Akin Akintayo

Accessibility and a Tale of Four Airports

2026-10-20T18:36:03.066+01:00

Blind Spots in Accessibility

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

I have come to notice how many blind spots exist in the provision of access and accessibility services across so many domains. Nowhere was this more obvious than at the international airports in Manchester, Amsterdam, Paris, and Cape Town.

Using the customer assistance service, the first thing I noticed was that while a space had been set aside for people who required help to get around the airports and then to or from their flights, the toilets were never nearby.

The ideal would be simple enough: situate the toilets close to the waiting areas, and perhaps ask the people who actually use the service what they would like improved about their experience.

Lost Without Signage

In Amsterdam, there was a setup where you had to go through security simply to use a toilet. I was beside myself with frustration and discomfiture when I needed the facilities, for there was no information or signage to guide you, and all at the risk of soiling yourself.

You wonder, did anyone really think about what the need for an accessibility service actually entailed, or did they merely tick a box for providing a space without any further consideration? The mind boggles.

One would think the most immediate need of anyone using that service would be reaching the toilets without being lost in the wilderness, like the Israelites of old.

A Tale of Four Airports

The failings were not all of a kind. In Manchester and Cape Town, the problem was the sheer distance from the waiting areas to the toilets, which becomes acute when you have no one to look over your things.

Paris, frankly, was forgettable: language barriers at an airport that deals with an international clientele, and the experience of being abandoned without any information on who would serve you or how you would be taken around.

I raise all this not out of grievance but out of expectation. We all want to travel and enjoy the experience as much as possible; it is the very reason we apply for airport assistance in the first place, expecting not to be put upon or frustrated by it.

In Fairness to Staff

To be fair, the staff are generally helpful. The trouble is that some airports are badly short-staffed. I can recall one occasion where a single member of staff had to handle four passengers who all needed this service at once. You feel for them, caught in a logistical mishap that leaves us victims of what amounts to sheer incompetence higher up.

Cape Town, I must say, has provided the best help of all. I am met at the flight and wheeled through passport control to baggage reclaim, where my helper is joined by another to collect my luggage. I am then taken to the taxi stand, where the two of them help load my things onto the vehicle, as happens at no other airport.

Priority Spaces Ignored

Beyond the airports lies the public understanding of disability, or of needing assistance. I have lost count of the times I have boarded a bus and found the priority spaces for the pregnant, the aged, or the disabled not only occupied by seemingly able-bodied people, but taken up further by their bags and goods, the owners totally oblivious and unconscious of those who need them.

Sometimes you will be noticed and offered the seat, yet I know how many times I have had to ask, especially on the trains or on the tube in London.

Not Fred Astaire

Walking the streets presents another dilemma, as I use a walking cane. Though I am a brisk walker, I would not pretend to be nimble on my feet. Even so, you find people expecting you to give way, as though you were Fred Astaire stepping out to dance, cane in hand, sweeping across the pavement with the fluidity of a swan floating on the air, displaying the kind of dexterity that modern dancers could never aspire to perform.

Well, I simply stump my cane into the ground and wait. You go around me, rather than expect me to manoeuvre around you, when you have perfect ambulation to swing, swerve, skip, or jump. The walking cane is not a fashion accessory; it is an aid to get me around.

Mind the Blind Spot

Access and accessibility have their requirements, so please, do not usurp the space ahead of those who need it more than you do. None of this is difficult to put right. Site the facilities where they are needed, staff the service properly, and, above all, ask the people who use it. That is all we are asking for, and it is not very much.

These, after all, are the blind spots that good intentions leave behind, and they are mended not by grand gestures but by the simple act of noticing. That, in the end, is all accessibility asks of any of us. Thank you.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Thought Picnic: Snippets Through the Strings

2026-10-20T11:57:27.052+01:00

A Change of Station

Some time ago, and I cannot remember how long now, I switched my radio to a news channel, hoping to keep abreast of global events. I can assure you, it is not healthy.

Way back in March 2022, just at the advent of the Russian invasion of Ukraine, my life of listening to BBC Radio 4 changed, as everything on the news had become depressing.

The news brings the world into my space, the knowledge of what is happening beyond my own; yet if that knowledge does not engender wholesomeness, it can be troublesome. However, I need sound around me, especially when I sleep, though I should also learn to appreciate silence more.

The two peculiar requirements for sleep, in my case, are sound and light. I like to keep some light on, for I do not care to sleep in darkness. I have now switched back to BBC Radio 3, the classical music station, where only snippets of the news sneak through the cascade of string, wind, and percussion instruments, most of them relaying the music of dead white men.

The Weight of Knowing

The sense of injustice, unrest, violence, murder, terrorism, war, and general societal unease seems to keep the world moving along a trajectory towards perdition. You have to extricate yourself from these cycles of information before you become absorbed in them.

Worse still is knowing so much and realising there is little you can do to help. The powerful abuse their power; the rich are consumed by their avaricious quest to acquire more at the expense of everyone, including the poor; technology threatens humanity in unfathomable ways; and the truth is lost to a systematic, determined effort to make you believe something else. You almost begin to question your own sanity.

I appreciate, though, that I have the luxury of being merely a listener to the news, rather than a participant in the disasters, tragedies, violence, mishaps, and accidents. That is the privilege I hold: the ability to switch off, which so many victims rarely, if ever, have.

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Holding on to Hope

Yet you must hope that there are many more reasonable people out there, not entirely powerless, who know the proper use of their votes to choose rightly, having informed themselves of the facts. How we despair when the rational fails in the face of the irrational.

One aspect of that hope, I suppose, is simply the acknowledgement, regard, consideration, and respect we extend to another; the loving of one's neighbour, the sharing of life's burdens, the knowing that we exist in society to foster goodness above all else.

What appeals to our best instincts must always be in the ascendant. Lawlessness, no matter how pervasive, cannot set us back to the days before Noah's flood, even if all the signs seem to point that way. I still have hope that humanity will find the light, and the good conscience, to change for the better.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

A Doctor, A Sleuth

2026-10-13T17:36:52.385+01:00

Researching the Doctor

It is interesting how, after having a conversation with a doctor, you find yourself researching their background and qualifications. Obviously, if I am acquainted with the name of the person before I meet them, I will have done my investigations and acquired all the essential knowledge about them beforehand.

I had opted for the full medical coverage provided by my company, which included both a health and a mental health assessment. After answering the questions ahead of the appointment, a profile had been built up of what services might be required and how to address whatever questions I might have.

The Assessment Begins

I was booked in for a two-hour session and first welcomed at reception, where I confirmed or updated the information they held about me, then signed a document authorising the engagement.

Soon, I was ushered into a treatment room with a health advisor, who went through my assessments and checked my heart rhythm using a device on which I had to place two fingers of each hand, before taking my blood pressure from both arms at the same time.

Blood, however, she could not get from either arm, so we settled on the fingertip prick, which did not yield enough for extensive tests. I had not taken in enough fluids, and perhaps, as sometimes happens, my veins were simply not up for it.

The measurement around my belly button suggested I should lose a bit of girth, but besides that, there seemed to be little else of concern. The mental health questionnaire I had completed beforehand drew little comment either; my answers, it seemed, concluded that I was doing alright before I saw the doctor.

Meeting a Model Patient

The very confident and chatty medical doctor took me into her consulting room and first inferred that I seemed to have all the features of a model patient: moderation in the right places, with a few tweaks needed elsewhere. She started with mouth health, moved to diet, then the need for exercise, and how my medication could be affecting my fitness; nominal changes one should consider for a healthier life.

I suppose what struck me was her attention to detail and the minutiae. There was something incisive and forthright in the way she engaged, a readiness to enter the fray, to discuss and to have her own presumptions challenged, which I suspect owed as much to her life beyond strictly medical fields as to anything within them.

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She had hinted that she was involved in medical malpractice and often appeared as an expert witness. This led to a discussion about medical personnel practising medicine defensively, with much caution and a fear of litigation.

Treating Patients as Individuals

To that, I could only consider myself fortunate, as in all areas of my medical service requirements, sometimes owing to questions or challenges to the orthodoxy, I have had much better outcomes. Her view was that doctors needed to engage more and to treat their patients as intelligent individuals to whom medical studies might not directly apply.

Being from an ethnic minority herself, she was aware of all the other issues we encounter when using the medical establishment, from cultural insensitivity to inadequate attention to particular concerns.

The Many-Hatted Doctor

Even on the questions my other medical teams could not answer, she had an expansive view of the options I might have available, differentiating the medication used to manage cholesterol from the way it impacts heart disease. This is obviously an area in which I need a good deal more knowledge before I agree to a suggestion, of which I have had no conviction.

So, back to the doctor: a general practitioner, an expert witness, an injury lawyer and a medical examiner. It is like having someone a third the age of Miss Marple, or half the age of Jessica Fletcher, holding a stethoscope to your back as you take deep breaths and she notices your lizard skin, or xerosis, for which she recommends Cetraben cream. It might as well have been Dana Scully unravelling the mystery of my human body.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Troubled Waters

2026-10-12T00:32:57.635+01:00

Threads of Connection

It is interesting how threads are woven through a set of seemingly unconnected events, with our perception of things becoming the glue between them. I confess I am given to a kind of apophenia, forever spotting strange connections, though that word does not quite capture what I mean.

Here, I was drawn to a headline about cannibalism: a daughter had ingested flakes of her mother's ashes. Why she would announce or publish that information escapes me, at least until we put names to the dramatis personae. The daughter was Rachael Stirling, and the mother the late Dame Diana Rigg. [The Guardian: ‘I didn’t expect to be portrayed as a cannibal’]

Perhaps eating a parent's ashes is a way of reconnecting with them in death; but how an urn became a spice shaker is never going to find a convincing explanation beyond the bizarre. I will resist the temptation to ask whether it was a ready peppercorn grinder, though the thought is beneath me and I confess I had it anyway. Each to their own, I suppose.

Remembering Diana Rigg

I should say actresses, or actors now, since the gender classification for that profession seems to have been lost to modern parlance.

We know Diana Rigg, of course, from "The Avengers", where she played an emancipated female spy and partner to John Steed, portrayed by Patrick Macnee. In the first series she was paid £150 a week, and it was for the second series that she held out for the increase, demanding £450. [Meaww: Diana Rigg was a 'lone voice in the wilderness' when she demanded equal pay back in the '60s as Emma Peel]

What strikes me as equally interesting is that the money was there to pay her properly all along; she had discovered she was being paid less than the cameraman. Yet until she made the case for why she was worth that much more, no one thought to pay her adequately. [BBC: Dame Diana Rigg: How the actress battled TV's gender pay gap]

A Sunday with Columbo

My Sundays revolve around a standing date with "Columbo", the detective series endlessly on replay for as long as I can remember. I could watch the episodes over and over without ever feeling exhausted by knowing the plot, or by trying to fill in the gaps from memory.

Now, guess who is the guest actor in the episode playing from 9:00 pm this Sunday night? Patrick Macnee, cast as Captain Gibbon of a luxury cruise ship. The episode is "Troubled Waters", in which Hayden Danziger, played by Robert Vaughn, murders his mistress aboard the ship.

His wife, Sylvia Danziger, played by Jane Greer, is the older and wealthier partner in the marriage, and she holds a quiet, dominant sway over her husband. She shares a wonderfully sharp exchange with Lieutenant Columbo, played by Peter Falk, in which she lets slip just how firmly she keeps the reins, hinting that Hayden would come to rue the day were she ever to catch him straying.

Troubling Convention

It occurs to me that each of these women is quietly, or not so quietly, troubling the waters of convention: one defending her mourning, one her wage, one her marriage.

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

It is remarkable how things link up in almost incomprehensible ways: amidst the troubled waters of people revealing what is best kept to themselves, of people claiming what is rightfully theirs by standing up to a system set against them, and an episode on a cruise liner where the murderer believed himself far too clever to be caught.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Redeeming the Time

2026-10-11T23:09:32.829+01:00

Ringing the Bell

On the 9th of October 2024, I rang the bell to mark the end of my radiation therapy for prostate cancer, and that moment heralded the beginning of a new life. For those unfamiliar with it, ringing the bell is a tradition at the close of treatment, a small but resonant act that marks the end of one chapter and the start of another. [Photons on the Prostate - IX]

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

The process was tough, and the side effects were almost debilitating. I had problems with my bowel and bladder, my voice had gone, and there was so much else to contend with, quite apart from the fatigue I had to manage over time.

Surviving and Thriving

Two years on, things are a great deal better. There are still issues, of course. My voice remains in a funny state, and sexual function is a problem, but I do not let these things bother me. I simply carry on, glad that I am still here: surviving, thriving, and telling stories.

The stories I tell are about life itself, from adversity to triumph, and the continuing sense of hope for better things. That hope is what keeps me writing.

To Signal, Not to Revel

I had wanted to write this blog, yet I felt rather lethargic, and I was a little unwell too. I like to commemorate these occasions, not necessarily to celebrate them as such. By that I mean I mark them rather than revel in them; I acknowledge the dates without having to throw a party. It is the spirit of gratitude on display.

Sometimes you feel too tired to do the things you want to do, so you come to them later instead. Nothing is lost. You always have the opportunity to redeem the time.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Thought Picnic: The Dignity of Choosing

2026-10-06T02:44:45.453+01:00

The Mystery of Love

One thing I have always held sacrosanct is not interfering in relationships. There is a complex dynamic between people who choose and admire each other for all sorts of reasons that outsiders may never be able to fathom.

The book of Proverbs 30:18-19 in the Bible informs me quite clearly, in the following words:

There are three things that amaze me—
no, four things that I don't understand:
how an eagle glides through the sky,
how a snake slithers on a rock,
how a ship navigates the ocean,
how a man loves a woman.

In the King James Version, it is written as "and the way of a man with a maid."

In these times, relationships are so diverse that the singularity of heterosexuality is no longer the sole expression of love, nor the only way to choose a partner. The way people choose whom they love, and why, will always remain a mystery.

Duty Rather Than Spark

This is different again from arranged settings, where external parties make the decisions that the participants must adhere to. Familial, customary, societal, political, or financial responsibilities usually influence such unions. People then have to make the best of the cards they are dealt.

Arranged unions are borne of duty, and the spark that arises out of attraction and leads to falling in love hardly fits with this topic. I acknowledge that such unions exist, and that affection may well develop within them over time, but that is a different matter from autonomously finding love for oneself. My concern here is with those who choose, not those who are chosen for.

When Love Turns to Harm

Even where I have harboured misgivings about the suitability of a match, I have always been reluctant and reticent to express a view, except where abuse is evident, and a partner is endangered. By abuse, I mean both emotional abuse and domestic violence, for neither is conducive to a loving relationship, and both can lead to harm of different kinds, including fatalities.

People in such settings need to be extricated before irreparable damage is caused. In those cases, there is no reason to sacrifice the person to an age-old institution for the purpose of saving face; the institution is not worth a life, nor the quiet erosion of one.

I am aware of the difficulty in all of this, for it sits uneasily beside my own principle. If an outsider cannot truly fathom why two people choose each other, that same outsider can seldom read what passes behind their closed doors. Abuse is rarely performed for an audience.

Harder still, the one being harmed does not always recognise the harm; what others would name as abuse can feel, from the inside, like an ordinary texture of the relationship. There is also the matter of shame. To admit to being abused is to admit, as many feel it, that one chose poorly, and so the stigma keeps people silent and keeps them where they are. Choosing to leave is therefore rarely as simple as being told to go.

None of this changes my conclusion; it only tempers how I hold it. The exception for danger stands, but it must be exercised with care, patience, and an honesty about how little we can see.

Freedom to Love

Beyond that, you are free to choose whom you want, and I bid you Godspeed that the companionship will be happy, fulfilling, and wonderful. How a person loves another can only be a thing of joy.

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

I appreciate that there are people who would encounter great difficulty in understanding those who deviate from the heteronormative, but that difficulty does not invalidate the reality of it. Whether it is accepted or not, when one person meets another for the affairs of the heart and falls in love, it is always between them, to the exclusion of others.

A Hierarchy of Choices

It is a hard conversation that eventually has to be had: if your expectation of familial ties is to be chosen over an intimate companion, you have read the situation incorrectly. Once you understand the mystery that brings people together, you fall into a hierarchy of choices. A partner will be chosen first, over all other relationships, including close familial ties and long friendships. People should fall in line and respect that choice, just as they would expect others to respect their own.

What you will not get away with, then, is disrespecting, disparaging, ignoring, or deigning to reduce a significant other to insignificance. I know many will remain unpersuaded by that construct, and so they will land in the irrelevant scheme of things.

Relationships are acts of great determination on the part of the participants. The least that can be done is to accord them the courtesy of acknowledging that they exist, and to respect the one you know has chosen rightly for themselves.

In the end, this is only a plea for individual choice and the respect it is owed, and for the humility to accept that no one, however well-meaning, is equipped to choose better on another's behalf.

Postscript

Ignore this at your peril. The person who insists on knowing better, who meddles where they were not invited and talks down to the one another has chosen, does not preserve the relationship they disapprove of; they forfeit their place in it. You are not owed a seat at a table you keep trying to overturn. Respect the choice, or be left out of the life that choice builds.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Thirteen Jabs and Counting

2026-10-04T22:21:47.307+01:00

A Saturday Ritual

Yesterday morning, I stood in a queue at the invitation of my GP. There were two queues, one to the left and another to the right. We on the right were the double jabbers, there to receive both the annual flu jab and the biannual Covid vaccine booster. The ones on the left were there for the flu jab alone.

The GP surgery is not usually open on Saturdays, but for this annual ritual, a day is set aside in September, October, or as late as November. I only began taking the flu jab ten years ago, though it had been recommended to me much earlier.

Thirteen Jabs Later

In terms of COVID-19, this was my thirteenth jab, or more correctly, the eleventh booster following the first two doses in February and May 2021. The Coronavirus is not a distant memory, as the statistics still show that people are being admitted to hospital with complications from the disease.

According to the most recent figures available from the UKHSA data dashboard, there were 261 COVID-19 hospital admissions in the seven days up to 31 August 2026, an increase of 15 per cent on the previous week, with 289 confirmed patients in hospital on that date. [UKHSA data dashboard, COVID-19]

Receiving the boosters is now much more convenient. For a while, it seems, delivering the Covid jab was a niche activity that only a few pharmacies found profitable. In times past, beyond the first two years when I could go to a sequestered place in the town hall, the centres providing the service had progressively moved out of the town centre.

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

After the first three jabs, things moved further afield still to chemists out of town, so much so that it became rather more difficult to find ones that had the booster in stock to give it. Twice, I had booked appointments only to arrive to disappointment.

Back to the Surgery

On one occasion, I got the booster in a van on a large supermarket car park, and then last year, the Boots Chemist in the shopping precinct on Market Street started offering Covid jabs. Imagine my surprise when I got a message from my GP surgery that they could now deliver the jabs, once they had a sense of how many people needed it.

It should always have been managed through the primary care system at the GP surgery, and I am glad that is now the case. That it is back within the management of the surgery is, for me, the greater relief.

At the surgery you are seen by people who know your medical history and can access the critical information needed to support your treatment; the chemists and the vans cannot do that, for they can only register that you have taken the shot. The staff at the surgery are always attentive, professional, and helpful, and it is an easy place to fall into conversation with others.

Aftermath and Advice

I took the flu jab in my right arm and the Covid jab in my left arm. Both an aching arm and a headache registered their presence throughout the day, so much so that I spent most of it in bed until dusk, when I got up to have a meal. Brian, my partner, advised me to take Paracetamol, which I rarely do; I had hoped to sleep it off. It is only mild discomfort, yet it is energy-sapping, leaving you quite irritable and uncomfortable.

I hope I regain my verve for tomorrow. I know some people have advised against taking the booster shots, but they are not from the medical establishment, so I have paid them no heed. Meanwhile, if you are immunosuppressed and, or invited to take the flu jab, my advice is this: don't think twice about it. Get the protection for the winter ahead.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Franklin Graham in Manchester

2026-10-04T12:26:46.581+01:00

Ministry Over Politics

On two consecutive Saturdays, Manchester has hosted large Christian events that filled their venues to capacity. This time it was Franklin Graham, son of the late Billy Graham, the renowned American evangelist who preached to millions a generation ago.

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To deal with my misgivings from the outset, I am no fan of Franklin Graham's politics; his association with a kind of American Christian nationalism wins him no plaudits from me. Yet I must have as much sense as an old cow: eat the hay and leave the baling wire.

It is the ministry and anointing upon a person that we pay heed to, rather than their politics, for each one carries a revelation that may speak to us in ways no one else can. For all our human flaws, the amazing grace that flows through imperfect vessels underlines why we should place our trust in God rather than in men.

Drawn by the Music

I suppose what drew me most to this event was one of the performers, Michael W. Smith, the American singer-songwriter whose praise and worship songs have served us for decades. In fact, I saw him perform in Arnhem, in the Netherlands, back in 2002.

We gathered on the other side of Manchester, at the new Co-op Live venue, which stands right beside Manchester City's Etihad Stadium; Co-op Live is the UK's largest entertainment arena. The previous Saturday, by contrast, Jerry Eze's event had been held at Manchester United's Old Trafford. Jerry Eze is the Nigerian pastor behind NSPPD, short for New Season Prophetic Prayers and Declarations, whose church, Streams of Joy International, had filled Old Trafford only the week before.

A Tale of Two Events

The logistics required to host both events were onerous, yet quite well ordered. There were, however, stark differences. The earlier gathering had a predominantly black and diaspora attendance, whilst this one was decidedly international. I dare say a religious racial divide does exist, if you choose to observe what is going on around you. Beyond that, this event started on time.

Jerry Eze's event was almost a full day: the stadium opened to receive attendees from around 10:00 am, only for the first act to take the stage ninety minutes after the scheduled noon start. I concede it was quite a task getting everyone in. Three sides of Old Trafford were filled, every side but the one behind the main stage, a crowd I would estimate at some fifty thousand people.

Indeed, so great was the demand that Pastor Eze later apologised, in a video message, to the tens of thousands reportedly turned away, though that figure has not been independently confirmed. [Premier Christian News: Apology after 'tens of thousands' reportedly turned away from prayer event at Old Trafford stadium]

Arriving at Co-op Live

On arrival at Co-op Live, I was offered the accessibility entrance, which meant stair-free access to my seat. We were given tickets at the gates, with unassigned seating, and what a cavernous place the hall was. The floor, the stalls and the upper tiers were filled, every section bar the second tier. I took a seat in the third tier, looking towards the main stage from the left.

I was seated near several large families, and the young ones, adolescents for the most part, were a restless company, with the odd kicked seat and a wandering pair of feet to contend with. Still, I would not dwell on it, for it was heartening to see so many young people present; they are, after all, the very souls such an evening hopes to reach.

Performances and Purpose

Franklin Graham was hosting an evening gathering, with doors opening at 4:30 pm and proceedings beginning at 6:00 pm, the first act being a performance from Faith Child, the British Christian rapper. Thankfully, there were subtitles for some of us to follow his act; I suppose it is a generational thing, for I cannot easily keep pace with the rapid delivery that is so characteristic of rap.

More gospel acts followed, from the traditional to the modern, until Michael W. Smith appeared, first with two unfamiliar songs and then a dip into the legacy material that some of us of a certain age remember from the turn of the century.

Interspersed between the performances were video messages, including one for Samaritan's Purse, the international relief organisation Franklin Graham heads. More acts followed before Franklin Graham himself was introduced.

A Long-Awaited Visit

Apparently, it was his first time in Manchester. I recall seeing advertisements for previous visits; it was not that he had been barred from entering the UK, but rather that the proposed venues, at one time eight in all, cancelled their bookings with the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association, with him as the frontman. Those cancellations came in 2020, when the venues withdrew after petitions citing concerns that his appearance would stoke division. [Open Table: US evangelist Franklin Graham claims ‘persecution’ as UK venues cancel preaching tour bookings]

His message was the traditional gospel message: the problem of sin, and where we will spend eternity. These words are carried to the ears of listeners, but it is the work of God, through the Holy Spirit, that brings the conviction leading a person to proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord and Saviour. Those of us from an Evangelical background must take care that we do not become inured to this fundamental gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ.

The Unchanging Message

My experience of meeting friends the previous week is a case in point. I knew where my friend had given his life to Christ, but I was unaware that I had been instrumental in ministering to him, some forty-one years ago. I still have no recollection of the conversation, yet he has woven it into the story of his Christian witness.

When Franklin Graham gave the altar call, thousands stepped forward to pray the prayer of salvation. We applauded their decisions, and it took almost twenty minutes to get everyone to the front. He led them in prayer and gave each one material and a Bible to aid them in their new Christian walk. The proceedings closed after that.

A Harvest of Souls

This event was more an evangelistic crusade for new souls, as compared with last week's, which was a prayer conference: for those who already know, and a witness for those who never knew. For my own part, I came away blessed; it was a good evening of praise and worship.

I do wonder whether another event is scheduled for the not-too-distant future. Yet, judging by the attendance I witnessed over these two Saturdays, while the established church may be suffering an attendance crisis born of its search for relevance to society today, the Evangelical and Pentecostal wings of the church seem to be enjoying a bountiful harvest of souls.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

A Second Witness

2026-10-04T09:38:36.307+01:00

I had already reviewed this place once. When friends unknowingly visited the same restaurant four days later, they endured the very same treatment, bad manners in person, their time wasted, and warm words only for the audience online. So much for "dignity and respect, always".

A Reunion and a Request

Having met up with friends I had not seen in forty years at the Jerry Eze event, we were invited to their Airbnb apartment the following evening. My best friend, being the cousin of the lady, was asked to gather ideas on where to find Nigerian takeaway meals.

Given where they were staying, I looked up nearby locations for deliveries, unaware that they intended to collect the food themselves. My friend, already familiar with my experience at the restaurant the week before, felt that it was my exacting standards, rather than poor customer service, that had informed my unfavourable review of the place.

Against My Better Judgement

Whilst I disagreed, he prevailed upon me, and against my better judgement, I shared details of this place along with an alternative. As it was a Sunday, there was a possibility that the restaurant could fulfil an order placed early and collected later. We did not share anything else about my experience, so as to eliminate any bias towards the outfit.

They received the information after attending church in the early afternoon, and set off to collect the order in the late afternoon. It was a single order for the four of us: the old favourites of okra stew and semolina for my best friend and me, and egusi stew with pounded yam for our friends.

A Familiar Disappointment

They had their own ordeal: a bad attitude from the chef, who closed the door in their faces, whilst the manager who had cut off my call during the earlier episode now played the apologetic service provider, distancing himself from the situation whilst asking for a good review.

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

My friends had their time wasted. The food was not ready when they had agreed to collect it, and there were others also waiting, in what looked less like a busy day than a business accustomed to holding customers in hock once an order has been placed and no alternatives remain. Coupled with a lackadaisical manner, it amounted to taking on more than they could handle.

They ended up going to McDonald's for a bite, because they could not even get basic snack food elsewhere, before returning for a long wait to collect. More than an hour of the afternoon was lost on a business that has no concept of the value of time.

An Apology for the Audience

Their public reply, posted to my Google Maps review, read as contrite yet revealed itself as mere sophistry. They assured me that they "treat everyone with dignity and respect always", a claim my friends could comfortably refute, having had a door shut in their faces by the chef.

They were glad I thought the food good, gutted that I felt the call was dropped, and insistent that it was not from their end and that they had rung back before seeing the review.

Yet the warmth arrived only once the review was public. Had that courtesy been extended in the moment, my friends would have had a very different afternoon. An apology prompted by an audience is not service; it is damage control.

The Verdict

With a second, unconnected customer having had the very same experience, one can conclude that the first review was not off the mark. When people show you who they are the first time, that is who they are. Whilst I am still sparing them the ignominy of being named and shamed, they would never be recommended again.

The meal was passable, yet the okra stew never reached my expectations in aroma, taste, quality, or quantity; it was forgettable. Our friends fared no better: they had wanted egusi and were served efo riro instead, with pounded yam, and were offered an extra portion of pounded yam only on condition that they left a good review. It was another case of food advertised on the app proving unavailable once the order was placed.

To think I had suffered the indignity of excusing bad manners for the sake of good food, only to find that the food I really wanted did not make the grade. Best to blot it out of memory: a brief encounter to end all encounters.

Reference: my original review, "Essential Snobbery 101: Good Food Is No Substitute for Good Manners" (akinblog.nl, 23 September 2026).

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Nigeria: Independent of Feeling

2026-10-01T17:20:02.963+01:00

Childhood Celebrations

A time of my childhood returns as a fleeting memory of Nigeria's independence celebrations, as today marks the 66th anniversary. Back then, at primary school in Jos, we practised marching like little soldiers, ready to demonstrate some sort of military prowess to the governor, who stood on a dais saluting the troops on this significant day.

If I remember correctly, it would have been October 1974, and that was the last time I took part in any such event. It was probably the only occasion on which we were close enough to a state capital to have a governor in attendance. Rayfield was home, Bukuru was for school, and the stadium in Jos was for marching.

Another notable public holiday would have been Children's Day, on the 27th of May. We donned our school uniforms and wore white socks, and there was a preference for canvas shoes; I had none, however, considering that my feet grew faster than shoes could be acquired to last a year.

An Outsider Looking In

Yet, for all these shared rituals, I am not sure I ever truly belonged. I had returned to Nigeria with my parents from England, and I was betrayed first by my accent, then by my outlook, and finally by the dawning realisation that many thought me different and apart, even when I tried my utmost to integrate.

There were benefits to this; I was excused from many traditional requirements that bound others. Being the outsider, though, could be difficult too, and one learns early that exemption and exclusion are often the same coin.

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

Percolating in the recesses of the unforgettable is the national anthem of the time, "Arise, O Compatriots", the one adopted by the military junta in 1978 and sung until 2024. The very word "compatriot" has always sat with me as "comrade" does; it speaks of a bond forged around an idea, a creed, or a cause, rather than the quieter fact of belonging to a land or a people.

That is the slant I could never warm to, worsened by the servitude of unquestioning obeisance, and worse still by the pledge, recited by the people yet ignored by the rulers. I have written before of my want of any reverence for it, and I will not rehearse that dismissal here. [The entity is Nigeria, the identity is Nigerian]

A Fading Affinity

As I sit here today, mindful that Nigeria is marking its independence, the refrain of the readopted anthem rings in me like an earworm, a tune that lingers though its meaning has long drained away.

Then again, even the colonial slant of that original anthem, now sung once more, still seems to exemplify what Nigeria remains. My affinity for what she represents is fast fading. Beyond heritage, she no longer exerts the pull of nostalgia, save for her cuisine, nor offers any real sense of identity as the years pass.

In the first stanza alone, everything militates against its reach and appeal; it has long become a historical artefact, of things told rather than lived. When I left Nigeria, I was also released from the grip it once seemed to have, until I realised that, by jus soli, I was indeed of a wholly different nation to my parents' jus sanguinis.

There is an irony I can no longer ignore. On the day a nation remembers its independence from an empire, proclaimed from a dais to a saluting crowd, I find I have quietly come into an independence of my own, won not at once but by increments. Hers was from a crown; mine is of feeling, the last tie to loosen and the hardest to mourn, settling in only when the heart finally stops answering a call it no longer recognises.

Nigeria, we hail thee,
Our own dear native land,
Though tribes and tongues may differ,
In brotherhood we stand,
Nigerians all, are proud to serve
Our sovereign Motherland.

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Jerry Eze in Manchester

2026-09-27T02:28:35.982+01:00

More Than an Internet Personality

A search for him on the web reveals that he is an internet personality, a description that barely captures who he is. He is the founder and lead pastor of Streams of Joy International and the convener of the New Season Prophetic Prayers and Declarations (NSPPD), a 7am online prayer broadcast that grew during the pandemic into a global movement across YouTube, Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, and Mixlr. With the kind of following he commands, he is an arresting presence who has mastered the social media platforms to spread his message.

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

My scepticism had a particular source. I am no stranger to Pentecostal and Evangelical settings, and I have long followed English, Australian, and American "Word of Faith" preachers, whose cultural and social frame of reference I have grown accustomed to and readily taken in. This, however, is a specific brand of exuberant Nigerian Pentecostalism that I never encountered even during my years in Nigeria. A shared heritage does not always guarantee a shared instinct in worship.

Years ago, a friend sent me links to recordings of prayer sessions, both rowdy and cacophonous, in which I could not fathom what was going on. My sensibilities, broadly Anglican and attuned to the liturgical, would have felt criminally assaulted.

Yet this, I suppose, speaks to the mystery of a God who is as attentive in all our noise as He is in our orderliness. I should not be too much of an Englishman for God; I know that He understands, listens to, and answers Englishmen too.

Getting to Old Trafford

The venue for the NSPPD UK Prayer Conference [YouTube] was Manchester United's football stadium, commonly known as Old Trafford, and getting there was quite an ordeal. The buses were filled to capacity by the time they reached the second bus stop, so we had to board a tram. I spent the ride recalibrating our journey, and we opted to get off five stops earlier, since it proved the nearest stop to the venue on foot by that route.

We met up with friends, a couple I had not seen in forty years, and as we queued to gain entry to the grounds, we reminisced about our times of youthful religious innocence. I learnt that I was the one who had ministered to the husband when he gave his life to Christ some forty-one years ago. I simply had a recollection of where his conversion had happened.

A Feat of Organisation

On finding our seats in the stadium, we sat together, and from our vantage point the ground was almost at capacity on three sides, save for the area behind the stage. The whole setup was a logistical operation involving troops of security personnel, guides, ushers, helpers, and many more volunteers. It was a feat of organisational ability that left me quite impressed.

Something about the ministry of the man Jerry Eze suggests that prayers are answered, exemplified in big notices such as "We Dey Pray, E Dey Show" and "What God Cannot Do Does Not Exist." The first, in Nigerian Pidgin English, carries the sense that when we pray, the answers show; the second is the ministry's confident refrain that no situation lies beyond God's power.

This outfit caters for a broadly black audience, with a few attendees of other races. Patrons had travelled long distances for a touch of God through the ministration of this man.

Swept Up in the Sound

When the sound of praise and worship enveloped the stadium like a roar that would put an ecstatic football crowd in the shade, I was swayed by the sheer volume, and one could easily be caught up in the mass hysteria of congregational participation.

Most of the earlier songs were unfamiliar to me. I felt like an alien impostor, persuaded beyond my comfort zone to engage as I tried to appreciate this thing. The worship leader might have allowed the microphone to carry her singing voice to the speakers, rather than appearing to perform in a stadium yet losing out to sometimes unintelligible shouting. In fairness, the sound and acoustics did seem to improve as the event went on.

Another worship leader, apparently a Nigerian gospel singer, stirred my participatory enthusiasm at the prompting of old-time songs drawn from the recesses of my memory. Closed-caption signage, readable from my seat, could have helped, nearly as much as sign language would have. The default, as I saw it, was the ability to create a raucous din through the extreme exertion of voice and bodily movement, all for maximum effect.

Give Me Substance

The most impactful message I heard in this setting came in the lyrics of "Let It Show [YouTube]" by Kaestrings, partly excerpted below:

Give me substance,
Give me proofs,
Give me presence,
Give me You;

Give me substance,
Give me proofs,
Give me evidence,
Give me You;

Give me Your substance,
Give me proofs,
Give me fire,
Let it show that I met with You.

These words clearly identify with what this ministry is all about.

Yes, I was looking for ways to engage, even as I was overwhelmed by spectacle, performance, agitation, and vigorous incantation. It was so different to me that at times I was left a total observer, waiting to be shaken out of my stupor.

Prayers and Declarations

My concern was heightened as I heard many prayers and declarations with no punctuation, and no invocation of the name of Jesus except in the songs; as things progressed, however, we heard more in that respect. The many names of God were mentioned, but prominent in the list was El Roi, the God who sees me, first spoken by Hagar, an Egyptian servant to Sarai (Sarah) in the book of Genesis and the mother of Ishmael, Abraham's first child.

All the representatives who appeared on stage to take the microphone, regardless of how far afield they had come, including from Canada, prayed in the same almost riotous manner, one I had difficulty connecting with. It brought to mind the trigger behind the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, the three Hebrew men who refused to bow to King Nebuchadnezzar's golden statue. I simply imagined it as, "at the time ye hear the sound of the cornet, flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds of music."

I concede that far more people are attuned to this environment than I am. It yields results, judging by the testimonies of impossible situations transformed and the amazing, mind-blowing stories of triumph in life and circumstance. I probably need a better interpretation of the goings-on.

Testimonies Before the Man

In the run-up to Pastor Jerry Eze coming on stage, some testimonies were shared. A few spoke of answers to prayer received at previous conferences, and others of breakthroughs that had come through attending the 7am meetings online.

These accounts appeared to steady the atmosphere and to remind the crowd why they had gathered. Whatever my own difficulty in connecting, the conviction in the room was plain, and the testimonies carried a weight that the spectacle alone did not.

Gospel Royalty on Stage

Three hours into the orchestrations and events, Pastor Jerry Eze was somewhere in the background, yet to be ushered to the podium, perhaps long after I had gone. Then Nigerian gospel royalty came to perform: Mercy Chinwo, the winner of the second season of Nigerian Idol in 2012 and now one of the most celebrated voices in Nigerian gospel, known for anthems such as "Excess Love" and "Obinasom." I know none of her music, yet even I could muster the swagger, deigning to move to it.

After her, Dunsin Oyekan, the worship leader affectionately called "The Eagle" and known for immersive songs such as "Fragrance to Fire", became like John the Baptist, preparing the way for the man of God.

That figures of such standing would grace his stage said something in itself. It lent a weight beyond the capacity crowd, and confirmed that Jerry Eze is a good deal more than an internet personality.

An Acquired Taste

At the fourth hour, Pastor Jerry Eze mounted the stage, first articulate in a call-and-response declaration over the dry bones in our lives, commanding them to rise to life and living, before we were led to see that the place we were in was too small and that we needed to break out. After being led in prayers to bare our hearts and souls to God, we were blessed by the preacher to celebrate the answers to our prayers.

Then it was testimony time, and we rose to leave. I heard that proceedings drew to a close barely half an hour after we departed.

In concluding this piece, my honest opinion is that Pastor Jerry Eze is an acquired taste; it has to grow on you. I am glad I attended, for it was revelatory, and I tried to remain as open-minded and receptive as I could, even where those long conversant with his ministry were plainly carried along and I was not.

This should not in any way diminish the wonder and miracles that others have experienced by attending this conference, for which the testimonies would tell of a God who sees me, where I am, and touches me in miraculously stupendous ways.

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Essential Snobbery 101: Good Food Is No Substitute for Good Manners

2026-09-23T22:54:52.723+01:00

A Daring Customer

I am that kind of customer, sometimes daring and adventurous. I have ordered prescription glasses online, and I have been fortunate enough to order clothes, suits, and shoes from a catalogue without the need to return them, because they fit.

Most people would prefer a brick-and-mortar shop or a high-street store for such articles, where they can try before they buy; the daring, for me, is in trusting that they will fit at all.

I rarely try on clothes in a fitting room, except for tailored suits, where I expect the service personnel to be knowledgeable about style, fit, comfort, and suitable choices. That is their métier. Whether I am buying blind from a catalogue or standing at a tailor's counter, the thread that runs through it all is the same: service.

Curiosity and Its Rewards

Walking down a street, I might find an ethnic goods shop and step inside, my curiosity piqued by a sense of nostalgia; the same goes for restaurants too. What I expect is friendliness, professionalism, and service. Our common familiarity, if we choose to converse in our own language, still requires that standard to be kept.

Nine years ago, I walked into such a shop in Edinburgh, and what a welcome I received. A smiling, affable proprietor, ready to assist, presided over an Aladdin's cave of mouthwatering and irresistible delicacies. Amidst all the pleasantries, I treated myself to ready meals and drinks, but I could not leave without taking pictures of the shop.

A Tale of Two Reviews

A few days before, in the same city, I had visited a Nigerian restaurant, and I had a worse time of it than Dr Foster's visit to Gloucester. The service was abysmal. I was not attended to when I arrived, the place was dirty, dishes had not been cleared from the tables, and the personnel were glum. I had travelled far, and I should have left.

I wrote about both experiences. I write reviews about forgettable and extraordinary things, rarely about anything in between.

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

I published a review on my blog, along with an accompanying Google Maps page, and the shop has since garnered over one million views. Every few months, I get messages from the proprietress thanking me, though I thank her simply for being good, and for being good at what she does.

Blog - Edinburgh: MaDeb African Shop (June 2017)

Choosing Where to Spend

There are businesses I have visited that have never had a return visit, for all sorts of reasons: unprofessionalism, bad customer service, bad manners, a lack of attention to detail, or lapses in honesty, probity, and integrity.

There is also food served so hot that it scalds the fingers, usually because it has just come out of a microwave, and service so tardy that by the time the food arrives you have lost your appetite and it goes home in a doggie bag.

Sometimes it is the mild infractions that speak volumes; cutting corners, or bad vibes. In the latter case, it might be a me rather than them issue. Just as any business can choose to whom it opens its doors, I have the option to choose to whom I give my custom.

The Okra Stew That Never Was

A sudden desire for some home food had me grazing through Deliveroo last week, and from the menu I chose okra stew and semolina, asun and fried fish. Some time after my order was accepted, I received a call: they had run out of okra stew. I settled for egusi stew, when I should have cancelled the order altogether, but the logistics of getting my money back, coupled with hunger, had me settle for less.

However, I was promised that okra stew would be available the next day, or later in the week. Before I placed my second order, I rang ahead to find out whether it was on offer, and it was not. I would not go for second best if I had not already ordered or paid for anything.

Today, I called again, hoping to get my preferred choice. As soon as the male voice heard the words "okra stew", he simply hung up. All he had to do was say that it was unavailable, or off the menu. Service is the first component of an enduring business.

Good Food, Bad Manners

I did have my eye on bigger orders after sampling those portions. I am a random customer who chose this outfit from a list of options, and I will not be placing orders here again; good food is no substitute for good manners. That was the sum of my review.

In my view, how I am treated as a stranger could well be the experience of others. I do not assume I was singled out for the best or the worst a business has to offer. Nor do I wait to express my opinion on a service; I was on their web page, tapping away, and that was the seed for this blog.

The Call That Saved a Name

Halfway through writing this, I placed an order for Italian food from Vapiano, a global chain, using a 40% voucher Deliveroo had offered against any order, to be used by the end of the month. I had not used Deliveroo in over four years until last week. The discount left scope for a generous tip for the courier.

Then came a phone call. It was the man from the restaurant where I had wanted okra stew, pleading that he was returning a missed call. There was enough elastic stretching the truth to turn a wristband into a waistband. He had answered my earlier call, and I had spoken more than ten words before he hung up; that could hardly be called a missed call.

It is likely he had read the review I posted on their web page, and that this call was meant to ameliorate, to soothe my feelings. I had to hear him out before I remonstrated. That call saved them from being named and shamed in this piece. I have to write of my experience, though, rather than of my expectations.

This is the sentiment that governs every review I have given or written, and it follows that notable quote from Maya Angelou: "People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." You rarely ever get another chance to improve on a bad impression.

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Seventeen Years of Blessed Time

2026-09-22T14:35:38.509+01:00

A Diagnosis and a Diary

I have just read through the blog I wrote 17 years ago today, and I can only be amused at the humour that infused those pages: an admission to hospital that lasted 18 days, a cancer diagnosis, and the possibility that I had only five weeks to live. That earlier writing found the light amid it all, and reading it back now, I am struck by the tone I managed to keep.

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

That was how serious things were. I was in unbearable pain that medication did not seem to manage, and could barely tolerate. As long as I was lying flat, I was fine; the moment I put my left foot down, I was in agony.

The Path to Referral

I still remember the conversations that led to this, beginning on the Wednesday before. From the moment I saw my doctor, who took one look at the sole of my foot and immediately said, "This looks serious, I need to refer you," things moved quickly. She was soon on the telephone, urging the hospital to register me for the next available appointment as a matter of urgency.

She bandaged my foot, sent me home with painkillers, and secured an appointment for the Friday. When I attended the hospital that day, the staff decided I had to see the internist, who was not available until the Tuesday. No further palliatives were on offer, yet I somehow survived the weekend without the need for an emergency evacuation.

Admission Day

On the Tuesday morning I was chaperoned to the hospital. I took only a change of underwear, for I had no idea what to expect. For the first time in my life, I sat in a wheelchair, exhausted by the pain, when the internist, after the briefest of introductions, did not hesitate to say, "You're not going home; we have a bed for you upstairs."

I was registered, prepped, and soon wheeled on a gurney to the ward, where my vitals were taken and the process of medical triage and diagnosis began. They first ruled out diabetes by taking my blood pressure at my extremities, at my lower arms and below my calves. Then I was cannulated and given an intravenous infusion of saline solution with antibiotics. Thus began my first day in hospital. The very next day, my netbook was delivered to me, and with it the chance to write from my bed.

A Note on the Bread

With the netbook at hand, I set about recording the daily indignities, and here is the sort of thing that occupied me at the time.

"I ended up with the gluten-free bread meant for the patient in the next bed – tasteless, YuK! Yuk! I was, however, bothered because the bread was clearly labelled for the lady; I do not remember undergoing a gender reassignment overnight."

That, more or less, was my state of mind: frightened, in pain, yet still affronted by a bad slice of bread and a case of mistaken identity.

A Prognosis of Weeks

From a medical perspective, I am not expected to still be here. At prognosis, I was told my condition was treatable, but only if I could tolerate the treatment. The internist, who was also an MD, said, "If you cannot tolerate the treatment, you probably have only five weeks." Beyond that, studies at the time suggested that people presenting with my symptoms did not last a decade.

As it turned out, I could tolerate the chemotherapy, and it worked. For me to be here today, 17 years on, is a miracle of mercy and grace, blessed time rather than borrowed. I am thankful for each day. I have even survived another episode of cancer, and it is almost two years since I completed radiotherapy for that. That day is etched in my memory, and I am grateful to God, to my doctors, the nurses, my friends, my neighbours, colleagues, and the many well-wishers. You are all part of this amazing story.

Between the Pain and the Healing

I shall borrow an excerpt from the blog I wrote about my admission then, the closing paragraph, and whilst recollections might vary, through the pain and the ordeal I also saw beyond it. "Even in all this, one has many things to be thankful for; health is wealth, any day, any time. For all that suffer, I wish them a speedy recovery – yes, I got my netbook delivered to the hospital – there is much to talk about, between the pain, the sheets and the healing." (Yes, I used em-dashes in 2009.)

Thank you.

Blog - In hospital to kill the pain (September 2009)

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Wine is a Mocker

2026-09-19T18:40:14.104+01:00

An Early Acquaintance

My story with drink is long and interesting, yet these days I do not have a ready palate for alcohol.

My first taste of alcohol came with palm wine. My paternal grandfather had palm trees; though I do not think he was ever a palm wine tapper, he had the kind of demeanour that suggests he might have clambered up a tree at some point in his youth.

Traditional alcohol was offered to children, but bottled alcohol was completely forbidden.

At ten, away from my parents, I did drink Tennent's Light, a low-percentage lager in a can. None of the adults frowned on my consumption, and I always drank in moderation; there was never a second one, even when offered.

Lessons from the Brewery

My first job, at fifteen, was in a brewery, where I worked in the laboratory; I doubt I would have been allowed that opportunity outside Nigeria. My days were spent testing water quality, peering at dead yeast cells drawn from the fermentation tanks, and running quality-control checks at the end of the production line. There was enough in all of that to put me off lager, and consequently beer, ale, and cider.

Strong drink was an acquired taste that I eschewed rather than developed.

Yet in my family we have no history of the abuse of drink or drunkenness; everyone held their drink with dignity, and it would appear that more of the generations close to mine are teetotallers.

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

A Discipline of My Own

In social settings, I drink wine, preferably with meals, and never alone. It is a standard and a discipline I have set for myself, and I find the loss of self-control brought on by drink you have chosen to consume, rather than been forced to ingest, literally contemptible. Even the wine I enjoy is rarely more than a single glass, and I doubt I drink more than once in two months.

Once I had a sherry, from a bottle the barman probably had to prise out from a mooring of cobwebs spun by spiders long deceased, kept well out of sight, and then a glass of port, which does go well with Stilton cheese. I was soon sick all over the place, at home.

At any sense of feeling tipsy, I never wait for my legs to give way beneath me; one instance of apparent inebriation was a lesson for a lifetime. I also refuse to lend my tongue to the looseness that alcohol affords, as some people, who are no longer friends, once did to break the friendship.

Carried in the Blood

I do, however, appreciate that people have a drink problem for all sorts of reasons, including a congenital predisposition, for which there might be a need for intervention if a person has lost the levers of moderation.

There are those for whom the pull towards drink is not merely habit but something carried in the blood. A grandparent or great-grandparent who could not master it may leave a predisposition that surfaces generations later, and I would not dismiss that as fancy; the science of inheritance is real enough.

Yet a predisposition is a tendency, not a sentence. It explains the steepness of the hill; it does not excuse refusing to climb. Indeed, the one who knows such a weakness runs in the family has all the more reason to be watchful, for he has been warned by his own lineage.

Recognising a Problem

Even so, that warning is of little use to the person who will not hear it, and denial remains the first obstacle. I know people who will not admit they have a drink problem. You definitely have one if you soon lapse into incoherence and find that the marshalling of your faculties has deserted you.

In some cases, it is borderline; and when at the border, we cannot assume it has not already been crossed.

Whether there are excuses that stand the test of reason is debatable, but steeling yourself for any endeavour should not be achieved through Dutch courage, for it is a prop that would soon collapse under the pressure of application.

Wisdom from Proverbs

While my greater abstemiousness from alcohol is not religious, you only have to visit the Book of Proverbs to read the many admonitions regarding alcohol.

Proverbs 31:4-7

4 It is not for kings, O Lemuel, it is not for kings to drink wine; nor for princes strong drink:
5 Lest they drink, and forget the law, and pervert the judgment of any of the afflicted.
6 Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts.
7 Let him drink, and forget his poverty, and remember his misery no more.

And yes, there are places where wine is the bringer of joy and festivity, as in the ritual use of wine in religious service; but in each case, one would expect controlled and measured use.

Elsewhere, in Proverbs 20:1

1 Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging: and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise.

These verses all suggest that the abuse of alcohol leads to unfortunate consequences. The refuge of drink opens the door to foolishness, destruction, and forgetfulness of the essence of living; there is nothing productive in it.

A Final Word

Before I come across as preachy, I am not advocating a temperance movement or a form of prohibition, but moderation that can still be moderated. For those who drink to excess, you leave those close to you, who do not partake as much, all the more worried that you have already taken a few too many.

And if, on reading this, you recognise yourself in these words, do not take it as an accusation but as a hand held out. If this is you, there is no shame in the recognition; there is only the next, better step.

Most importantly, seek help, because there is a great deal of help out there. Wherever you are, a first step is often as near as your own doctor. Alcoholics Anonymous and Al-Anon operate in most countries, and many nations run free, confidential helplines; a local search, or a word with a trusted clinician, will point you to what exists near you.

Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) – Wikipedia

Alcoholics Anonymous ZA/ZW

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Imperfection Is Not Invalidation

2026-09-18T10:22:57.797+01:00

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

A recollection is, first and foremost, someone's story. That a memory may be imperfect does not invalidate the one who holds it, and denial by another does not disprove the event. On the Spencer revelations, and on why a recalled truth deserves more than a rebuttal.

A Book That Unsettles

The current serialisation, in the Daily Mail, of the 9^th Earl Spencer Charles Spencer's book "Swan Song: Diana, My Sister" is yielding quite interesting revelations about Diana, Princess of Wales, who died in 1997, and it has left the Royal Family reeling.

At the heart of the matter lies a phone conversation between the then Prince Charles and Charles Spencer. In the book, the earl recalls words the prince spoke to him in the days after Diana's death, to the effect of, "Rest assured, we'll forget her soon enough."

In response, the Palace has released a statement: "While we do not comment on books as a matter of principle, His Majesty is mindful that the pain of fraternal grief can cloud reason, affect judgement and colour memory in ways others do not recognise, even many years after such a loss."

Why Fabricate?

When I first heard this response, I did wonder why the earl would choose to fabricate such a statement and attribute it to the prince who is now Charles III. I am a supporter of the monarchy as an institution; at the same time, I appreciate that it is peopled by humans, just as you and I are, with all the vicissitudes of humanity in frailty, attitude, behaviour and conduct.

The conversation took place on the phone between two men who were, it seems, affected to differing degrees by the death of Princess Diana. The eulogy the earl gave at her funeral suggested there were issues between the Spencers and the Royal Family; I still remember the applause that rippled from the crowds outside into the church. I commend him for using that platform the way he did, even if a stuffy cohort felt it was improper.

Words That Stay

In my view, many conversations take place around us, and usually there is something within them that simply sticks; you never forget it. You hear it in your head, in the very voice in which it was spoken to you. For me, a medical professor stood by my hospital bed, after a cancer diagnosis, in September 2009, and one thing I remember him saying, amongst other things, was, "You probably have five weeks."

If I met that professor today and recounted that conversation, there is a likelihood I could be told that, in my pain, my reason had been clouded, affecting my judgement and thereby colouring my memory. Yet those words I heard clearly. Whether another might agree they were spoken is another matter entirely, and it does not invalidate my story.

The Survivor's Truth

This is not an abstract concern for me. I recognise the shape of this dispute, because I have watched the same manoeuvre used against me, where a memory is met not with denial of the facts, but with doubt cast on the one who remembers. I understand this better than I would wish to.

The same goes for other memories I recall vividly, whether it be child sexual abuse or serious emotional abuse, along with utterly reprehensible and unbelievable acts of cruelty meted out to me by people to whom I was a ward. I have heard denials, perhaps out of forgetfulness, or out of an inability to face the consequences of their actions, once committed in private, now brought to light. My experience and my story will not be erased by their blanking the event as though it never happened.

Any book I hope eventually to write as an autobiography will contain explosive revelations, and many of the nuggets already exist, scattered across almost twenty-three years of my blogs. The memories, even those from childhood, still play back like reels of film, each movement or sound relaying in emphatic slow motion, unmistakable cranial celluloid. I know what I lived through, how I felt at the time, and how some of it has affected me today.

When Memory Is Named

In the same vein, I am wont to believe Earl Spencer's recall of that phone conversation. A survivor does not owe you a convincing story; they can only tell you what they know. Whether you believe them, in the end, is entirely left to you.

Too often, a memory is renamed grief, pain, loss, misfortune or spite, or any other unfortunate experience that can be used to neatly dismiss it, or to cast doubt on its veracity. A memory may be imperfect, since we rarely have a recording to replay, but imperfection should never be mistaken for invalidation.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

The Folly of Promises Before Practicalities

2026-09-16T17:49:57.047+01:00

When Reality Meets Design

In a moment of lucid piquancy, we have come to realise that reality has a way of touching realism in ways so radically unexpected that a rethink is required. As I have written elsewhere, in my earlier posts on our laptop remediation activity, the theory and the terrain are rarely the same country.

I say this whilst appreciating the amount of work that has gone into crafting a "perfect" solution, only to find it unsuitable, or challenged by inconvenient situations that threaten the very premises we thought had accounted for everything.

Where Solutions Are Tested

When a solution is put to the test in a real-world setting, you find the gaps in your thinking first; then you discover the ways in which the common, the outlier, the exceptional, or the impossible render your solution inadequate.

In our case, a deployment to just 0.2% of the cohort revealed issues that will remain insurmountable until we have better data. Only then can we skew the solution towards those we can genuinely help.

What unsettles me is the arithmetic of it. If we are already encountering this many blockers with so tiny a group of testers, then the impact on the full 100%, had this gone out early, would have been more than a disaster; it would have been an overwhelming failure of insight and foresight, the very faculties none of us can afford to lack.

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

I remember a comment I made in an earlier blog: "we were working with architects whose confidence outpaced their familiarity with the environment in which their solution was meant to run." To use a colloquialism, the rubber has hit the tarmac and the tacks are flying.

The Value of Restraint

Within this morass lies the urgency to get the solution out, yet our initial reviews and feedback suggest that my reticence has forestalled a catastrophe. Restraint, however, never receives the honour it so well deserves.

We are at an impasse: how do we find normalisation amidst this chaos, so that a subset of the solution's settings can go out to the largest majority whilst we decide how to handle the difficult ones, and whether it is even worth our while to tackle them?

Promise Before Practicality

The biggest failing of this whole exercise is that promises were made long before the practicalities were addressed. The architects gave their assurances to the business before ever consulting the implementors on whether those ideas could be delivered, and that ordering, the pledge preceding feasibility, is where the trouble was seeded.

If you are not seeing through the glass clearly, you should not be gambling on the reality of the little you can see.

So, we do the only honest thing left to us: we wait for the data first, because only the data can tell us who we are truly able to help, and we promise nothing until it does.

Related blogs

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A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Photons on the Prostate: My Life After Prostate Cancer Treatment

2026-09-14T18:33:09.943+01:00

A Diagnosis at Fifty-Eight

I was just over fifty-eight when I was diagnosed. As a black man in the UK, where one in four of us will encounter prostate cancer compared with one in eight of the broader male population, the PSA test ought to have been offered long before I had to ask for it, especially as other indicators in my blood work already needed addressing.

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

I asked for it in early February 2024, and by the end of March my PSA had risen from 3.5 to 4.0. What followed I have set out in full in my earlier series, "Men's things" and "Photons on the prostate": the examinations, the imaging, and the biopsy that confirmed adenocarcinoma in mid-June 2024. I will not retread it here. [Prostate Cancer UK: The PSA blood test] [Check4Cancer-Private]

Twenty Sessions Begin

Two years ago, I began twenty sessions of hypofractionated radiotherapy for prostate cancer. It was scheduled for weekdays alone, so I thought I could fit both work and the treatment in comfortably.

The treatment began on a Thursday, which gave me two sessions before the weekend. Little did I know how impactful radiotherapy would be. The chronic fatigue set in far earlier than expected, and the weekend literally wore me out.

A Toll on the Body

By the fourth session, I returned from the hospital and had to go straight to bed; I simply had no energy for anything. I obtained a sick note, though with the proviso that I would not be completely signed off work.

Then came a range of side effects. After the fatigue, my voice became a husky whisper, betraying such tiredness and exhaustion that, after one meeting, a participant asked my manager why I was still working. I had the capacity and the facility to continue, yet the toll could not be ignored.

Alongside this came urethral pain, bladder incontinence, and a greater urgency, all exacerbated by a prostate gland reacting to the radiotherapy. Coupled with nocturnal insomnia, I began to wonder whether I could be productive at anything at all.

Planning Around the Pain

Towards the end, I had to plan my outings carefully, as I could not go twenty minutes without needing to visit a toilet. I was prescribed paracetamol and codeine to ease the pain, along with Tamsulosin to manage the prostate issues, which I am still taking. I also obtained a RADAR key to access disabled toilets, and a "Just Can't Wait" card to show premises owners whenever I had an urgent need.

Four weeks later, I was ringing the bell, ending the treatment and ushering in a new life: the beginning of the story after prostate cancer. However, I needed to recuperate by taking long-term sick leave and having someone care for me, because home in Manchester was no longer convenient.

A Journey to Recover

Against the wishes of many, I jetted off to Cape Town to be with Brian, my partner. The trip was comfortable enough, because I used airport assistance for every leg of the journey. Even though I arrived in Cape Town literally a shell of myself, the weather proved almost as good an elixir as the companionship.

Much as I had every urge to return home, I took as much time as possible to recover sufficiently for general activity. My sick leave eventually ran to seven weeks, and I returned to work in January 2025.

In truth, I should have taken a phased return, but the burden at work was light, so I decided against it and settled in well enough. In time, working alongside an occupational therapist, we found ways to manage both the work and the pressure.

Two Years On

Two years on, some side effects linger. The loss of my voice remains unexplained, even after review by an otolaryngologist and her team, and I put it down to one of the rarer side effects. Bowel incontinence can be occasional, bladder incontinence is quite frequent, and sexual dysfunction is not helped by the mental stress of it. The nocturnal insomnia, meanwhile, should have me beavering away late into the night.

Now, better and more targeted treatments are available in the UK, including ultra-short five-visit radiotherapy, tissue-sparing focal therapy, and new at-home medicines, all a far cry from the twenty to thirty-nine sessions of hypofractionated radiotherapy. [ICR: Thousands of men with prostate cancer will now be offered high-powered radiotherapy on the NHS]

Even so, I do not think I would have wanted to wait for these developments, given my determination, once advised to pursue active treatment at diagnosis, to rid myself of the cancer as soon as possible. I would not have been persuaded of watchful waiting or active surveillance in the circumstances.

A Word to Men

Three check-ups at the Christie Hospital, every six months, have had my Prostate-Specific Antigen (PSA) test results read at the lowest level ever. I can only advise that men keep their prostate health in view, have it checked, and follow through on any adverse results.

A visit to the Prostate Cancer UK website for the risk checker, followed by an at-home review of your own symptoms using the International Prostate Symptom Score (IPSS), is a sensible place to begin. Not every prostate enlargement is indicative of cancer, but every such situation must be checked and kept under monitoring. Thank you.

Blog - Photons on the Prostate - Three Things I Wish I'd Known

Blog - Photons on the Prostate - A year from starting radiotherapy

Blog - A prostate cancer diagnosis, one year on

Blog - Men's things - Prostate Cancer blogs

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

The Deed and the Doer

2026-09-13T21:31:59.133+01:00

On a T-shirt, a rainbow, and a play on a sacred word, there is offence enough to summon a mob.

Yet before we take up arms for our gods, we might ask whether Western Christianity would truly accept an Arabic Christ, and whether we have the sense of the old cow, who eats the hay and leaves the baling wire.

This is a reflection on symbolism, belief, and the fine but firm line between the deed and the doer.

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

Where Offence Begins

Religious symbolism, individual perceptions, and beliefs provide many opportunities to take offence. This became the core of a conversation in which I was invited to comment on someone wearing a T-shirt depicting a religious personality, with a play on one of the final words of supplication or veneration, all set in the context of human sexuality.

At first glance, there are so many things capable of causing offence, ranging across a spectrum from the merely unfunny, through the disrespectful and the sacrilegious, to outright blasphemy.

Each could attract anything from a simple flinch to an outrage that seeks out a mob for retribution, all in response to this perceived denigration of symbols and language. Such reactions often arise in the quest for an expansionist embrace of all things represented in our humanity; a sometimes-worthy goal, though one that needs wisdom in its deployment.

I will not dwell on the particulars of the item itself, for my concern is not the object but the impulse it stirs in us; the principle interests me far more than the personality behind it.

Confrontation and Its Limits

I would suggest that the confrontational approach sets people up against one another. It might well be a way of challenging norms, yet it is rarely the means by which one wins converts.

In terms of religious figures who walked the earth more than a millennium ago, it is quite unlikely that anyone truly knows what they looked like. The pictures we see of them today are figments of human imagination and artistry, quite awesome and commendable, but not real. For those who claim to have had visions or apparitions, my view is that revelation is only presented to the limit of one's capacity to perceive.

Depictions and Idolatry

Depictions might offer a sensual connection to the unseen, but they do not replace it; to think otherwise opens one's appreciation to a form of idolatry. Then again, depictions can be instructive or misleading.

For instance, the European masters have in many cases depicted Jesus Christ as Caucasian, with northern Scandinavian features, when, by reason of history and region, He would most likely have looked Arabic. Such features would not have made Him seem alien, nor His parents, when they sojourned in Egypt at the time Herod massacred every boy-child in Judea under the age of two.

The question then becomes this: would Western Christianity have been amenable to an Arabic, Black, or Asian Jesus Christ? Now, that is to court controversy, meddling with images and depictions preconceived to accentuate belief, yet upended by reasonable supposition.

The Lesson of Gideon

I am reminded of the story of Gideon in the Bible, who one night destroyed the idols of his community, so that they rose up to put him to death. His father was able to convince them to let the offended gods avenge themselves.

We should be careful of emasculating our deities by offering to fight for them as though they were utterly powerless, because the deeper issue is this: if a god cannot fight for himself when slighted, what is the power we believe he possesses? Gideon came to be known as Jerubbaal.

Belief and Fellowship

We all believe differently, to the extent of our own persuasion, and we do let the beliefs of others influence us, hopefully to buttress what we know rather than to pull apart and pull down our creeds. At worst, those who choose to meddle with the elements of our foundational beliefs put themselves at risk of forsaking our fellowship, communion, and friendship.

They might be misguided, but it is impossible to read motivation or intent from afar; we are left with our conscience to decide. One may hold an act to be unwise, even unnecessary, without presuming to indict the one who acts; the deed and the doer are not the same thing.

Perhaps I feel quite unperturbed because, in the admonition of one preacher, I have as much sense as an old cow: I eat the hay and leave the baling wire. The beliefs we hold are like seeds sown, which will grow in the ways we allow, for the ground of our hearts tends the seed to be fruitful, affected by heat, thorns, or weeds, for it is in these very things that offence reveals itself.

Keeping Offence in Perspective

Yes, we do get offended, but we must limit the impact to two things. First, the offender acts in a foolishness that does not engender the best of our humanity. Secondly, for all the offender does, I do not attach myself so closely to any man that I cannot cut loose when he is falling into the ditch.

The offender might be worthy of rebuke, and in extreme situations they might find themselves in receipt of mob violence. Even where the latter could be justified, I would not subscribe to it. We are allowed to deviate in how we believe, and to break away if no compromise can be found.

At the intersection of symbolism, language, depictions, and beliefs, the apparent offence of any one thing is kept in perspective. Another's journey, leading to redemption or perdition, is theirs alone; I refuse to follow in folly.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

A Picasso No One Can Repaint

2026-09-10T22:53:23.819+01:00

The Mad Hatter's Drawing Board

Every good farce needs its Mad Hatter, and mine arrives armed with a drawing board. That drawing board, the one we have returned to many times over the last six weeks, was the receptacle of imperceptible scrawls by a mad scientist whose antics do not, on the surface, look like a frenzy of demented absentmindedness coupled with a sense of all-knowing confidence.

No, what comes out at the end is what makes this a Mad Hatter you could, in your complete docility, be persuaded to strangle. The task itself was simple enough to state: to improve laptop performance in a tightly controlled environment.

There we were at the end of last week, on the cusp of completing this intensive work of art, in the sense that the automation now had snapshots, verbose logging, and user-initiated rollbacks, all at my insistence, achieved in stages of improvement that registered close to fifty versions of the code.

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

Two Questions

Then two questions, from different perspectives, quite literally upset the applecart. The first was why something that could be done by policy was being implemented by scripts. It was possible because the architect, the same mad scientist, had tinkered with the engine enforcing policy, in what I saw as a neat piece of coding.

The second question concerned supportability, to which I responded that, although there was a spectrum of knowledge available, the code presented a level of complexity that no one would grasp beyond tweaking it. My own suspicion, if I am honest, was that the code would eventually be ripped out rather than developed and maintained.

I suggested it was a work of art, the progeny of the architect, and that you will not get another painter to daub on a Picasso. A good analogy, but probably too suggestive in its reading, because the architect was soon back to trying to fix it. What resulted was a new design for what the code did, and we were back to square one with deployment by policy and preference; twenty-three tweaks had become ninety-two.

Policy Versus Scripts

The policy-versus-scripts argument comes down to something quite practical. Policy carries comprehensible text and well-known, configurable settings that are recognised right across the industry when it comes to endpoint devices.

Scripts, by contrast, are bespoke by nature, and far too many of them end up impossible to maintain or are simply left to function with their faults until something new can replace them. I am firmly on the side of adapting the concepts as designed and moving them into an implementation that others can actually support.

Skimming through the document, I could already see problems, some easy to correct, but others requiring a total rethink. The concept remained the same in terms of what was to be delivered, but there was a paradigm shift in the implementation that could no longer be done in the phases the scripts were best suited to.

A Promise Disappointed

Worse still, the settings from the scripts did not transcribe directly into policy text; I needed a reference website to derive the policy text for each required setting. Then came the realisation that many of those settings from the script had no commensurate policy text at all.

It did not help; it merely exacerbated the amount of unnecessary work that could have been done right the first time. I sense a kind of aversion to explaining or describing anything that has been done, with emails and Microsoft Teams chats substituting for this essential piece of communication that I have requested many times before.

At the end, an XML file that could have saved me hours of work was in the wrong format for ingestion. None of it was helpful; a promise at first sight was, in truth, a total disappointment deserving of excoriation, but I am too polite for that. I have a pattern-recognition insight into things that suggests an Originally Conditioned Distraction (OCD) to fix. At a glance, I saw that an XML delimiter had not been properly set.

Meticulous to a Fault

Perhaps I am meticulous to a fault, but it is to forestall and arrest faults before they cause issues. Erring on the side of caution always trumps bludgeoning through like a bull let loose in a china shop. Many may not agree, but you do not build a forty-year IT career on being reckless, especially after learning from interesting or costly mistakes earlier on.

This remains a work in progress. I am hoping the transition from scripts to policy will hold, though there are the various unhelpful gaps I have referred to the architect. So, I await the response, before chivalry from the Middle Ages requests the violent disembowelment of someone mercifully dispatched before they wreak additional havoc on the peace of our noble workplace.

Related blogs

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A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Men's things XXXV: A Man's Search for Dignity

2026-09-06T20:14:41.591+01:00

Pursuing a Diagnosis

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

I have found myself at the intersection where solutions designed for women seem to be just as suitable for men.

Many years ago, this first arose when I set about addressing folic acid deficiency anaemia. It was flagged when I noticed an out-of-range and irregular reading of my MCV (Mean Corpuscular Volume) blood test, which pointed, in the first instance, to a possible nutritional deficiency of folic acid, iron, or vitamin B12.

At my insistence, I persuaded my GP to order the specific tests for serum folate (folic acid), serum ferritin (iron), and serum B12. It was discovered that my folic acid levels were quite low; hence the diagnosis of folic acid deficiency anaemia.

Since then, I have requested the granular serum tests that sit beneath the headline MCV.

Pills Made for Mothers

I bought over-the-counter folic acid tablets, each with a strength of 400 micrograms. The label on the container carried the message, “Supports the overall health of your baby during conception and pregnancy.”

Well, I did a double take. The ability to conceive or carry a baby is not one I possess. My GP then gave me a prescription for folic acid at a strength of 5 milligrams, twelve and a half times that of the over-the-counter tablet. It meant I was not going to fix my deficiency by popping chemist pills.

A New Reality

Anyway, we have grown inured to watching adverts for sanitary towels and pads on television, and to seeing what the women using such protection get to do once their fear of leaking, and of embarrassingly revealing their flow, has been overcome by advances in sanitary towel technology.

Now, following treatment for prostate cancer with radical radiotherapy, I have experienced occasional bowel incontinence and regular bladder incontinence.

Once, in the case of the latter, it was the cover of darkness and a long overcoat that spared my blushes when my red chinos were soaked through.

Searching for Protection

For anatomical reasons, I could not simply start wearing feminine sanitary pads, just as I had taken to correcting folic acid deficiency anaemia with pills marketed primarily to fertile and pregnant women.

The male incontinence underwear I found was expensive, and it did not contain the urgency to the extent needed to forestall embarrassment.

The protection did not entirely eliminate the fear of emission or excretion; it offered only temporary safety, in the hope that you might reach the refuge of a convenience before the dam burst.

Adverts Not for Men

It goes without saying that the strain of advert music with the line “body formed for you”, or the tagline “Always with wings”, does not pertain to menfolk. Either we are too poorly served, or I need better discreet guidance when I visit a department that accounts for dignity in its solutions, without public spectacle.

So, imagine how I felt when a new advertisement came on television this afternoon for the Always Discreet Maxi Comfort Pads 9 Drop, offering the highest-absorbency pads designed for heavy bladder leaks, with a wider back for 50% more coverage and OdourLock technology. If only that catered for me too.

What We Actually Need

You might ask why I have not considered nappies for adults. It is a valid point, but that also suggests a level of incapacity and loss of control that is probably excessive for my current situation. It is a concession I do not think anyone, adult female or male, would make willingly if nature had not imposed it without option.

Minimal, unintrusive, anatomically aware, fully absorbent, and effective is what we need: coverage, protection, and odour lock without bulking out your trousers. There, I have written the advert for a product that serves bladder incontinence in men.

Breaking the Silence

My own route to this predicament was prostate cancer, but I am hardly the only man walking about with a secret and a spare pair of trousers in mind. Age brings it, an enlarged prostate brings it, so too do surgery, diabetes, neurological conditions, and plain bad luck; the company is far larger than the silence would suggest.

That silence is convenient for everyone but the men living it, and it is worth naming the circular trap at its heart: manufacturers under-serve men because men under-report, and men under-report because they find themselves so poorly served. Somebody has to break the loop, and it will not be the men, who have every reason to say nothing.

Which leaves the people who make and sell these things. I have, after all, written their advert for them; the product is the easy part, and dignity costs no more to design in than to leave out.

A slim thing built for male anatomy, an honest range of absorbencies, odour locked away, trousers uncreased, and a shelf a man can reach without rehearsing an explanation, none of this is beyond an industry that manages it handsomely for women.

A Matter of Dignity

The country decided, from January 2021, that period products should carry no VAT, recognising them as a plain necessity of life rather than a luxury; a woman buys them relieved of tax and relieved of explanation.

Incontinence products, as it happens, can also be had free of VAT, but only once you have declared yourself “chronically sick or disabled”, the very badge of incapacity I was at pains to avoid. [The UK Parliament: VAT on incontinence products (PDF)]

So, the tax is not quite the point. The point is that one necessity is met with a shrug and the other with a form; that dignity, for some of us, still comes conditionally. These things need thinking about, even if men's things rarely get talked about.

Related blogs

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A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Give the Doctor Somewhere to Go

2026-09-03T15:12:32.388+01:00

Why reading your own clinical results and asking the right questions turns a consultation into a collaboration.

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

An Unexpected Appointment

Once again, I found myself in hospital, more times than I would have liked in a single year. I have lost count. I had no reason why this appointment had been scheduled, and my anxiety was not assuaged when, just over a week before, I received a call telling me to attend the diabetes centre.

It was a poorly delivered message. The department I used to attend had been relocated to what was once the Diabetes and Endocrinology Department, but you can imagine how I felt until I received clarification.

In any case, it would have come as a great shock, because nothing in my blood test results indicated any cause for concern in that area.

A Confusing Journey

When I did set off from home, I realised the bus was running seven minutes late. Although I had given myself enough time to find this new location, my appointment notice had not been updated accordingly. So I returned to the old place, where the receptionist registered me before advising me to take a seat.

A few minutes later, the receptionist came to tell me I had to go to another department. She gave directions, but the signage left me navigating a labyrinthine route, unsure whether I needed to explore further down or check with someone else. I did eventually find the place, and it was kitted out like a temporary setup, with patients barely out of a daze from the trouble of getting there.

Checks and Confusion

A nurse called out my name to check my height, weight, and blood pressure. Having arrived later than expected, and given the discombobulation that ensued, I feared the readings might be high. I took deep, controlled breaths and folded up my sleeve; they fell within the normal range. Phew!

Half an hour after my arrival, another nurse came to check what I was there for; it seemed the relocation had also introduced inefficiencies. Apparently, I had been invited for the second jab of the HPV vaccine, which, when I took it, proved quite painful.

Being My Own Advocate

This is part of my personal medical advocacy. Literate people should spend some time reading and understanding their clinical results, because doctors sometimes do not have enough time to tease out the issues with you.

I recognise, too, that not everyone can do this alone; those constrained by education or digital access may need a trusted interpreter, whether a family member, carer, or advocate. That is precisely why those of us who can engage should and could do a little more.

When I do raise something, it is rarely idle curiosity. My questions are usually a way of satisfying myself whether a course of action is genuinely necessary. If you notice something outside the normal range in your results, bringing it up immediately elicits a response, whether an assurance that there is nothing to worry about, or an investigation requiring further tests.

Working With, Not Around

This is where prompting matters. When my consultant noticed my name on the board and invited me for a chat, my question about the creatinine levels gave the conversation somewhere to go. Those levels had been off the scale in late July, indicative of either an infection or kidney problems; if it were the latter, a change of medication might enter the fray.

Had I not raised it, the consultant might reasonably have assumed there was nothing more to discuss. Advocacy of this kind is not working around the doctor; it is working with them.

Along with the vaccine, a urine test was ordered, and late last night the results returned well within the normal range. I did not need a doctor or a consultant to tell me that, and my concerns were immediately allayed.

Essentially, we underserve ourselves in the quest for the best clinical outcomes if we leave everything to doctors as omniscient experts on our bodies, when we should be doing a bit more to keep them apprised.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Whom Is Pride For?

2026-08-31T22:07:31.467+01:00

An Early Farewell

The Manchester Pride Weekend comes to an end today, and it could not have come much sooner. The August Bank Holiday, from Friday until Monday, is taken over with festivities, revelry, and debauchery, depending on what takes your fancy.

I would rather be elsewhere, however. Last year I was in Cape Town, in the company of my husband and taking things at my own pace.

Falling Out

In the thirteen years that I have lived in Manchester, I have grown progressively disillusioned with the event, both for its commercialisation and its seeming lack of broad representation.

From the day in the Easter break of 2013, when a friend and I were refused entry to a club for no discernible reason beyond bouncer ego and racism, I have fallen out with Canal Street, which constitutes the main part of the Manchester Gay Village, along with the adjoining streets.

What frustrated us further was that there seemed to be no recourse, no obvious means of registering our displeasure. Yet a search of the Internet turned up news reports of exactly these discriminatory door policies, predicated not on fact but on prejudice, assumption, or the subjective judgement of the door staff at many venues.

An Unfair Assessment

That experience coloured my view of the Gay Village and left me with the impression that all the associated voluntary support organisations were of the same ilk. It was an unfair assessment, I concede, but it took hold because none of the ones I hoped might help were willing to do anything.

I live on the border of the village, yet I am the least engaged with the place, apart from walking through it if I need to get to other parts of the city.

Rights and Nuisance

As for Pride itself, the whole area is cordoned off into an enclave of activity that requires a ticket to attend; even so, you cannot be denied the public right of way to traverse it if you need to get through.

That, some years ago, became a point of contention between the security personnel, who did not know the law, and the police, who affirmed our rights.

Beyond that, there is the unneighbourly inconvenience of the cacophony, and of inebriated and sickly attendees becoming a nuisance on our side streets.

Not My Demographic

For what is supposed to be a community event, given the cost to attend and the interest in whatever entertainment is arrayed, I have found that I am probably not the demographic best served by most of what goes on there.

When I have deigned to purchase a ticket, I have never attended any of the performances; and once caught in the thickened crowd, I am already suffocating, so I rush back home for respite.

It is simply not a place of any comfort, whether alone or in the company of others. Now, I avoid it altogether and skirt the place, rather than insist on my right of passage.

Losing Its Way

Beyond community, Pride is supposed to help good causes, and we have many that represent different interests.

A few years ago, the establishment running Pride hiked prices, made their greatest profit, and then reduced their charitable contributions. It had lost its way, trying to rival and outdo the events in Birmingham and London by bringing in global acts best viewed at entertainment venues.

These acts were an exorbitant waste of resources in the quest for fame, and it led to the eventual, and just, collapse of the organisation, which still owed lesser acts who had given their time, resources, energy, and talent in the community spirit.

A Case for Change

This year, we were assured that the event would be more representative. I have not noticed as much. The ticket prices were still high; and whilst the acts celebrated more local talent, so that the total cost came to twenty per cent less than what was paid to the main act last year, I am still failing to find any sense of engagement.

My premise for sponsorship is broader accessibility and affordability, without anyone having to declare that they are in straitened circumstances to qualify for a concessionary ticket, assuming any are available at all, or so few that access becomes a lottery.

The influence sponsors hold over Pride management should be codified as invitational rather than institutional, never commanding or directing what Pride can and cannot do. There must be strict autonomy, alongside broad community representation in the decision-making process.

Watching from Afar

Apart from stepping out of my apartment block onto the street with my folding chair to watch the parades on Saturday, which had over 150 distinct participants, including organisations, companies, clubs, charities, establishments, and political parties, I have done nothing more.

The clouds did gather and rain on the parade at certain times, but it did not dampen anyone's enthusiasm. I was in my rain jacket and poncho, which kept me dry, though some braved the chill and the wet as if it were a bright summer's day.

Even the Service for Pride at Manchester Cathedral, which I would usually steward and sometimes take part in, I gave a miss. Two invitations to garden barbecues I ignored, rather than offer my regrets and risk being persuaded against my own inclination.

Protest and Celebration

It is my view that the Pride principle has long deviated from its founding ethos of both protest and celebration; it has become an over-commercialised affair that now merely grants access to those with the means, rather than a broad community celebration that recognises the diversity it comprises, in groups large and small. Pride has drifted from access towards exclusivity.

So the question remains: whom is the modern Pride for? The answer I have seen suggests it is not for everyone, nor for the well-meaning members of the wider community who wish to embrace one another in the pursuit of human rights and dignity, both for those affected and for their allies. These are all reasons why I am no more supportive of Pride in Manchester today than I have been for the past few years.

No Curmudgeon

As peace returns to my city by the end of today, I am not being curmudgeonly. We can simply agree that not everyone is energised by these things, and that there should be acceptance of this without heaping on any kind of excoriation.

Maybe, next year, I shall be just as absent from this annual charade, in the company of my husband, who, for his lack of exposure to these settings, is far too easily excited about Pride events for my liking or comfort.

Thought Picnic: Identity Formed by Timing

2026-08-31T00:27:03.695+01:00

Returning After War

Way back in my late teens, I had a friend, or someone I thought was a friend. We were agemates, and something interesting and significant caught my attention. It seemed that those who returned from the UK at the end of the Nigerian Civil War integrated better, taking up the growing opportunities in a recovering country, than those who did so almost a decade later.

Between those who returned well under the age of ten and those in their early teens, there was a generational difference in adaptation, a sense of being caught adrift. Staying in the UK for longer proved less beneficial to their sense of belonging or identity; though they had better English accents, they were unsettled, and sometimes having a less prosperous time of it.

A Shared Beginning

For some context, the people I write about and I were all born in the UK in the 1960s. I returned to Nigeria well under the age of ten, having barely been exposed to inner city mechanics and situations; they returned in their teens, late in the 1970s. What separated us, then, was not origin but timing. We were cut from the same cloth, yet a few years of divergence would shape us differently.

My observations are, of course, anecdotal rather than academic. Even so, I think the age-of-return hypothesis is significant, and I have alluded to it in other blogs. It is the quiet variable running beneath everything I am about to describe.

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

What They Brought

What they brought into the fray was a sense of fun. They were the best chess players and had figured out how to solve the Rubik's cube, though they were not better Scrabble players. The Nigerian educational system was a challenge, amongst the other things that left them yearning to return to the UK, if only they had the opportunity.

They were a restless lot, and of the many, there were two who, on reflection, had been exposed to the race and deprivation politics and the discrimination of the 1970s into the 1980s. They carried the scars of inner-city influences, influences that would not have engendered the most positive sense of self and status, even in Nigeria.

They were suspicious before they were trusting, questioning more than listening, ready to respond with violence on a dare without first putting things in perspective. That people envied their exposure, without understanding how they were the personification of a social construct beyond their control, one that amounted to a material deficit, could make for an interesting study.

An Identity Formed at Home

Here is where the timing mattered most. My blackness was always simply part of me, and that was settled in Nigeria, quietly and without apology, long before it was ever questioned. I grew up where blackness needed no explanation and carried no burden; it was simply the ground I stood on. There was nothing to defend, because nothing had been challenged.

So, when I returned to the UK, and the racist abuse came, as it did, it met an identity that was already whole. The abuse did not shape how I saw myself; it had arrived too late for that. I could regard it as a reflection of the abuser rather than a depiction of myself, precisely because the depiction had been drawn elsewhere, at home, on my own terms.

The teenage returnees, I suspect, had that sequence reversed. Their sense of racial self was worked out amid the hostility, not before it, and so the hostility got inside, where mine never could.

A Sudden Slap

This friend of mine gave me a stinging slap after a dare, a playful situation that suddenly turned strange. It taught me a few things. I would not rise to a dare that I had no intention of acting on in the first place. I do not care if I am called a chicken; they are the hardiest and most abused of animals, and they probably possess the greatest survival instinct and resilience in the animal kingdom.

As a consequence, I have no fear of missing out. I am usually told that I do not know what I am missing, to which I would respond that I cannot miss what I do not know. A slap is a momentary event with no follow-on; the embarrassment quickly fades into irrelevance. My temperament is not conditioned for violence. I am comfortable letting things slide, because what defines me is character, not machismo. Class is always understated, never dramatic.

On Character and Circumstance

I think environments and societal settings can influence character as much as mould it, though to varying extents. I cannot speak to the sociological truth of that. Yet I am left wondering whether my own equanimity was truly character, or simply the good fortune of a gentler formative environment, a self settled before it was ever tested.

Perhaps that is the paradox worth sitting with. The returnees had the richer exposure by one measure, the metropolitan UK, the accents, the chess and the Rubik's cube, yet the more unsettled outcome by another. I had the lesser exposure, yet the steadier sense of who I was. Sometimes, it seems, less can be more.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Contempt from the Ringside Seat

2026-08-25T23:01:40.632+01:00

The Ringside Seat

Imagine having a ringside seat at a boxing match, not because you paid good money for it, but because you share such a close relationship with the boxer that no other person would be allowed to take that seat, even when you were not present to sit in it.

The person you are supporting is the challenger for a title, and through the rounds they are pummelled and battered. Every round portends a possible knockout, yet the challenger endures. They keep going, taking the blows but never being beaten, and the points tallied at the end of each round add up to hand the challenger the victory and the belt.

Then, in your telling of that encounter, you speak of bloodshot eyes, of mouth guards being knocked out, and of the uselessness of the challenger, insisting that you could put up a better fight and walk away unscathed. That becomes the report you file, neglecting the simple fact that your person was the victor.

Telling My Story

In the story of my life, about which I have written quite extensively, there are many strands of adversity and failure; but the successes and triumphs bookmark the telling of this story, so that it would seem strange to major in the misfortunes.

One narrative could have been given in this light. Akin has had such a blessed life. I have watched situations of failure, joblessness, two debilitating bouts of cancer, and challenges that seemed insurmountable.

And yet you would not look at him and think he had been touched by anything but the good fortune of scaling through life on sheer luck and almost undeserved providence. What an inspiring story he has, should he ever wish to talk about it.

Rather, of all that could have been said, what got relayed back to me was a mis-telling of my story: a conflation of events, suffused with half-truths, then given the veneer of a wastrel and ne'er-do-well, constantly down on his luck because of his irresponsibility.

There is a useful distinction to be drawn here between interpretation and misrepresentation. Two honest witnesses may weight the same night differently, one dwelling on the punishment absorbed, another on the resilience shown; but neither is entitled to erase the result. Perspective explains emphasis; it does not license fabrication.

There is every possibility, like the person invited to the ringside seat, to tell a different tale with the outlook of a curmudgeon incapable of seeing the good in anything. We own the filters of our perspectives on things.

The Four Pillars

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

The architecture of trust, whereby your ringside supporter reports your story in the best light possible, the truth and not embellishment, the honest and frank assessment of what was observed, rests on four pillars: care, concern, consideration, and confidence. One could define those four Cs in the terms that follow:

Care: the baseline emotional investment a person has in your wellbeing.

Concern: the active protective instinct they feel regarding your vulnerability.

Consideration: the cognitive foresight to understand how their future actions might actually affect you.

Confidence: the secure container that the first three pillars create.

Blog: Thought Picnic: Confidences, Not Secrets

The Honest Retelling

An honest retelling, then, is one the subject can recognise, even when it is unflattering. You may wince at a true account, but you will not fail to find yourself in it. When the portrait no longer resembles the sitter, the fault lies with the painter.

Honesty also requires proportion. To recount the joblessness, the two debilitating bouts of cancer, and the seemingly insurmountable challenges, and yet omit that I am still here, still working, still writing, still standing, is not honesty; it is selective editing masquerading as candour.

When to Speak

With that in mind, it is difficult to understand how reality and retelling could diverge so far, so hurtfully, and so much to another's discredit, for reasons best known to the teller. When a portrait is this false, one feels there is little option but to confront it and to challenge the narrative set loose about you.

Invariably, if you have nothing good to say about someone, you are not obliged to say anything at all out of a need for conversation, small talk, spite, malice, or anything else. Your silence does not have to be bought; it is a quality of self-control to bridle your tongue.

Brian’s Point of View: Words Can Break Something We Thought Was Safe

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Essential Snobbery 101: The Slow Death of Proper Address

2026-08-22T02:23:40.077+01:00

A Stringent Beginning

It was almost a decade ago when I underwent a stringent vetting process with all the officialdom that extracted more information from me than I would willingly have volunteered. This process was supervised by a department within the organisation to which I was contracted to offer professional services.

When the process was completed, I received a notice from a member of staff confirming that I had passed all the requirements. It began with "Hi!" Just "Hi", without a name, stripped of all formality, dignity, and function, as though we shared the familiarity born of mutual friendship going back decades, rather than mere acquaintance.

I was reeling and altogether taken aback; this could not seriously have come from within the company with which I held a formal contractual engagement.

Insult and Injury

To add insult to injury, the person who signed off the message bore names suggesting a common Nigerian heritage, where the expectation is that a modicum of formality should greet those with whom you have never interacted before. Only after you have introduced yourself and established communication through a cordial response and acknowledgement should informality be considered.

This was analogous to an ingénue who had abandoned the sophistication of speech for grunts and howls.

From that day, I wanted nothing to do with that individual, and I made a point of expressing my displeasure at such an approach to their manager. My own manager attempted to apologise on her behalf, then suggested that we might have become old-fashioned.

Manners Never Age

Maybe we were; but good manners, in my view, can never be old-fashioned. They should always be fashionable and properly taught. Comportment, decorum, respectful address, honour, regard, and etiquette make the person and exude character.

I have worked in places where informality is the culture, yet I would still address you by name, and with deference, because I was brought up that way, and what you give out comes back to you in spades.

The Order of Greetings

Whilst I have spent four decades in the corporate world, any first contact with a person would always come with a greeting for the time of day: good morning, good afternoon, or good evening. Good night is usually goodbye.

Then comes the person's name, which might be preceded by a standard, academic, religious, military, royal, or political title. Professions deployed as titles, apart from "Dr" for medical doctors, are an exercise in pompous superfluity and self-aggrandisement.

At other times, it is "Dear" and the person's name. "Hello" is for friends. Then I close my messages properly, with a variation of "regards" and my name. In speech, it is formally the greeting for the time of day; I introduce myself with purpose if required, or await a response with names and preferences.

Pronouns and Coherence

On the new trend of pronouns, especially those that challenge the natural flow of the English grammar I learnt from well-appointed schooling, I would rather use a name than defeat the ends of coherence and adherence.

Good and traditional forms of address will always establish the standard of communication and the protocols of language. If someone is too well-spoken to use expletives in any way, it is unlikely others would deploy them when speaking to you; or at least they are guarded, and moderate their language with apologies for any unfortunate slips of the tongue.

The Art of Subtlety

Maybe, indeed, I am old-fashioned. I would rather be that than uncouth and uncultured. From my youth, my mode of address has earned me consideration, respect, and a hearing. Yet if I am overly formal in beginning a message with "Dear Mr Jones", when we have always been on first-name terms, you need not read any further to know that this is an expression of great displeasure.

Subtlety and discretion; the polite turn of expression that, on first reading, seems complimentary, until some thought is put to it. It is the way of the English, an art of communication lost to many for whom a good education might have been a luxury. It is not their fault.