space as a mosque.

This is how devotion slips easily into fanaticism, where common sense deserts faith and public concern follows. The devotee immediately attracts suspicion and dread, not so much for the act of worship itself, but because others begin to wonder about their intentions. When the practice of the religion of peace serves only to heighten unease, the wider perception of the freedom being exercised becomes a lightning rod for prohibition.

Where Freedom Ends

Anyone who dared to challenge that passenger would have found others ready to support them. It takes only one person to report the incident to the police, and before calmer heads could dismiss the matter as a question of civility, the spectre of radicalisation would justly have placed the individual under scrutiny and questioning.

Being a believer does not preclude you from behaving as a good citizen; the extent of a right reaches only to the point before it infringes on the freedoms of another. Whether it be music, a phone call, or a call to prayer, if you do not have your headphones, you should accept that you have deprived yourself of the opportunity to listen to your device when in a public place.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

From Mamucium to Downing Street

2026-07-17T15:50:48.458+01:00

Roman Manchester

In response to a question about what the Romans ever did for us, I said Manchester, or Mamucium/Mancunium as it was known then, when what has become my thriving city was a Roman garrison. Mancunian is the demonym for someone from Manchester.

It might not be lost on anyone that any town or city in England bearing the suffix -caster, -ester or -[c/x]eter was once a Roman garrison. These endings derive from the word castrum, meaning camp or fortification, and are indicative of a history stretching back almost two millennia. [Wikipedia: "Chester (placename element)"]

In the Castlefield area of Manchester, a reconstruction of the Roman gatehouse, walls and other features offers a historical education about the city. Signboards are dotted around the area, explaining the significance of the structures, the setting, the people and the times.

Manchester to Westminster

Today, however, another message comes from Manchester. The erstwhile Mayor of Greater Manchester, in post since 2017, has become the Leader of the Labour Party, and will be kissing hands on Monday to become Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.

I have met Andy Burnham on a few occasions, when I was a steward at Manchester Cathedral, and he attended civic or funeral services pertaining to our city. As I handed him the service pamphlet, he smiled, greeted me and thanked me: a man without airs and totally unassuming. If you were not told, you would never realise he held one of the more prominent political offices in the country.

Though I have not always agreed with some of his policies, the net benefit of his leadership of Manchester is commendable enough to make me feel excited about what he might do for the country as a whole. How Manchesterism would work for the UK, we do not yet know.

Against the Odds

The deputy leader of the Labour Party is my MP, Lucy Powell, representing Central Manchester. Until September 2025, she was Leader of the House of Commons, when she was sacked without reason. She then acquitted herself well in winning the deputy leadership election, despite the fact that her opponent was supported by the government.

Against the odds, we have people from Manchester and its environs proving that they carry a message which not only resonates but offers a different perspective on things. The status quo is over, and the advent of something new beckons.

This is neither to eulogise nor to lend hagiography to the named personalities, as they all have their work cut out. However, you cannot miss one essential detail: here comes Manchester, to the country and indeed to the world.

I wish them the very best in the arduous endeavour of realising the dreams they have for our country, and in how they hope we might dream along with them, to begin living the reality of those dreams and, better still, to see them come true.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

A Spider Amongst the Saints

2026-07-12T23:08:42.960+01:00

A Restless Weekend

The quest for sufficient sleep is one goal that defines my weekends; the pall of nocturnal insomnia hangs over my weekday nights and threatens my efficiency and productivity at work.

Just as I was considering a lie-in on Sunday, I had a date in mind a week hence, when I was scheduled to read the second lesson in church. Just to be sure, I checked the rota, and it was for today.

I have gained more confidence to read publicly, with my voice regaining some timbre for short periods of time.

A Fright by Email

However, it was another email that gave me the fright. We were being invited to a "Celebration of Gratitude", which read rather like a "Celebration of Life", a confusion between a demise and a departure; we were seeing off a lady who had a long-standing relationship with the church, as she moved to a home in Cumbria.

The sender, an Englishman, should have known better, having received a note from someone who speaks English as a foreign language, and obviously, once we read the content of the email, we were better informed.

After I had read the lesson, with a slight hiccup where I corrected myself, saying "through" instead of "though", the service progressed to the serving of communion.

The Uninvited Guest

Then a creepy-crawly came down the aisle, its body about a centimetre square and its legs at least seven centimetres each; a spider unlike any you see at home.

People attending church for the fear of God were soon gripped by arachnophobia.

A man of the cloth boldly lifted his feet off the floor and onto the seats, obviously not to harm the spider, or perhaps he was one of the ilk of Little Miss Muffet, who is famed for the eponymous nursery rhyme.

Calm Restored

Then a lady of the sterner kind, with the cojones that men pretend they possess, picked up the spider with a piece of tissue paper, dropped it, but scooped it up again and relocated it outside to the church gardens.

Calm and peace settled on that side of the congregation, as we deigned not to point fingers at the affrighted.

The celebration after the service was a generous buffet, with applause from us all, bidding her godspeed and new friendships at the home by the sea.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Thought Picnic: The Many Mirrors of Criticism

2026-07-10T17:29:04.778+01:00

The Mirror and Its Drip

Criticism is a mirror, but not all mirrors are polished the same way. The polishing might bring clarity, or the mode of polishing might scratch the surface and distort what we see. When we look in the mirror, we hope to see the best reflection of ourselves rather than a caricature that makes us recoil.

Dripping criticism is subtle and persistent. It is the raised eyebrow, the “interesting choice” comment, the slow leak of disapproval that erodes confidence over time. A manager who says, every week, “We'll need to tighten this up eventually,” without clarity or support, creates doubt rather than direction.

I dare say this almost always comes from familiar settings: the parent who has constantly said something that becomes ingrained in memory, a habit formed with the intent to change yet one that does the opposite, creating tension, resistance, and resentment.

Left unchecked, those early and well-meant words settle into the inner critic we carry into adulthood, a voice that goes on speaking in a parent's cadence long after the parent has fallen silent.

Burning on Contact

Caustic criticism burns on contact. It is sharp, often clever, and sometimes public. “Did you even read the brief?” may get a laugh from bystanders, but it scars the recipient. Its power lies in humiliation, not improvement.

Its purpose is to reduce a person to insignificance; it highlights inadequacy in order to expose weakness. The person on the receiving end is likely to shrink, wishing the ground would open so they might fall into the crevasse. It is wholly unkind, the bailiwick of the sociopath.

Tearing Down

Destructive criticism tears down without offering a path forward. “This whole plan is a mess” ends the conversation instead of advancing it. It may be emotionally satisfying to the critic, but it leaves both the work and the worker diminished.

This goes beyond cynicism; it is the need to complain without helping or offering solutions. It sees the problem clearly yet fails to realise that identification is not resolution. There is a close cousin here in withering criticism, the scornful, contemptuous remark designed to make a person wilt on the spot.

It borrows the sting of the caustic and the finality of the destructive, which is perhaps why it is so hard to place: it wounds like the one and forecloses like the other.

Care and Clarity

Constructive criticism, by contrast, is anchored in care and clarity. It names the issue and points towards growth. “The introduction is strong. The argument would be clearer if you added evidence in paragraph two” respects both the person and the goal. It assumes capability.

This brings the best of helpfulness to the fore: empathy, guidance, and emotional intelligence, which engender growth and productivity. It takes a wholly different mindset. Yet every sort of criticism, given with the right intentions, can become constructive; it depends on motivation, desire, and drive.

Gentler Forms and Love

There are gentler forms too. Reflective criticism asks questions rather than making declarations. “What outcome were you hoping for here?” invites ownership.

Self-criticism, when healthy, refines craft and character; when excessive, it becomes an internalised drip. Cultural criticism challenges norms and systems rather than individuals, asking whether the rules themselves deserve revision.

Ultimately, criticism reveals as much about the giver as the receiver. The best criticism carries three traits: specificity, proportionality, and goodwill. Without goodwill, it corrodes. With goodwill, even hard truths can build something stronger than what existed before.

Its reach is wider than the work in hand, for over time criticism shapes confidence and character, bolsters or erodes self-esteem, tips us towards obstinacy or leaves us open to persuasion, and quietly colours the way we see the world; but that is a thread for another day.

Beyond goodwill, perhaps the real driver of the best kind of criticism is love: a deep love, concerned to bring about the kind of change in others that we wish for ourselves. The root of that is self-love, from whence springs the ability to love and to be loved in return.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Count Binface and The Farce That Defines Us

2026-07-09T01:10:30.133+01:00

A Comical Contender

Count Binface might seem comical or ridiculous to you, but in my view he is a send-up of the farce that sometimes defines British life and politics. That he had to give up the aristocratic title of Lord Buckethead for the more continental title of count was an unfortunate result of a humourless copyright dispute.

Count Binface courtesy of countbinface.com

A popular figure in significant elections, contesting against sitting prime ministers in their constituencies, standing in the London Mayoral elections, and more recently in the Makerfield by-election, the count has emerged as the only candidate who will stand against Nigel Farage in the Clacton by-election, a contest that hinges on Mr Farage first being appointed to the position of Crown Steward and Bailiff of the Chiltern Hundreds.

Update for 10^th July 2026

Nigel Farage has since been appointed to the office of Crown Steward and Bailiff of the Manor of Northstead, an alternate position created for handling the departure of an MP from the House of Commons, so the by-election goes ahead.

Death, disqualification and expulsion are the only means by which a member’s seat may be vacated during the lifetime of a Parliament. [UK Parliament]

An Ancient Escape Route

That appointment is an ancient office, one that serves as a legal fiction to handle the departure of an MP from the House of Commons; under a resolution of 1624, it is illegal for an MP to resign or wilfully give up their seat. The appointment is approved by the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and there is every likelihood that Mr Farage will not be permitted to resign until the parliamentary regulator on standards in office has reported its findings.

Nigel Farage announced on Tuesday his intention to resign and trigger a by-election in which he would run again, seeking to escape or forestall the parliamentary sanction he was likely to receive for failing to declare properly some of the various streams of finance and payments he has received from the year before he became an MP to the present day.

Dementors in Politics

While Nigel Farage purports to speak for the people of Clacton, he is, in effect, a dementor who feeds on human happiness and joy, leaving those he represents to relive their worst memories; Brexit is a case in point for the people of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.

He is not alone in this cohort of depraved malevolence, for he attempts to re-enact tropes from the playbook of Donald Trump, no less a dementor of the worst kind. The Americans have offered a recent illustration of just how this dementor operates.

The FIFA Fiasco

With the FIFA World Cup hosted in the United States, Canada, and Mexico, the president persuaded FIFA to rescind a red card given to the American star striker. This unfortunate development brought unnecessary focus and opprobrium upon everything representative of the United States, tarring FIFA with the deserved taint of corruption, while giving Belgium the impetus to trash the United States 4-1.

That intervention sucked the spirit, resolve, and ability out of the US Men's National Team, so that whatever wherewithal they might have had to make an appearance was served back to them as just deserts for choosing exception over acquiescence to the rules of sportsmanship, fairness, and good conduct in football.

A Serious Manifesto

Count Binface should not be dismissed as laughable, yet his manifesto has included punishments for the public use of speakerphones, the return of 99p Flake ice creams, the restoration of the BBC Ceefax service, a cap on the price of croissants, the linking of ministers' pay to nurses' salaries, the building of at least one affordable house, the nationalisation of Adele, and the moving of the hand dryer in the gents' toilet at the Crown and Treaty pub in Uxbridge to "a more sensible position". [The Tab: Everything to know about Count Binface, the ‘space warrior’ standing against Nigel Farage]

These are serious issues that have garnered votes from serious people, and the odds of Count Binface winning against Nigel Farage present the kind of likelihood that inspired the British public to vote for Boaty McBoatface as the name of a £200m polar research vessel.

The Dustbin of History

If Nigel Farage's political career is consigned to the dustbin of history in his defeat to Count Binface, after a lifetime of pretending to represent people he has deluded and exploited with half-truths, conspiracy theories, and simple solutions to complex problems, no better story could have been written of British politics since the bulb of lettuce outlasted Liz Truss's premiership.

In his quest to escape accountability, after intense scrutiny of his financial arrangements, his ignominious undoing would come in the farcical match-up with Count Binface. He could then return to his grift, never to appear on our screens again except as a pantomime character, a parody of hubris shipwrecked on utter humiliation. I endorse Count Binface.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Community and The Neighbours We Never Knew

2026-07-08T17:43:04.373+01:00

The Vanishing Neighbours

It was only a few weeks ago that I had a conversation in the office kitchen, near the coffee machine. I was curious as to why a company on our floor seemed to keep a three-day week. They were in on neither Monday nor Friday.

The lady I spoke to said that they worked from home on Mondays and had Fridays off. As usual, this week I did not expect them in on Monday, but by Tuesday it became apparent that they had gone. The hive of activity that sat between my office and the kitchen became a scene of eerie calm and emptiness. A part of my office community had gone without notice.

Communion and Loss

Earlier in the week, during Communion at church, people lined up for the gifts. My place in the seating arrangement means that I am one of the first congregants to go forward, ahead of others.

After returning to my seat for contemplation and to listen to the choir sing, I could also watch the other congregants go forward for the breaking of bread. A male couple usually sits to the side, on the right as one looks towards the altar, but only the taller of the two went forward.

It seemed peculiar, as they were never apart, and the shorter of them still carried his age well, being a nonagenarian, though I cannot say why we had never exchanged pleasantries in all the time I had seen them.

Comforting the Bereaved

After the Sung Eucharist, I saw other church members go to chat with the one who was present, and it caught my eye that they were shaking his hand and patting his knee. Everything pointed to the premise that something might have happened to his partner, and from these interactions, I had drawn my own conclusions before I enquired of another person.

The old man had passed away during the week, and they were comforting his partner. I had not made his acquaintance well enough to be familiar, yet I felt that we had, even from the distance I maintained, lost a dear member of our community. May his soul rest in peace.

A Summer Barbecue

Our village, which comprises five apartment blocks with shared facilities and a rather cantankerous WhatsApp group of restless people who have not yet found the natural circadian rhythm of silence and peace at a certain time of day, gathered in the communal garden for a summer barbecue.

I was not sure I would attend, as I am not good with crowds, but when my neighbour, one of the organisers, saw me a few hours before the event, I could not excuse myself from the fête. I paid for my ticket and took a bottle of South African shiraz and a bottle of orange juice to the gathering.

Gathering in the Garden

Dressed in traditional and colourful apparel, I was easily the centre of attention, while at the same time hoping to be inconspicuous. This was the first time something like this had been arranged in our decades-long residency of the village, and over forty people came.

From someone who had moved in only a fortnight ago to others who have lived here for over thirty years, I gleaned enough from the conversations I had. I was better off sitting in one place, with people interacting with me, than moving around networking extrovertly, which is a total drain on my mental reserves.

Proximity Without Intimacy

It struck me then how strange it was that so many of us should live so close and yet know one another so little. That WhatsApp group is the perfect emblem of it; we are near enough to disturb each other's peace, yet not close enough to know the names behind the complaints.

We had shared walls, stairwells, and a garden for years, and it took a barbecue for some of us to exchange a first word. Proximity, I realised, is not the same as intimacy, and living side by side is not the same as living together.

What Community Means

What it revealed to me was that we do not do neighbourliness and community enough, at least for those with an interest in others. I once had a neighbour whom I never met and who kept to themselves in the eighteen months they lived next door. Whether a recluse or simply indifferent, one could only be glad they were gone when I learnt of the situation.

I only want neighbours I can check on and who check on me; people who, when we meet in the corridor, would stop to have a chat; people ready to help one another in the ordinary and the more so. They become a kind of family, and that too is what community is all about.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Brian at 49

2026-07-07T01:08:08.778+01:00

A Journey Long Delayed

I was out socialising in Johannesburg, a journey I had finally scheduled after vacillating for weeks over the idea of travelling to South Africa, at the end of 2018.

Though the thought was on my mind, I had other pressing concerns. Only a few weeks prior, in October 2018, I had undergone a colonoscopy, and I can testify that the insertion of a tube at either end is thoroughly unpleasant. I speak as one who had also had a camera tube trailed down my oesophagus into the duodenum in mid-May 2026.

This was a time when I was shuttling between Manchester and Cologne. In one of those moments of self-talk, I said to myself, "If you do not book this trip, you'll regret it."

An Unexpected Encounter

While in Cologne, I booked a flight to Johannesburg, flying out from Manchester on Christmas Eve to arrive in Johannesburg on Christmas Day, via Paris.

It was on my third night that I ventured out and, ensconced in a corner as the introvert, I sat and observed others. Earlier, I had seen this man, but I perished the thought of an encounter; he looked already spoken for, and quite out of my league.

Then, probably an hour after I first saw him, and he must have been observing me too, he came round and said hello. I am not good in crowds, but if anyone makes a beeline towards me, I might just be eased out of my shell; and did he not tease me out of my social reclusiveness.

Conversation Never Stopped

We started to talk, then went to the bar and ordered drinks. I would usually be teetotal, but time slipped away until he had to go; he was returning to Bulawayo late the next day. I used the opportunity to ask whether we could have lunch together, before his departure for Zimbabwe.

I was about to hail a cab when his friend offered to give me a lift to my hotel. The lively conversation continued in the car until I was dropped off. Our earlier exchange of phone numbers meant the chatting carried on through the night, until we were overcome by tiredness.

Meeting Brian

Just before noon, I asked whether he was still up for lunch. That was our first date. When I left the UK, I was nine years into grieving the loss of a friend, a loss that carried the undercurrent of never having had the opportunity to say goodbye. I left Johannesburg having made a friend with whom the communication and conversation never stopped.

There was a connection between us and, though we only had a brief moment together, we were back seeing each other in late February. That is how I met Brian, who is 49 today.

Brian Birthday 49.pptx by Akin Akintayo

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Thick Skin and the Colour of Pain

2026-07-03T16:04:15.843+01:00

A Familiar Ethnicity Pain Gap

It comes as no surprise to me to read that in the UK, women from Bangladeshi, Pakistani, and black Caribbean backgrounds were less likely than white women to receive an epidural whilst having a vaginal birth. [The Guardian: “Women from minority backgrounds in UK less likely to receive epidurals, research finds”]

The ideas, conceptions, perceptions, or prejudices that feed the narrative that non-white people, especially from the aforementioned backgrounds, do not need adequate pain medication to arrest high levels of discomfort and distress have appeared in studies for decades.

This situation, termed the "ethnicity pain gap", is quite concerning, and it might persuade one to surmise that there is a seething racialised disadvantage in the public health system, one that ascribes thick skin to the Black population and precious delicateness to the Asian cohort.

My Own Experience

My experience of this in late 2009 came as a result of cancer pain in its enduring intensity. I was on multiple regimens of pain medication, with Fentanyl dispensed as a transdermal patch being the most critical palliative, yet I was in pain.

When I informed my consultant that I was still in pain, and this was in the Netherlands rather than in the United Kingdom, he did not acknowledge my distress or seek to address it. Instead, his response was that the pain medication I was on should be enough. An ill-informed perception that I should have a higher pain threshold.

I remonstrated that it was not, and he then sought to double the dose from 12.5 micrograms to 25 micrograms. This made all the difference because it tackled the pain, and I got much-needed relief. Why I was not also told that transdermal patches could fall off, and that they could be held in place on the skin with an adhesive film, escapes me.

Knowledge Withheld

Returning from church, one Sunday, a few weeks after I had the new prescription, I was in a lot more pain than usual, and then I saw that the patch had fallen off.

I laughed myself to delirium to produce endorphins as pain relief whilst the new patch took hold. It was only when I told the nurse who came to dress the lesions on my foot daily that he told me I could get an adhesive film to keep the patch in place.

The knowledge was there all along, but it was never shared. As a race, in our encounters with the medical establishment, we are constantly pathologised, and this is characterised by either not being listened to or being ignored, because the medical personnel assume they know and understand our bodies more than we do with the intimate experience of our own skins.

Asserting Our Reality

That Caucasians are immediately responded to and given palliative succour on demand speaks volumes, without suggesting something untoward. Whether it is bias, prejudice, or indifference, we need to be better equipped to ask pertinent questions and persuade our doctors of our reality, without having to jump through hoops, trapped in suffering until it becomes unbearable.

It is not just in matters of pain, but in decisions being made about diagnostic and treatment regimes without explanation or rationale, delay in action when the full knowledge of a condition is evident, the lack of respect, courtesy, and the according of dignity to your personhood and humanity, or the use of the wrong indicators based on race for decision trees towards useful outcomes.

I approach the medical establishment on the premise of “It is my body first, before it is your guinea pig.” This need never be the default, because you are then preparing for a fight instead of fully trusting someone who took the Hippocratic Oath to do you no harm. Yet you find you need to assert yourself and manage the egos to ensure that you, at the very least, leave the hospital better than when you went in.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

From Compote to Coulis

2026-06-28T22:37:26.428+01:00

The Value of Cooking

Being able to cook, or at least understanding the processes of cooking, not only informs you about quality and taste, but it also helps you appreciate the kind of labour involved in bringing a dish to the table.

Sometimes, we allow convenience to trump the need to slave over a cooker or an oven, or, in these times, a crockpot or slow cooker, a steamer, and an air fryer. Well, a rice cooker has now joined the appliances in my cramped kitchen. Utility meets facility, and the rest is the memory of the palatable.

Convenience Versus Craft

Supermarkets tend to offer convenience at the expense of kitchen activity; the onions come ready-chopped in a pack when I could use a mandolin and store them in a Ziplock bag in the freezer. When I could not get Agege bread in Cape Town, I began to bake my own; now that it is sold here, I simply buy it in the shops.

One time, whilst mixing the dough, one of the mixing hooks broke. It should have been an easy replacement, but by then the novelty of baking had worn off.

I can make most of what I like; it is the lack of time, patience, or will that militates against the creative process, so you reach instead for the processed food shortcuts in supermarket packs or obtain takeaways from restaurants.

Experiments with Yoghurt

For a while, I stopped buying yoghurt with fruit servings. Instead, I would get Greek yoghurt and add it to a fruit salad drizzled with honey, but I wanted something different. I made a compote of blueberries and raspberries, cooking the fruits with a little water and lemon juice, though I did not have any vanilla essence.

I liked the first result with Greek yoghurt and honey, but I left the compote too long in the fridge and it was developing a culture, so I had to throw it away. I soon made another portion, which I never used. I warmed it up in the microwave and it bubbled out of the container, filling the microwave plate with red juice. That was annoying to clean up.

From Compote to Coulis

When I went out shopping yesterday, I bought a pack of wonky raspberries and one of blueberries. Something about the chunky feel of the compote did not appeal to me, so this time, after cooking the fruits and mashing them in the pot, I decided to try something else. What about blending the compote, I thought?

Well, that changes a compote into a coulis. I did not pass the blended compote through a sieve, but I think the NutriBullet blender did a good enough job, and this time I added some Madagascan vanilla essence. I might also add a splash of brandy to give it longevity, which is what you would expect in a compote rather than a coulis.

The knowledge of cookery does not just give you the ability to follow a recipe, even though much of one's expertise comes from learning, experience, practice, and memory. The recipe, like rules, can be broken to suit your own requirements and taste, and you would be neither persecuted nor prosecuted for it. That, my friends, is the joy of knowing how to cook.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Thought Picnic: Meeting Your Estranged Children Where They Are

2026-06-26T17:19:20.938+01:00

Adapting to a Changing World

I am constantly told that I need to make allowances for the older generation because they are set in their ways. This might be true, but the world is always changing around us, and thriving in any community requires steady, sometimes sudden, adaptations if we are to relate to people, events, ideas, and circumstances.

Whilst reading an article on LinkedIn titled “Meeting Your Resistant Children Where They Are”, I immediately realised that it seemed to address only one part of the wider issue of relationships. The article focused more on divorced parents and their apparently adolescent children, and I appreciate that the writer's area of expertise is divorce and parenting.

If I were to extrapolate, however, the issue extends well beyond divorce, which is merely one of the elements contributing to the breakdown of relationships, just as resistance is only one facet of parent-child estrangement.

The Generational Cycle

It is interesting to observe how we all move through the generational phases of life, beginning as children with parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents, and then transitioning through these phases as those who came before us begin to drop off, in that natural cycle of life.

How we relate to those before us sometimes follows an established code of community, reverence, and respect. What rarely finds adequate scrutiny is the need to adapt for those who come after us.

For instance, when does a parent begin to see their child as an adult, one to be treated with some acknowledgement and, I dare say, respect for their autonomy, independence, initiative, and decision-making?

A Personal Reflection

Then again, this topic is probably too broad to be addressed in a blog, or from an amateur's background, even with the lived experience that might cloud one's judgement. My parents were never divorced; rather, with the palpable tension, the middle-aged theatrics, and the passage of time, they grew apart.

It might have been better had they gone their separate ways a long time ago, rather than being hemmed in by middle-class values until their cohabitation became untenable. Each kept their own record of what the other might or might not have done, and we, the children, were corralled into narratives that expected us to take sides; in the main, we tended to remain neutral.

However, to bring this conversation back on course, there is where my parents expect me to be, where they see me, and where I actually am. These are entirely different places. Whether I am a child, an adult, pliant, or recalcitrant, I can only wonder whether I am all of these at the same time. The fact that I have never been a parent might inform other perspectives.

Naming the Thing

Still, there is a name for the thing I am circling, and I only came upon it recently: relational maturity. It is not the same as being agreeable, nor the same as being patient, though it borrows freely from both. It is, rather, the capacity to meet another person where they actually stand, without insisting they first travel to where we happen to be waiting for them. I had felt its absence for a lifetime without ever knowing what to call it.

The question that follows is not a comfortable one: who is obliged to do the adjusting? Tradition has a ready answer, that the younger defers to the older and the child to the parent, and like most tidy arrangements, it survives chiefly because it serves the people who designed it.

Relational maturity refuses this one-way traffic. It accepts that adjustment must flow in both directions, that the parent who demands reverence might first ask whether they have offered acknowledgement. I say this as a sexagenarian, mind you, and not as a young firebrand with a grievance, for I am now of the very generation that is customarily granted the latitude I am here declining to claim.

There is a temptation to mistake all this for weakness, as though meeting people where they are were merely a polite word for capitulation. It is nothing of the sort. The mature party is not the one who folds; it is the one who can hold their own position firmly whilst still granting the other their dignity and their difference. Anyone can be tolerant of those who already agree with them; the test arrives with the person who does not.

And yet relational maturity is not infinite. There comes a point where meeting someone where they are reveals only that they have no intention of moving, and no interest in your moving either. At that juncture, the mature response is not to keep travelling toward a meeting that will never take place, but to disengage calmly and without rancour, which is itself a form of maturity.

Snipping the Cord

Certain interactions have rubbed me up the wrong way, and my reaction has usually been to disengage. People, and this goes beyond parents to siblings, relations, friends, and others you encounter throughout life, seem to forget that, regardless of what they assume ties you together, you can snip the cord and walk away, unbound, unfettered, and unconcerned.

The way you address and talk to people, their slight and unfortunate expressions of indifference, and the use of words that fail to give credence to the multifaceted nature of a person, or that fail to acknowledge the changes we see in ourselves and in others, can alter things so radically as to put them beyond redemption.

Tradition Versus Individuality

Tradition might dictate one thing, but personalities are individual and unique; they may not conform to any prescribed norms and may fall entirely outside our common frames of reference.

The question, then, becomes whether you are ready to shift your position, find common ground, seek resolution, and even accept that you were wrong, despite your ways being set in reinforced concrete.

The Cost of Indifference

I remember conversations and interactions that informed my decision to withdraw fellowship from certain people. You may not realise you have done something wrong, albeit inadvertently, but whoever is doing the kicking is rarely the one doing the hurting.

There might be another way to work through this, yet I am only human, and there is a dignity in that which demands the courtesy of others, regardless of the ties.

Restrict this ever-constant need to adapt our relationships, the need that keeps conversation thriving and engaged, all in the name of conserving what we think we hold dear, and the consequences will be exactly where we find ourselves, whether we are involved or not.

Honour and Provocation

Parents tend to think of estranged children as personifications of the Prodigal Son. Yet we, the children, eventually begin to see our parents with all their flaws, and for all the care and responsibility that went into their parenting, they were never in the class of God; they were simply human. Where the holy book says, “honour your father and mother”, it also says, “do not provoke your children unto wrath”.

Someone really ought to write an academic study on “Meeting Your Estranged Children Where They Are”.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

The Brexit Decade

2026-06-23T19:22:36.641+01:00

Another chair short in the Number 10 musical chairs farce.

A Decade of Self-Harm

Even irony has come to joke at the expense of the United Kingdom. On the eve of the 10^th anniversary of the Brexit vote, the sixth prime minister since that act of unmitigated self-harm resigned.

Whether you like it or not, Brexit made the UK ungovernable, and it is the spectre of Brexit that has deftly conducted the dirge of musical chairs at 10 Downing Street.

Obviously, the personification of this rotten enterprise is Nigel Farage, along with all the cloaks of calumnious obfuscation he has donned aboard the various political vehicles he has ridden to beguile the natives.

Cameron's Fatal Gamble

In trying to outmanoeuvre and upstage Farage, David Cameron promised an in-out referendum without thresholds, believing he could gamble with our future in Europe and win. He lost. Once the result was announced, he resigned.

The chicanery between Michael Gove and Boris Johnson, who were the opportunistic ruling party figureheads of the Brexit proposition, meant that Theresa May, a remainer, became prime minister.

Everything she tried to negotiate with Europe was rubbished and undermined by the antics of Boris Johnson and a cohort of implacables. First, Theresa May gambled away her majority, and every Brexit negotiation ended in stalemate. She resigned within three years.

Johnson Gets Brexit Done

Boris Johnson then took the helm and purged the Tory Party of the reasonable, level-headed and moderate One Nation Tories, before calling an election to "Get Brexit Done".

The least qualified person ever to negotiate a deal, having had a background in the Scottish whisky industry, became the point man: Lord David Frost. What he brought back was a mishmash of imponderables, and we signed ourselves out of prosperity just as the coronavirus took hold of the world.

Boris made stringent rules for us, with punitive fines for breaking them, yet he and his staff were partying in Downing Street. That scandal, along with a few others, engulfed his premiership and culminated in the resignation of more than half his cabinet. It soon dawned on him that he had to go. He held office for three years.

Truss and the Lettuce

Enter Liz Truss, who, after kissing hands at Balmoral, may well have hastened the demise of Queen Elizabeth II two days later. Her curtsey was so awkward that you couldn't tell if she was flat-footed, bow-legged, or suffering from some yet unexplained ailment of her lower ambulatory system. Rather than laugh, you pitied her.

Her uncosted mini-budget, aiming to introduce us as the new Singapore on Thames, one of the sunlit uplands of Brexit, much as Canaan was given to the Jews, wreaked havoc on the financial markets.

The fallout was so drastic that she sacked her Chancellor of the Exchequer and brought in a Tory grandee of a sort, Jeremy Hunt. The sand was running out of her hourglass; days became minutes, and even a patch of lettuce outlasted her. She was gone in 50 days.

Sunak Steadies the Ship

Rishi Sunak, the first Asian, the first Hindu, and possibly the richest ever prime minister, walked into 10 Downing Street. He steadied the ship that had been caught in various post-Covid, Brexit and immigration eddies. We were in a spiral, and it was only a matter of time before we lost our heads in a dizzy spell.

He called an election about twenty months into his premiership and handed the reins over to the Labour Party in a landslide, after the party had been out of power for 14 years.

Starmer's Short Tenure

Sir Keir Starmer was now at the helm, honourable and lawyerly. After a number of missteps, bad calls and U-turns, his popularity sank so low that by the local elections of May 2026 the Parliamentary Labour Party had decided he could not lead them into the next general election. A few weeks short of two years as prime minister, he resigned.

It is likely that Andy Burnham will become the next prime minister. Meanwhile, in one way or another, the office has been haunted by the banshee cries of Nigel Farage, first in UKIP, then in the Brexit Party, and now in Reform.

The Myth of Control

One of the things Brexit was supposed to give us back control of was our borders. It now transpires that the problem was never Europe, but policies within our own domain.

Whereas European immigrants were near enough that they could, if they wished, return home every weekend, the immigrants now arrive in larger numbers from further afield. They cannot return home every weekend; they are full settlers with family ties that must be accommodated if their services are to be procured for the nation.

Likewise, Brexit was supposed to ignite a bonfire of rules, mostly from the EU. Yet to trade with any trading bloc, we need alignment and agreement on standards.

We were once involved in crafting those rules, but for the purposes of ease of business, the very rules we thought we could jettison must now be absorbed into our regulatory system for seamless commercial activity. We are rule takers where we were once rule makers, in concert with the community to which we belonged.

No Justice in Sight

Then there is the question of how the UK economy has suffered since Brexit, with the loss of about 6% in GDP. You may not be able to call Brexit a failure, but if it looks like one and walks like one, there can be no other conclusion.

The fight for the soul of the country continues as we struggle to get the facts before the people, who are bombarded and cajoled into working against their self-interest, sold easy solutions to complex problems.

We cannot defeat geography. Europe is our closest trading partner, and a softening of Brexit, with a bold and courageous defence of the associated policies, is needed.

They say a majority would now vote against Brexit. The fact is, the perpetrators of this travesty have never been held accountable, and it is doubtful we'll ever get justice for the harm they caused. What a wasted decade.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Essential Snobbery 101: The King's Button

2026-06-21T18:37:51.191+01:00

The King's Button

Edward VII was reputed to be a man who loved the pleasures of life, and his girth bore witness to this. At the table, he would leave the bottom button of his waistcoat undone, a practical habit that lent itself to ease and spared the garment the wear of exertion or extension on account of eating.

Observers at the table, nobles and servants alike, must have noticed this, and so it became the style. The party prince who became king after Victoria's long reign did it, and so should his subjects; consequently, this was deemed the way to dress. In time, the habit travelled beyond the waistcoat to the jacket and the suit, where it endures to this day.

How Custom Passes

The role of observers, those who watch a habit harden into a custom, is important to understanding how matters of style and taste are passed on. The observation must occur in close proximity and with a semblance of regularity, if one is to distinguish the trendy and the customary from a mere slip. The same applies to conduct, communication, and comportment, along with the courtesies that attend them.

A Quiet Decline

Recently, as I have gone about my own pursuits, it has come to my notice that elements of style and taste are not as commonplace as one would hope. Many gentlemen, and I use the word liberally, from the young to the much older, wear their jackets with every button done up.

There are times when I have had the urge to point this out, but such a thing is only acceptable with people you know, not with strangers. It suggests that the knowledge simply is not there. Style, however, is not optional; it is descriptive on sight, speaking before a single word is uttered.

There Is No Finishing School

I have been fortunate to keep the company of those who know these particular things, and to learn from them: leaving the lowest button undone, undoing all the buttons when sitting down, how to knot a tie, how to match a pocket square, and so on.

There is no class or finishing school for this. You learn it through association, something you have seen your father, uncle, brother, friend, mentor, or teacher do, where on occasion they have extended a hand to make that slight adjustment which separates you from a ragamuffin.

The Quiet Inheritance

There is a name for what I am describing, though I had circled it for years before I learnt it: cultural capital. It is the quiet inheritance of knowing, the accumulated sense of how things are done, passed not through lectures but through living alongside those who already possess it.

Unlike money, it cannot be handed over in a single gesture; it must be absorbed slowly, through observation and the occasional corrective hand on the shoulder.

What troubles me in my own observation is that this transfer appears to be faltering. The fathers, uncles, and mentors who once made that slight adjustment seem fewer now, or perhaps less inclined, and so a generation arrives at adulthood with the wardrobe but not the wisdom, the garment but not the grammar of wearing it.

Style as a Map

It is strange how a mere observation can tell of the road you have travelled, and how, in certain settings, it becomes the key to gaining access or being barred.

I want to be clear that this is not a plea for gatekeeping; I take no pleasure in barriers, and I would sooner extend the hand than withhold it. Yet I would be dishonest to pretend that appearances do not, quietly and often unfairly, dictate access.

A door opens or remains shut, an introduction is offered or withheld, a judgement is formed and acted upon, all before a word has been exchanged.

The cruelty of it is that those most affected are frequently the least aware it is happening, mistaking the closed door for bad luck rather than a code they were never taught to read. To name this is not to endorse it. It is simply to acknowledge that the rules exist, that they operate in silence, and that ignorance of them is rarely the fault of the person left standing outside.

No Personal Fault

This is not to be judgemental, even towards the utterly pretentious; eventually, that discomfort with one's appearance is betrayed by embarrassment. It is upward mobility expressed in acquisitive adornment, yet bereft of the quiet sophistication of the how and the why.

Whether this calls for a school of style, I cannot tell. It is not as though these people considered consulting the largest repository of knowledge, the Internet at their fingertips, to ask questions of style and taste as readily as they might ask for a recipe.

Invariably, as my gaze falls upon these occurrences, I am reminded that not knowing, or not caring, is not so much a personal fault. You were simply not privileged to keep the company of that kind of positive influence.

The Shops, and Where I Stand

Let us not forget the shops. I will not step into a suit shop where a mannequin has been improperly attired, as it suggests the staff have paid no attention to detail.

In one such shop, I asked to be fitted, but I was dismissed to the fitting room as though I were trying on a casual shirt or a T-shirt. I did not waste another minute there.

I do not intend to become a consultant on style. Rather, I will stick to the comfort of the familiar.

An Edwardian Inheritance

It is fitting, then, to return to the man who began all this. The Edwardian period was one of transition in dress as much as in everything else. For both men and women, this period balanced structured luxury with newfound freedom of movement. The rigid formality of the Victorian age was loosening, and comfort was beginning, quietly, to earn its place alongside propriety.

Edward VII's most enduring legacy was the tradition of leaving the bottom button of a waistcoat undone, a habit that has since transferred to jackets and suits alike. We observe it now without a thought for its origin, which is rather the point.

A king's button was only ever a habit that others chose to read, to copy, and to pass on. The grammar of how we dress is nothing more than a long chain of such small observations, handed down from one watchful eye to the next, until the day the chain is broken, and someone arrives, jacket fully buttoned, with no one left to make that slight adjustment. Just look away.

Blog - Essential Snobbery 101: The rules on suit buttons (April 2014)