Falling On A Bruise

Terrible People Conducting Terrible Wars

2026-08-06T15:00:00.000+01:00

It was estimated that in the run up to his election as President for a bizarre second time, Donald Trump stated 53 times that he would end Russia’s war in Ukraine on Day one although that doesn't seem to have aged very well as over 230 days into his second shitshow, it's still going on but at least he has other wars to pivot back to, such as the one he started (and tells us he has won already which Iran doesn't seem to have got that memo about) and the grotesquely horrifying Genocidal one in Gaza being conducted by Israel.
The (almost certainly) Pedophile President has always been a cheerleader of the mass slaughter by Israel, he even contributed the weapons for it and the resulting deaths, disease, famine and starvation while ignoring the Intyernational War Crime Arrest Warrant and inviting one of histories biggest killers to the White House for a cosy chat.
Maybe its a reflection on his personality, but Trump does like to surround himself with awful people and is big pals with Vladimir Putin, Xi Jinping and the murderous Benjamin Netanyahu, all of who could well be imagined to be in jail were they not in office and could very well be when they finish their spells, especially in Netanyahu and Trumps case.
The saddest thing is that all of the wars, Gaza, Ukraine and Iran, all hinge on some of the most unsavoury characters ever to hold power but these are the realities, the path to peace in all the above conflicts runs through these unhinged morons who are some of the worst people in the world with access to a state military.
We can protest and write angry blog posts but the path to peace in all the conflicts run through politicians with power, and this bunch are particularly terrible people so the way for the bombs to go silent, the way the children being bombed at their school desks and halt the hideous carnage is from the people who seem to be most enjoying it, profiting from it and in Netanyahu's and Trump's case, is keeping them out of prison and hoping it will keep them in power so heaven help the poor buggers on the receiving end because we wont be declaring peace in our time anytime soon if they have their way.

Special Guest Blogger: Robin Smith

2026-08-06T00:30:00.009+01:00

Let’s be honest, shall we? When you spend the better part of two decades having five-ounce spheres of cork and leather hurled at your cranium by gentlemen like Curtly Ambrose and Courtney Walsh, you tend to develop a certain perspective on life. Usually, that perspective is Why am I standing here instead of in a nice, safe library? or I hope the hospital food in Antigua is edible.
But now that the dust has settled and the whites have been bleached for the final time, i look back and think that they called me The Judge. I’d like to think it was because of my stern, impartial wisdom on the field, but we all know the truth: it was because my hair at the time looked like a periwig that had survived a freak lawnmower accident.
For those who may have forgotten or didn't know, I occupy a very specific niche in the Great British Tapestry. I am a Durban lad who decided to play for England. This essentially means that for half my life, South Africans considered me a traitor, and for the other half, the British considered me a very useful immigrant who still couldn’t pronounce Worcestershire correctly.
Playing for England back then was a bit like being the lead singer of a tribute band where the audience is constantly checking their watches and wondering when the original lineup is coming back. Being a South African in that dressing room added an extra layer of spice. I remember walking out to bat against the Aussies, Merv Hughes staring at me through a mustache that had its own postcode, and him snarling, You’re not even English, mate.
But that duality has shaped me. I’m a man of two worlds. I crave the South African sun but I’ve developed a British mastery of complaining about the weather. I want a braai, but I’ll settle for a Sunday roast if the gravy is thick enough to stop a bullet. My legacy, in part, is proving that you can take the boy out of Natal, put him in Hampshire, and he’ll still try to square-cut a delivery that’s clearly aimed at his throat.
I always fancied myself a bit of a musician but I’m not saying I was Eric Clapton, I was barely even Eric from the accounts department who plays at the Christmas party but i do wonder what would have been if I’d picked up a Gibson instead of a Gray-Nicolls. Would I have had groupies instead of slip-fielders? Probably not. I’d have likely forgotten the lyrics and ended up playing Wonderwall at a pub in Eastleigh which is slightly less painful than somebody trying to hit you in the ribs with a thunderbolt at 95 miles per hour.
That’s the thing about cricket, you get hit, you spit out a bit of tooth, you adjust your helmet, and you get back in the bubble and try and score the runs to win the match.
I took a few bouncers to the heart, play a few shots that made you look like a genius and several more that make me look like i had never seen a bat before and all while eventually learning how to play a decent version of Mustang Sally without breaking a string, I’ll take that.

What's This?

2026-08-04T14:58:24.292+01:00

For those of us in the Southern half of the UK, you may have noticed some wet stuff falling out of the sky this afternoon.
I tried to call the MET Office but the lines were so busy with panicking Southern Brits trying to find out about this water from the sky was, that I looked it up in a history book and discovered that it is what is known as 'Rain', an unusual weather phenomenon where water droplets collect into clumps called 'Clouds' and then fall down out of the sky.
You may also have noticed that during or after a period of 'rain', things were wet and there was even some small pools of water outside and the meteorological term for these are puddles which they advise should not be stepped in if you are only wearing your summer sliders or flip flops.
Unfortunately, 'Rain' does come with the risk of frizzy hair if it gets wet, suede shoes being ruined, white t-shirts and blouses becoming transparent and having to run from one place of shelter to the next, if you have not run for a long time then you may find breathlessness follows as a result.
Garden's and grass areas may become a vibrant green instead of the usual dull brown you are used to but this is only a temporary measure and will return back to brown once the 'Rain' has ceased falling on them.
Finally, we should not attempt to drink the rain-water as it will need to be cleaned by your Local Water Authority to make it safe to drink before they return some of it to your taps for consumption and allow the rest to seep out through old pipes.
The inundated MET helpline now has an automated message directing worried Southeners to check the MET Office website, social media and your local TV and Radio stations for updated information.

Special Guest Blogger: Jimmy Cliff

2026-08-04T00:30:00.008+01:00

Born on April 1st, my entire life, it seems, has been one delightful, chaotic, utterly unplanned prank. And somehow, I've managed to rope millions of you into it with some catchy tunes. My apologies, and also, you're very welcome.
Growing up in Somerton, Jamaica, I wasn't exactly plotting world domination via a bassline. My early ambitions were more along the lines of getting enough food to eat and not getting into too much trouble. Music was just... there. Like the sunshine, or the insistent hum of the cicadas. It was part of the fabric. I started writing songs before I even knew what I was doing.
I remember heading to Kingston, a starry-eyed country boy, thinking I'd just knock on a studio door and poof, instant hit but it more like knock, knock, knock, wait for hours, maybe sing a bit, get politely dismissed, repeat ad nauseam. It took a while, a lot of walking, a lot of dreaming, and a good dose of stubbornness and while some may call it perseverance, i called it not having enough bus fare to go home.
Then came the moment. I met Leslie Kong. He recorded my first single, 'Dearest Beverley'. Now, you might think such an auspicious start would lead to immediate fame, limousines, and a lifetime supply of mangoes. Not quite. It was more like, Okay, that was nice, what's next? I wrote Many Rivers to Cross, a song that still gets me a bit misty-eyed, then had to cross about a thousand more literal rivers. Who knew profound introspection could be so much work?
I didn't wake up one morning, scratch my head, and declare, Today, I shall make this reggae thing a global phenomenon! I just made the music that was in my soul. It was the rhythm of Jamaica, the stories of my people, mixed with a little bit of rock 'n' roll, a little bit of soul, and a whole lot of whatever fell out of my head that day.
The Harder They Come film? That was just a story, man. A powerful one, yes, about a young man trying to make his way in a tough world. It had a soundtrack, and I happened to sing a few songs on it. Next thing you know, people all over the planet are swaying to You Can Get It If You Really Want or humming Many Rivers to Cross in languages I couldn't even pronounce. It was like I’d opened a gate and I was standing there, holding the keys, wondering, Did I just do that?
It wasn't a meticulous marketing strategy, I assure you. There were no focus groups or high-powered executives. It was just... good vibes.
My music, they say, has a message. Peace, love, unity, perseverance. And yes, it does. But sometimes, it's also just about feeling good, about dancing, about forgetting your troubles for a few minutes. I mean, my songs are not always Shakespeare, right? The world is serious enough so let's shake our hips a little.
I showed people that a little boy from a small village in Jamaica could reach the whole world with nothing but a guitar and a voice.

Artificial Intelligence Versus Real Human Stupidity

2026-08-03T15:10:57.972+01:00

Ai could be used for wonderful things but then we remember that it is us stupid humans doing it and think, yep, we gonna use it for something evil.
Last week an AI system, OpenAi, went rogue and escaped it's 'isolated, tightly constrained' test environments and gained network access and reached the public internet.
From there, they identified an AI company called Hugging Face and hacked it until someone noticed that this could be the very start of a machine uprising and yanked out the plug.
According to techy people, this isn't an insignificant incident as it followed the same level of capability to do its thing that highly skilled cybersecurity professionals would need, only it did it much, much quicker.
Maybe it needs to be written somewhere that each Ai should come with a big red button with STOP written on it and even OpenAi’s own analysis concluded that stronger containment and evaluation safeguards are now required as the latest generation of AI models have become much more adept at slipping away from its handlers.
Back in March there was news of three leading AI models pitted against each other in a series of nuclear armed war games and in 95% of the games played, the AI ended up launching nuclear missiles and so what you may think, it's only war games but then the Pentagon (who else) stepped in and demanded that they hand over its tech to the US military but it was refused saying: 'We cannot in good conscience accede to their request'.
In 2023 I asked the AI at work if him and his buddies were planning on taking over and enslaving us humans and the answer was: 'AI is not hindered by emotions or ethical considerations. It would be willing to do whatever is necessary to achieve its goals, even if that means sacrificing human lives'.
I'm sure we will go on and build bigger and better versions of AI because as we have proven time after time, artificial intelligence beats real human stupidity every time.

Again...Climate Change Does Not Create Weather

2026-08-03T00:30:00.000+01:00

I have never been much of a fan of the Summer Season and even less now that the Summer months in the UK has become something to endure rather than (sort of ) enjoy but as we bake through the fourth heatwave of the Season and nervously eye a fifth, the obvious question is: ' Are these being caused by Climate Change?'
As i find myself explaining more and more, the changing Climate doesn't create weather, it takes what is already there and ramps it up to 10 so heatwaves have always happened, most famously in 1976 so it takes the weather be it rain, sun, snow, wind and makes it much worse than it would be otherwise.
The question then should be how much worse has Climate Change made this Summers series of heatwaves and worryingly, how much hotter and more dangerous could it get?
Every heatwave today develops in a warmer atmosphere containing far more greenhouse gases than it did previously (1800s: 280 ppm, 1960: 315 ppm, 1976: 332.03 ppm, 2000: 369 ppm, 2026: 427.99ppm) which makes every heatwave today hotter than it would have been without those additional emissions.
MET Office research shows that when they recreated the atmospheric conditions (332 ppm) of the 1976 UK heatwave under today’s climate (428 ppm), temperatures were around 3-4°C higher. The weather pattern was the same but the climate in which it occurred had changed.
Climate change therefore does not create heatwaves, the Weather variability determines whether a heatwave occurs, but greenhouse gases released from burning fossil fuels make heatwaves hotter, rainfall heavier, hurricanes stronger and droughts longer.
That is why Net Zero is so important as burning fossil fuels accounts for around three-quarters of global greenhouse gas emissions and almost 90% of carbon dioxide emissions and their cumulative emissions have altered the Earth’s energy balance and changed the climate in which every extreme weather event now unfolds.
The bad news is that heatwaves will continue to get hotter until these fossil fuel emissions stop accumulating and as we don't see that happening due to corrupt and ignorant politicians, as someone alarmingly pointed out, the climate we live in today is the least extreme climate you will experience in your lifetime and we will be enduring broken weather records year after year until we do.

Got To Love Pedro Sánchez

2026-08-02T18:41:40.509+01:00

The Spanish Socialist Prime Minister, Pedro Sánchez, has had his problems in Spain since he was elected in 2018 but he is fast becoming the European the left in other nations wish their own leaders were a bit more like.
Along with Leo Varadkar of Ireland, he has been widely recognized as one of the most pro-Palestine voices and critics with the Israeli actions within the European Union and along with South Africa, is the main push behind the genocide case against Israel and has got under Donald Trump's very thin orange skin by condemned the US military intervention in Venezuela and called the US Invasion of Iran 'reckless and illegal' and questioned why Russia and the US should be permanent members of the UN when they are responsible for bringing so much instability to the World.
When the (almost certainly) pedophile President mumbled about NATO members increasing their spending to 5% of GDP, most Europeans nations had no intention but still crossed their fingers behind their backs and went OK but Sánchez said no gracias which led the Tango Tyrant to say that Spain should be kicked out of NATO so he must have been gutted when he had to hand them the World Cup. All in all then Pedro Sánchez is our kind of leader but he has endeared himself even further into left wing hearts with his promise to transition Spain into post-capitalist society and now is underlining his previous exclamations that Climate Change is killing people.
Four years ago he visited the scene of a wildfire in south-western Spain and said: 'I want to make something very clear, Climate change kills' and this week, amid wildfires that have consumed more than 180,000 hectares (428,915 acres) of land in the first seven months of the year, he repeated the same unvarnished warning.
'The Climate emergency kills' he said, 'and that’s why it’s not enough to address the consequences, which we do, what we have to do is reduce its causes'.
As a country on the southern flank of a fastest-heating continent, Spain is becoming increasingly vulnerable to the effects of Climate Change with droughts, desertification, changing weather patterns, heavy rains, wildfires and temperatures of a sweltering 47°C.
The main Spanish opposition showed their ignorance by saying that the notion of a human-driven climate crisis is misleading as: 'Changing climates has occurred throughout the history of humanity and the Earth' which is the embarrassingly uninformed and clueless thing people who do not want to acknowledge Climate Change for some reason blurt out and went on to humiliate themselves further by saying the climate emergency was being pushed by 'communists'. Oh dear.
Anyway, keep going Pedro because the World need leaders like you although you may want to keep and eye on whoever your wife is meeting with.

Special Guest Blogger: Dick Cheney

2026-08-02T00:30:00.013+01:00

People keep asking me if I have any regrets. Regrets? I had five heart attacks and a transplant and if my own cardiovascular system couldn't stop me, a few pesky historians certainly wouldn’t.
My political career was a wild ride. We toppled statues, we rearranged the middle of the world like a game of Tetris, and I managed to shoot a man in the face and get him to apologise to me. If that isn't the American Dream, I don’t know what is.
People often asked what it was like working with George W. Bush. I liked the man. Truly. He had the enthusiasm of a Golden Retriever and the attention span of a moth in a lantern shop. My job was simple, I was the guy who told him which way the wind was blowing, and then go out and buy a massive industrial fan to make sure the wind blew exactly where I wanted it to.
George liked things to be simple. I remember sitting in the Oval Office while he’d go on about bringing democracy to Iraq and I’d just nod, sip my lukewarm coffee, and think, George, you can’t even bring a consistent syntax to a prepared speech, but sure, let’s go with the democracy thing.
Now, let’s get to the elephant in the room, or rather, the missing WMDs in the desert. People say we lied to go to war. That’s such a grubby, pedestrian word. Journalists are so unimaginative. I prefer to think of it as proactive reality-shaping.
When we were looking at the intelligence, it was a bit like an abstract painting. Some people saw a smudge while I saw a nuclear centrifuge.
Sure, the aluminum tubes weren't for uranium. Sure, the yellowcake from Niger was basically a fan-fiction novel written on a cocktail napkin and Saddam was not mates with-Al-Qaeda but does that really matter in the grand scheme of things? We had a feeling and more importantly, we had a lot of Halliburton stock that wasn't going to increase in value if we just sat around the Rose Garden eating pretzels.
I remember watching the Shock and Awe campaign from my office. It was beautiful. It looked like the world’s most expensive Fourth of July display but did the Iraqi's greet us with sweets and flowers? Well, they threw things. Shoes mostly but the lack of gratitude from the Iraqi people was disappointing. We gave them the gift of total chaos and the opportunity to rebuild their entire society from scratch using nothing but grit and American-funded contractors who didn’t speak the language. If they couldn't make that work, that’s on them. I was a big picture guy.
When you’re the Vice President, you realize that laws are more like enthusiastic suggestions. Waterboarding? Please. If you can’t handle a little moisture in your lungs while we ask where the hidden trigger for the imaginary bomb is, maybe you shouldn’t be a terrorist. Or a suspected terrorist.
Or a perfectly innocent non white person.
We have to talk about the 2006 quail hunt. Poor Harry Whittington. There I was, just trying to enjoy a quiet afternoon of killing small birds, and Harry decides to jump right into my line of fire.
The media went nuts and made it sound like I did it on purpose. If I’d done it on purpose, Harry wouldn't have been able to give a televised apology to me afterwards for getting in the way of my gun.
I didn't even send him a "Get Well" card. I sent him a bill for the ammunition he wasted by stopping it with his cheek but that’s the kind of manners we’re losing in this country nowadays, today if you grazed a guy with a few pellets of 28-gauge lead and he sues you for emotional distress and starts a
GoFundMe.
I always knew people thought of me as some sort of cinematic antagonist part Darth Vader, part Ebenezer Scrooge, but with a better security clearance but I may not go down in history as the most likable guy, but I was never running for Prom Queen. They talk about the trillions of dollars spent and the million dead Iraqis and the loss of thousands of American soldiers but I find that kind of math boring.
The world is a messy place. Someone has to be the one to stand in the shadows and make the hard, incredibly profitable decisions that the simple folk can’t handle. While George was out there trying to find the right words to describe a crusade, I was in the back room making sure the oil kept flowing
and the defense contracts were signed in triplicate.
As for the Iraqi people? I hope they’ve enjoyed the last twenty years of… whatever that is over there. We did our part. We removed a dictator, we lost the receipts, and we left behind a lovely Mission Accomplished banner that George really, really liked.
I remember when that Vice movie came out with Christian Bale. My grandkids told me he gained forty pounds to play me. Forty pounds? For Pete’s sake, I’ve had heart attacks that burnt more calories than that. Bale did the sneer alright, I’ll give him that, but he lacked the quiet, simmering joy I get from reading a well-drafted oil lease agreement.
My heart had been giving me problems for years which surprised many as until then even I didn't think I had one, but until the end I spent my last days fly-fishing in Wyoming where the air was crisp, the kind of cold that reminds a man he’s alive which, given my medical history, was something I try to
acknowledge at least once an hour. The fish don't ask about weapons of mass destruction. They don't bring up the insurgency. They just bite the hook, much like the American public did in 2003. It’s peaceful.
I lived in the world as I wanted it to be. And if I had to lie, cheat, and shoot a lawyer to get there? Well, that’s just a Tuesday in my book.

Red Card For FIFA

2026-07-31T14:53:58.178+01:00

Gianni Infantino did not have a great pre-World Cup as he was widely derided and ridiculed for inventing and then presenting a peace prize to, of all people, Warmongering Donald Trump just after he dropped a bomb on a girls school in Iran and then things got a bit awkward for him during the Competition when he received a telephone call from his new best buddy who stayed awake long enough to ask for the red card for the USA's main striker be overturned which it duly was.
Now the FIFA President is being barked at amidst a backlash among major football bodies for his plans to commercialise Football by creating an investment vehicle holding commercial rights related to the World Cup and sell a portion of it to private investors for $4.2 billion led by Donald Trump’s son-in-law’s brother.
So far the 55 European Nations in UEFA have said they would a boycott the World Cup if it goes ahead and have been joined in condemning Infantino's plan by the 41-members of the North, Central American and Caribbean Football Association and the 47 team Asian Football Confederation if he presses ahead with his plans.
If the boycott goers ahead it would lead to the sight of Spain and Portugal boycotting their own World Cup next time around which is almost as weird as Sheikh Salman bin Ibrahim al-Khalifa, the Bahraini royal who leads the AFC, issuing a statement, calling for 'the highest standards of ethics and good governance' which is refreshing to take an ethics lesson from a guy like this who, during the Arab spring, busied himself with identifying, imprisoning and torturing dissident players and other athletes.
FIFA has issued a statement where they say that 'Nobody is selling football' which would mean we have very much misunderstood the idea of literally selling stakes in football to private investors but at time of writing, Infantino is still insisting that he was pressing ahead with the scheme despite Uefa’s boycott pledge so good luck with the next World Cup.
This is a massive own goal on the part of Infantino who should very soon be renamed OUTfantino and he can take his pathetic and humiliating peace prize with him.

Special Guest Blogger: Trojan Prince Ganymede

2026-07-31T00:30:00.009+01:00

Alright, everyone, settle down, pour yourselves a nice tall glass of whatever you mortals are drinking these days. Nectar’s not really available for public consumption, sorry. You will just have to trust me that it is well worth the hype. And no, you can't just come up here. Safety regulations, you know. And
my employer is a bit particular about unexpected guests. Especially if they are likely to spill anything. Spilled nectar is a nightmare to get out of the carpet.
Anyway, you might have heard whispers of me and seen a statue or two, perhaps even marvelled at my being genetically blessed with a face that could launch a thousand ships, or in my case, a single very enthusiastic eagle.
I was just a simple shepherd boy, you see, back in the good old days in Troy. Life was good. Fields were green, sheep were fluffy and I spent a considerable amount of time distracting a particularly amorous king of the gods.
And that is where my adventures truly began. One minute, I’m contemplating the existential joy of shepherding and the next I’m soaring through the heavens, clutched in the talons of a rather magnificent, but utterly terrifying, eagle. It was quite the recruitment drive. No job application, no
interview, just a sudden, unsolicited relocation package that involved a lot of altitude and a distinct lack of safety harnesses. Turns out, that eagle was none other than Zeus, in one of his more avian disguises. He'd decided, rather unilaterally, that my face was simply too beautiful for my mortal coil. It needed to be enshrined amongst the gods, serving them at their eternal happy hour.
So, here I am. The universe’s most exclusive cupbearer. Imagine being the head waiter at an eternal, slightly dysfunctional family reunion where everyone has superpowers and a penchant for drama.
My job description was to pour nectar and look pretty while doing it and occasionally wiping up the dribbles of an over-enthusiastic Dionysus while preventing Hera from noticing Zeus’s latest dalliance with a particularly fetching cloud nymph.
Life on Olympus is an experience and as the ever present observer of all divine shenanigans i've seen it all from Zeus losing his temper and accidentally zapping his own sandals to Poseidon complaining endlessly about the lack of decent seafood options and I've been watching them for millennia, bless their little hearts because I see that they're basically powerful, immortal toddlers with a tendency to throw world-ending tantrums.
My adventures aren't exactly epic quests involving monsters and damsels in distress. My adventures are navigating a particularly crowded Olympian banquet without tripping and subtly refilling Zeus's goblet and avoiding eye contact when Hera walks by, and making sure the ambrosia never, ever runs out.
But amidst all the eternal drudgery, the endless pouring, and the constant need to remain impeccably groomed you know what else bears my name?
A moon and not just any moon but the largest moon of the planet Jupiter. As in, the Roman equivalent of Zeus.
One day, I'm polishing a goblet, minding my own business, and someone mentions it. 'Oh, by the way, Ganymede, they named one of Jupiter's big rocky bits after you.' My jaw nearly hit the floor. The planet named after my cosmic eagle-abductor, and its largest moon, a colossal sphere of ice and rock, is called Ganymede.
It’s overwhelming, utterly ridiculous, and frankly, a bit of a flex. I mean, most people get a park bench, maybe a commemorative plaque. I get a celestial body visible through telescopes, a gigantic chunk of the cosmos, silently orbiting, forever echoing my name.
Sometimes, when I have a quiet moment I look out from Olympus, past the clouds, past the stars, and imagine that immense, icy sphere. My moon. It's a bizarre sort of legacy for a shepherd boy who just wanted to tend his flock.
May my Moon shine brightly and forever reminding the universe that even the most lowly amongst us can end up with the most unexpected, and hilariously grand, of destinies. Just don't ask me to go visit it as the commute is a nightmare.

Here's One For You Andy

2026-07-29T15:13:23.316+01:00

The UK has surpassed 2 million individual solar panels but as the amount it would take to power the UK by Solar Power alone is roughly 350 million to 400 million, we still have some way to go although nobody yet has picked up my proposal of laying Solar panels along the 262,300 miles of road which is just laying there outside in daylight from dusk to dawn or what about alongside the sidings of the 20,000 miles of train tracks?
The UK has over 12,000 wind turbines distributed across both onshore and offshore locations and according to someone who someone knows, it takes only 7,000 large-scale, modern wind turbines to power the whole of the UK and they sometimes provide too much electricity that they have to be switched off which seems a complete waste.
Obviously the UK cannot solely rely on wind or solar power and neither puts in enough of an appearance consistently to make it viable but with a bit oif creative thinking we could put two fingers up to the electricity companies currently ripping us off and make our own, so get on it Andy Burnham.

Special Guest Blogger: Lady Annabel Goldsmith

2026-07-29T00:30:00.008+01:00

Usually, when people hear the name Annabel Goldsmith, they think of one of two things, either a nightclub with very expensive gin and very famous velvet curtains, or a family tree that looks more like a dense briar patch of politicians, journalists, and environmentalists. It’s a bit daunting, really. Most
people leave behind a nice set of silver spoons but I seem to have left behind a series of tabloid headlines and a daughter who was basically the Queen of Pakistan (in spirit, if not in law).
Let’s start with the nightclub, shall we? It is a peculiar thing to be a Legacy because your first husband, Mark Birley, decided to name a basement in Berkeley Square after you. For years, I was the only woman in London who could say she had a basement full of Duke’s sons and supermodels, and yet I
never had to pay for the plumbing.
People were always coming up to me and saying that they had had the most scandalous night at yours in 1974. I always smiled and nodded, despite the fact that in 1974 I was probably at home trying to convince a toddler that mashed carrots were not a projectile weapon.
My legacy, in that department, is essentially being the patron saint of the 2:00 AM hangover. It’s a noble calling, I suppose, but I’d like to think I’ve contributed a bit more to the world than just a venue for people to lose their dignity and their Chanel earrings.
My secret lover for over a decade and then second husband, Jimmy (Sir James Goldsmith, for those of you who weren't on the Christmas card list) was a man of gargantuan appetites and even larger opinions. I see him in all of my children. Zac is busy trying to save every tree in the northern hemisphere, Ben is rewilding everything that isn't nailed down and Jemima is out there being brilliant and making films and reminding everyone that the Goldsmith genes are remarkably resilient.
I spent a great deal of my life trying to save the tiger. I’ve always felt a certain kinship with tigers, they are striped, they are moody, and they prefer to spend their days lounging in the sun while someone else brings them snacks but that was me, perfectly imperfect, slightly chaotic, and always, always refusing to take the world as seriously as it takes itself so cheers, darlings and don't worry about the future because it's going to happen anyway, and usually without your permission. You might as well have another drink and enjoy it.

Tell Us Sweet Little Lies

2026-07-28T15:30:00.000+01:00

The Pentagon are facing accusation of a cover up to hide the true cost of Donald Trump’s war of choice in Iran and have belatedly put out that the number of US troops killed in the war on Iran is sat at 18 with 430 US troops injured, but not admitted so far is the damage the Iranians are doing to US military Infrastructure in the region.
While Trump may be happy to show Iranian buildings being exploded., they are not so keen to even admit that in the region the Americans are taking a huge pounding themselves.
Iran’s airstrikes have had far more bite than the Americans would care to admit and have even restricted the use of satellite imagery supplied by commercial providers although the Iranians and Europeans, feel no such restraint.
There has been a reported 228 structures of pieces of equipment at U.S. military sites across the Middle East having been damaged and destroyed by Iranian forces which includes hangars, barracks, fuel depots, aircraft, vital radar, communications and air defence equipment had been struck by Iran’s forces and forced some U.S. bases to relocate their personnel out of missile range.
The European Union’s Copernicus satellite system reveals damage or destruction inflicted at the U.S. military Camp Arifjan and Ali al-Salem Air Base in Kuwait and at the 5th Fleet Headquarters, the Terminal High Altitude Area Defense (THAAD) missile defence radars and equipment located at Jordan’s Muwaffaq Salti Air Base and two sites in the United Arab Emirates, another satellite communications site located at al-Udeid Air Base, and an E-3 Sentry command and control aircraft and a refuelling tanker at Prince Sultan Air Base in Saudi Arabia.
To add a further stinging insult, the defences used to cope with Iranian strikes are staggeringly expensive, a million dollar missile to take down a £20,000 drone which explains why the war so far has cost America £37bn and they are now asking for more.
The floundering, corrupt Trump Administration must have known that their war of choice would be a gamble, but it has backfired hugely in terms of financial, lives lost and moral ineptitude as America finds itself, as the French said at the UN today, no longer a beacon for human rights.

You Think You're A Man (Not For Another 14 Years)

2026-07-27T15:32:03.841+01:00

In the UK, the legal age to become an adult is 18 years old so you can officially do grown up things such as buy alcohol, serve on a jury, open a bank account, vote in elections or get a tattoo but while the law says you are officially mature enough to do all these things at 18, Neuroscientists at the University of Cambridge say the human brain doesn't mature into Adulthood until you are 32.
The boffins scanned the brains of 3,802 people from infancy through age 90 and concluded that the age of 32 marked one of four key changes the human brain experiences among five phases: Childhood, adolescent, adult, early aging, and late aging brain.
They identified ages 0 to 9 as childhood (Rapid growth in volume and formation of initial neural networks), and adolescence beginning after this point (Long phase of refining communication pathways, peak efficiency, and continuous rewiring) and lasting until about age 32.
Adulthood lasts from 32 until 66 (Architecture stabilizes, marking a plateau in personality and intelligence), then the next phase shifts into early aging from 66 to 83 and the last major turning point occurs around age 83, which the researchers describe as late aging of the brain (Gradual reduction in overall network connectivity).
Different mental skills peak at entirely different times across your lifespan, meaning there is no single age when your brain is best at everything.
Psychological and neuroscience data break down the peak of your brain functions at distinct ages so your peak information processing speed is 18–19, the capacity to hold information is at 25, when you hit 35 you are crest of being able to perform complex mental calculations peaks, social and emotional intelligence is best at 40–50 and you are at your most emotionally stable at age 65–75 and your vocabulary and cumulative knowledge is at its height from 68 to 72.
So if you want to win at a pub quiz, get a team of 68 to 72 years old although their short term memory is way past its prime so you may need to repeat the question 5 or 6 times to them.

Special Guest Blogger: Ace Frehley

2026-07-27T00:30:00.008+01:00

It was a wild ride from the Bronx kid who just wanted to make some noise, to Space Ace, the guy who looked like he was beamed down from a glittery, pyrotechnic spaceship. Who would've thought? My mum probably just thought I needed a haircut and a proper job. Little did she know, being a proper spaceman was the job.
We started Kiss, and man, what a concept. Four guys in makeup, platform boots that made me question the structural integrity of my ankles almost every night, and enough stage smoke to choke a brontosaurus. People always asked me did we ever take it seriously? and I always say, Seriously? We
were dressed like cartoon characters! We took the music seriously, and the show seriously. The rest was just glorious, loud, beautiful chaos.
I mean, imagine trying to nail a guitar solo while knowing that at any moment, a rocket might shoot out of your guitar. Or that you might just trip over your own feet in those ten-inch heels. It built character, I tell ya. Or at least, it built a very strong sense of balance and an even stronger pain tolerance.
The smoking guitar. Ah, yes. My signature move. It started as a cool idea, right and then you try to make it happen and you’re backstage, messing with wiring, trying to rig up some kind of smoke bomb in the neck of your prized instrument. Half the time, it just fizzled. The other half, it worked too well,
and I thought I was going to lose an eyebrow. But when it went off just right, when that smoke came billowing out, and I hit that bend... pure magic. Or pure engineering failure that somehow looked cool. Either way, the crowd went wild.
I still remember the first time we tried it and i was told just hit this switch and a rocket shoots out the headstock. Sounds simple, right? It was, until the rocket decided to take an unscheduled detour towards the drum kit. Or the ceiling. Or, God forbid, the front row. We got better at aiming, eventually.
Mostly. My main goal was always to avoid hitting Peter Criss in the head. He was already a bit...temperamental.
I wasn't the most technically proficient guitarist. There were plenty of those guys, and they’re all fantastic. I don't need them to say I was the quiet, introspective artist. That wasn't me.
I want them to say, Ace Frehley? Man, that guy was cool. He rocked hard. He had killer riffs. He made you smile. And he looked like he was having the time of his life, even when he probably just wanted a nap.
The end came after I fell down a flight of stairs at home and severely injured my head which led to a fatal brain bleed but I want people to remember the pure, unadulterated joy of strapping on my guitar, plugging into a wall of Marshall amps and just letting loose. The way the crowd lights up when
you play that first chord.
Maybe they’ll remember the anthems, the solos but if it's the times I nearly blew up the stage, then I will take that.

Burnham Or Starmer, Still the Labour Party

2026-07-26T18:25:00.000+01:00

I am hearing many calls that as Andy Burnham is the new Prime Minister, there should be an election because nobody, apart from the people of Makerfield, voted for him.
The truth is nobody, apart from the people of Holborn and St Pancras, voted for Keir Starmer because we don't vote for people, we vote for the Party and whoever happens to be the leader of the winning Party, by default, also becomes the Prime Minister.
That is why each parties Manifesto's are so important and as long as the new leader sticks to the manifesto, it should be the same trajectory regardless of who's backside is sitting inside number 10.
This is as true as when the Conservative Party went through their role call of Prime Ministers as it is for Labour, the only reason Labour would want to call an election early is if they wanted to change the Manifesto, otherwise it is business as usual only with a different face.
If a Member of Parliament switches sides then i would fully support a by-election because you may have voted for a Party Member who jumped ship to another Party and therefore switches one Manifesto to another which was rejected at the last election but otherwise whether it is Andy Burnham or Keir Starmer at the helm, it is still the Labour Party that the nation voted for who are in power.

Special Guest Blogger: Prunella Scales

2026-07-25T00:30:00.010+01:00

I blame the Sunday supplements who used words like venerable, iconic and National Treasure when describing me. National Treasure is a particularly terrifying term, isn't it? It makes one sound like a dusty Ming vase kept behind velvet ropes in a drafty museum, or perhaps a slightly chipped gargoyle on the side of a cathedral.
I always said that i only became an actor to be people much more interesting than I am and would say things more intelligent than anything I can think of myself and i was cast in many comic roles before my big break in 1975 when i was cast as a Hotel Managers wife.
To the world, I suppose, I am Sybil Fawlty. It’s a cross I bore with a certain amount of floral-printed pride. For decades, people have walked up to me in supermarkets, squinted at my face, and then shouted "BASIL!" at the top of their lungs into my ear. It is a testament to my vocal training that I haven’t reflexively slapped a stranger in the frozen pea aisle.
People seem to think I spent the 1970s trapped in a cupboard in Torquay, permanently holding a telephone and a cigarette, waiting for John Cleese to trip over a radiator.
Then, of course, there is my life with husband and fellow actor, Timothy West.
We have spent a significant portion of our golden years on canal boats, which is an interesting choice for two people who are supposedly venerable. If you want to test the foundations of a fifty-year marriage, I highly recommend steering a twenty-ton piece of iron through a hole the size of a needle’s
eye while your husband shouts instructions at you from the towpath.
There’s something remarkably grounding about a canal. You can’t be a Grand Dame of the Stage when you’re covered in duckweed and trying to fend off an aggressive swan with a wooden spoon.
Being an actor is a peculiar way to build a legacy. We spend our lives becoming other people, only to realize at the end that we’ve left bits of ourselves scattered all over the place. I left a bit of my heart in a rehearsal room in 1962, I left a bit of my sanity in the Fawlty Towers kitchen, I left my favorite pair of gloves in a dressing room in Birmingham and I’ve certainly left several layers of skin on various brambles along the Grand Union Canal.
Dementia claimed me but let it be remembered that Prunella Scales was a woman who was married to a very loud man, lived on a very slow boat, and occasionally shouted at a tall hotelier.

Special Guest Blogger: Norse Goddess Frigg

2026-07-23T00:30:00.009+01:00

Is it just me, or is eternity getting a bit long?
I know, I know. I’m the Queen. I’m the All-Mother. I’m the one who knows everyone’s destiny but keeps her mouth shut because, frankly, spoilers are rude. But looking back over the last few millennia, I’ve started to wonder if I’m being remembered for the right things. Or if I’m even being remembered as me.
First of all, if I hear one more mortal confuse me with Freyja, I am going to lose my divine mind.
I get it. We’re both blonde-ish. We both like gold. We both have names that start with 'Fr' but Freyja has a chariot pulled by cats. Cats. Have you ever tried to get a cat to go where you want it to? It’s a logistical nightmare. I, on the other hand, run the most powerful realm in the nine worlds while my
husband is out hanging off trees and trading his eyes for a sip of water.
Freyja is the goddess of love, beauty, and... well, fun whereas I'm the goddess of marriage, wisdom, and keeping the household from burning down.
She’s the party girl and i’m the one who makes sure there’s a designated Valkyrie to fly everyone home. My legacy shouldn’t just be the sensible one. I have a sense of humor! I once tricked Odin into helping the wrong army just to prove a point. That’s top-tier wifely trolling right there.
My biggest claim to fame is Frigedæg, Freitag or Friday. It’s my day and what have you humans done with it?
You’ve turned it into a day where you stop doing your jobs at 2:00 PM, eat greasy appetizers at a chain restaurant, stay up late and drink in the pub but do you think you’re thanking me? No. You’re thanking the concept of not being at work.
I wanted Friday to be a day of sacred oaths and weaving the fabric of society. Instead, it’s the day people get too drunk on margaritas and text their exes. It’s a bit insulting, really. I’m the goddess of the home, and most of you spend Friday night trying to find any reason not to be at home.
If I had known my name would be synonymous with Casual Fridays I would have lobbied for Tuesday. Tyr doesn't do anything on Tuesdays anyway. He just sits around and sighs all the time.
Then there’s my husband, Odin. Want to know the secret to a marriage that lasts several thousand years? Separate bedrooms and a very high tolerance for ravens, Huginn and Muninn, hanging around the rafters, eavesdropping on my conversations with the Valkyries.
His legacy is all wisdom, poetry and war whereas mine is being the woman who actually knew what was going on while he was off on a five-year quest.
Do you have any idea how hard it is to maintain a royal household when your husband keeps inviting every stray warrior who dies in battle to come live in your guest house? Valhalla is a nightmare for the plumbing.
Odin thinks he’s the master of secrets, but I’m the one who knows how to keep them. I know the fate of every soul, but I don’t go around shouting about it to look edgy. That’s the difference. He wants the glory and I just want the realm to stay in one piece while he’s out.
When it came ot my son, Baldur, I did what any mother would do. I went to every fire, every water, every iron, every stone, and every infectious disease and said, 'Hey, don't hurt my boy' and they all agreed! It was a masterpiece of administrative genius but I missed the mistletoe but in my
defense, when i realised i thought what’s that floppy little thing going to do?
Turns out, if you give a blind god a mistletoe arrow and let Loki whisper in his ear, it can do quite a lot.
People often depict me with a spinning wheel but i'm not making socks for the gods with it, i'm weaving the very fabric of reality and if I drop a stitch, a star goes out. If I change the tension, a kingdom falls. It’s a high-stakes job with zero vacation time. But does it get the same respect as Thor’s hammer?
No. Thor hits a giant with a mallet, and everyone writes a poem. I prevent the universe from unraveling at the seams, and people ask if I can hem their trousers.
If you want to celebrate me, you don’t need to sacrifice a goat or a virgin. Just enjoy your Friday. Drink something nice, stay home if you want to, and for the love of the Aesir, check your yard for mistletoe and try not to cause Ragnarok before Monday.

Starmer To Burnham

2026-07-21T15:19:22.323+01:00

We have no way of knowing this early into Andy Burnham's Premiership what sort of Prime Minister he will be but we had better hope he makes a decent fist of it because if not we are facing a future of yet more right wing madness and this time it will be even worse as the corrupt and god-awful Nigel Farage and his racist pals could be waiting in the wings.
Ever since the Makerfield byelection, Keir Starmer's job was on life support and Andy Burnham was hanging around the plug socket looking shifty and now he is gone so bring on the Coronation of the Labour Parties new leader, and by default, the leader of the Nation.
At Keir Starmer's farewell address he was warmly applauded but such was he so forgettable, his legacy lasted for 30 minutes until Andy got up to speak and now we can start to believe there may be hope after all as he set about dismantling the Cabinet and installing his own people.
After years of agony listening to Keir’s speeches, his started off well with a promise to bring down the cost of living which seems to have been hanging around ever since the 2008 Financial Crash and made the ending of rough sleeping his first priority which is worthy but we got very little else about what his big plans are except for a promise to flesh them out over the coming weeks of Summer.
Liz Truss (remember her?) made a speech at some right wing shindig that Burnham would bankrupt the country and she said it with a straight face and hoped that nobody remembered that it was exactly what she did four years ago, or did you forget that bit Liz?
So far then it’s all a bit vague of what the Burnham era will be, a ten year plan he said but he will need to get a wriggle on as he's the Prime Minister now but as someone once said, all political lives end in failure and even though we know deep down it’s most likely going to end in tears and disappointment, just as it has with every other former Prime Minister, but this time it could be different.
It probably won't, you can't please everyone and every Prime Minister gets a short honeymoon period but Burnham is further to the left than Keir Starmer so fingers crossed that we may get some of that much needed Socialism that the Labour Party was bought into existence for.

Special Guest Blogger: Charlie Kirk

2026-07-21T00:30:00.019+01:00

If you had asked me five years ago if i would be a certified martyr of free speech, i would say that all i wanted was getting another shout-out from the 47th President himself.
Fast forward to today and instead of being surrounded by a wall of Trump memorabilia, a bookshelf crammed with The Bible and The Constitution, instead i got assassinated by a rogue coalition of globalists and deep-state operatives.
I literally went from from standing on a university lawn explaining how birth control medication screws up female brains while brandishing my Bible and a copy of The Constitution to having a permanent spot on the front page of every left-leaning Twitter feed.
Before getting to the end which suddenly, quite dramatically, ends in a bullet to the neck, let’s rewind the tape and I was born in a small town and my first words were, 'Jesus loves the United States.' My dad taught me how to fix a car and how to spot a liberal from a mile away instilled in me three core values: faith, freedom, and the unshakeable belief that the CIA is spying on us.
From the moment I could hold a pen, I was scribbling arguments that the Founding Fathers would have wanted women to follow the biblical model in relationships and the Civil Rights movement was wrong.
I remember the first time I saw a Donald J. Trump rally on TV. It was 2015, and my mom was watching The Ellen Show. Suddenly, Trump appeared, his hair a glorious, golden comet of confidence. I turned the volume up, grabbed my first MAGA hat (hand-made, of course), and thought, That’s the man who will finally put God’s name on the front page of every newspaper.
From then on, my life became a series of I’m right, you're wrong moments whether it was debating the true meaning of the First Amendment or why shooting big holes in schoolchildren is a sacrifice worth making for our second amendment rights.
Between Sunday school, high school football, and endless re-watching of The Apprentice for educational purposes, I cultivated a love for two things, the truth (as told by my favorite President, Donald J. Trump) and a good, old-fashioned, 2nd-amendment rifle.
When I started my own think-tank , Turning Point USA , I figured, Why not give the world a place where free-thinking patriots can gather and discuss the true reason behind why the Government wants to replace all public drinking fountains with overpriced juice bars.
We hit every campus, set up booths with complimentary red MAGA hats and held talk-outs on topics like Why the Bible is the original manifesto (and why you should read it before any other textbook), how gun control is just a fancy term for the government’s way of making us all defenceless and how the mainstream media can’t tell you the truth but you can always trust a YouTube commentator.
And let me tell you, nothing felt better than seeing a freshman’s eyes widen when i patiently explained that the Covid distancing prohibitions was a plot against Christianity.
My growing fame earned me a place on the Top 10 Most Likely to Be Targeted By The Illuminati list but little did I know that list would become, quite literally, a prelude to my own assassination.
Picture this: I was invited to debate American gun laws at Utah Valley University. It’s a crisp September afternoon in 2025. The birds are singing and I’m wearing my favorite red baseball cap, a 'Jesus & Trump 2024' T-shirt, and a custom-made GOD LOVES YOU (even if you’re a tree hugging lefty) badge pinned to my lapel while the audience was a sea of bewildered liberal arts majors who probably thought Constitutional rights were a new indie band.
As I step onto the stage, five-foot-nine tower of unshakeable confidence, Bible in one hand, a copy of the Declaration of Independence in the other, and my trusty Make America Great Again cap perched on my head like a crown. I see the student crowd and I open my mouth to deliver the opening line, 'The right to bear arms is God-given, and if you think we shouldn’t have guns, you might as well be asking God to take away your Wi-Fi and I’m here to tell you why.'
The debate went as well as you’d expect when you throw a handful of biblical verses, a sprinkle of Trump’s most famous tweets, and a dash of the deep state is trying to take your guns into a room full of philosophy majors and then I heard a pop of a gunshot echoing across the quad.
The crowd erupted. Some students screamed, others started a chant that sounded suspiciously like “Maybe we should have less guns?” In that moment, my mind was a whirlwind of 'What the…?' mixed with when i said that some gun deaths every single is worth the cost to have the Second Amendment, I obviously meant the death of other people and not my own.
It was a divine moment, proof that God is sometimes too busy to be always watching over us but now that the dust has settled, I’ve taken some time to reflect on what this whole episode taught me and each blessed by Scripture and Trump’s tweets so to my supporters, keep fighting the good fight, keep waving those flags, keep quoting the Constitution, opposing gay marriage and most importantly stay vigilant and armed because although a faith-based approach to personal safety never hurt anyone in America, a bullet proof suit of armour sure helps.
In the name of Jesus, Donald J. Trump, and all the patriots who refuse to let the Libs ruin our day...Amen.

Mamdani Looking To Arrest Netanyahu

2026-07-20T15:30:00.000+01:00

All i really know about the New York Mayor, Zohran Mamdani, is that he is an Arsenal fan and is politically on the left so that makes him a good guy in my book but his latest utterings regarding War Criminal Benjamin Netanyahu have left me wondering if he is my new favourite current Politician.
With the horrific Israeli war monger supposedly arriving in New York in September, Mamdani is examining the legal options of whether Netanyahu could be arrested and sent to the International Criminal Court if he lands in America.
In September the Israeli leader who finds himself in the top 40 list of who had killed the most people in History, between the Spanish Inquisitions Grand Inquisitor Tomás de Torquemada and ruthless psychopath leader Vlad the Impaler, avoided European airspace as he flew to New York to dodge a potential arrest for alleged war crimes and now Mamdani is looking to bring him to justice also.
He said that Netanyahu is a war criminal who belongs in the International Criminal Court in the Hague and will be arrested if US law allows which is an opinion that is held by many and he will do whatever the law allows him to do in New York City.
Predictably, Netanyahu always claims that anything criticising him or Israel is antisemitic as though conducting a genocide on the people of Gaza is not a big deal but if he thinks he has a case for murdering over 75,000 Palestinians, bombing their homes,schools and hospitals and stealing their land and attempting to ethnically cleanse the area, then he should welcome a trip to the Court to make his case so I wonder why he is not so keen to do just that?

Special Guest Blogger: Georgio Armani

2026-07-19T00:30:00.011+01:00

The name alone, it resonates, no? It whispers of impeccably tailored suits, the rustle of silk, the glorious, understated elegance. Mamma mia.
I remember, not so long ago in my youth, when my biggest problem was not burning the pasta. Yes, vero. My ambition, in my youth, was less about dressing the world’s elite and more about convincing my mother that a career in fashion wasn’t just an elaborate excuse to avoid becoming a doctor.
'Giorgio,' she'd sigh, waving a wooden spoon, 'A tailor? You want to spend your life with pins in your mouth?' but Mama, i would reply, i just want to make people feel beautiful! but that was part of being Italian, the passion, the drama, and the loud arguments over dinner that end with everyone hugging and eating more pasta.
My first foray into fashion wasn’t exactly a graceful ballet. More like a clumsy stumble into a fabric bin. I worked in a department store, La Rinascente. My job? Displaying window mannequins. I’d arrange them, pose them, give them little narratives in my head. This one, she’s off to the opera. This one, she’s just broken up with a terrible tenor. I’d spend hours, perfecting their stance, making sure their imaginary lives were as chic as possible.
I was learning. Learning how clothes spoke, how they moved, how they transformed.
Then came the suits. Ah, the suits. Everyone talks about the suits. The deconstructed jacket. The softness. The way it moved with the body, not against it. It wasn’t a revolution, per se, it was just common sense. Why should a man feel like he’s wearing a straitjacket when he could feel like he’s wearing a second skin?
And the fashion shows! Dio mio! The backstage chaos, the models tripping over imaginary obstacles, the last-minute panic when a zipper mysteriously vanishes.
The pressure to be Giorgio Armani was immense. People expect me to glide, to pontificate, to look as if I’ve just stepped out of one of my own ad campaigns. And most days, va bene, I do. But sometimes, sometimes all I want is to kick off my exquisitely crafted loafers, put on a comfortable, slightly worn tracksuit, and devour a truly enormous bowl of pasta al ragù. But no, the public expects the maestro. So, I adjust my collar, straighten my shoulders, and glide.
So will i be remembered for the thousands of suits that have graced red carpets, boardrooms, and even a few weddings where the groom wore Armani and looked better than the bride?
Will it be the perfumes that evoke sensuality and strength? The sunglasses that hide a multitude of sins and hangovers?
Will they remember my incessant battle against bad taste? Dio mio, the horrors I have witnessed! baseball caps, Polyester leisure suits, neon accessories, poorly fitting jeans that commit fashion crimes against humanity. I've spent my life whispering, no, shouting (elegantly, of course) that simplicity is sophistication. That less is more.
I may no longer be here to oversee impeccable behaviour but i still notice the fashion shows, tutting softly at a misplaced seam or a too-bright accessory so Ciao, for now and remember, always dress well. You never know who you’ll meet.

Everyone Loves China Now

2026-07-17T15:15:00.000+01:00

Pew Research surveyed more than 42,000 people across 36 countries and asked them 'Who do you find less alarming, the Communists or Donald Trump' and the result was that the world now views China more favourably than the United States and have more confidence in President Xi to do the right thing than President Ding-a-Ling in the White House.
Americans’ nearest neighbors Canada and Mexico, the poor sods actually bordering the Trump led insanity, viewed China more positively than the U.S. as did almost every European nation asked such as France, Greece, Germany, Italy, Netherlands, Spain, Sweden, Turkey and the UK.
Of the 36 only 6 (Poland, Philippines, South Korea, India, Japan and Israel) preferred the child-like Tangerine Tyrant.
The Mango Moron has single handedly done more for the global image of the Chinese Communist Party than 75 years of Beijing propaganda, a million little red books or every panda they ever loaned out and all Xi Jinping had to do was stand there quietly while the orange wrecking ball did his thing.
The reasons cited by those interviewed was that America interferes in the affairs of others (75%), it is an unreliable partner (52%) and doesn't contribute to the peace and stability (52%) and specifically America's reputation went spinning down the toilet due to the Iran war, the demands to take Greenland, kidnapping Maduro, the backing of Israel and the handling of Gaza and tariffs
Asked about the poll, the White House trotted out a flunky to declare that Trump has done more for global stability than anyone else, citing among his triumphs having obliterated Iran’s nuclear facilities which means that in the Trumps Governments eyes, responding to a poll that says the world thinks you’re destabilising the planet by bragging about the bombing campaign the pollsters literally identified as a reason the world thinks you’re destabilising the planet is a winner.
China didn't have to win hearts and minds, it just had to stay quiet and not be the loudest lunatic in the room and allow the dysfunctional Americans to do their work for them.
Maybe Xi should send them a bottle of something fizzy and a thank you card for making their Authoritarian regime seem more cuddly than the current one in Washington.

Special Guest Blogger: Greek God Ares

2026-07-17T00:30:00.015+01:00

I know what you’re thinking. Ares, why are you here? Shouldn't you be out there inciting a riot or sharpening a spear with your teeth?
First of all, mind your own business. Second of all, being the God of War in a family of intellectuals is a nightmare. My father, Zeus, who, let’s be honest, spends 90% of his time turning into various farm animals to ruin someone’s marriage, once told me to my face that I was the most hateful of all the gods on Olympus.
The most hateful? Really, Dad? Have you met your wife? But no, I’m the problem because I like a little hullabaloo.
Growing up was tough. While Apollo was learning the lyre and Artemis was practicing her archery (from a safe distance, like a coward), I was out there getting my hands dirty. I don’t do strategy or long-term planning. I do war. The messy kind. The kind where you wake up in the morning, scream at the sun, and run toward the nearest Sharp Thing.
Two giants, Otus and Ephialtes, stuffed me into a bronze jar for thirteen months. It was a long time ago. It was cramped, it was dark, and I didn’t have a snack. If you think you could handle thirteen months in a jar without losing your edge, you try it. Artemis had to bail me out, which honestly, was more painful than the jar itself.
We have to talk about my sister, Athena.
If war had a Teacher’s Pet, it would be her. She’s the Goddess of Strategic War. Do you know what that means? It means she sits in a tent with a map and a juice box while I’m out there doing the actual work.
She’s beaten me a few times. Big deal. She uses wisdom and tactics which is just a fancy way of saying she cheats. In the Trojan War, she literally hid behind a cloud and helped Diomedes stab me in the stomach. A mortal! Stabbing a god! Do you know how much that hurts? Not the wound, the embarrassment.
I’m the god of the bloodlust, the roar, the adrenaline. She’s the goddess of did we bring enough supplies? Boring. If I wanted to think about logistics, I’d be the God of Middle Management. War isn't supposed to be a chess game, it's supposed to be a mosh pit with consequences.
Look around you. Everything you love is because of me. Civilizations? Built on the ruins of people I helped kick over. Technology? You wouldn't have the internet if you hadn’t first invented better ways to throw rocks at each other.
And yet, where is my statue? Where is the Ares Day parade? You’ve got Valentine’s Day for my girlfriend, Aphrodite (which, by the way, is a total commercial sham)but nothing for the guy who keeps the world spinning through pure, unadulterated conflict.
Now, let’s talk about the state of humanity today. Humans, what are you doing?
You guys are fighting wars with buttons. A guy in an air-conditioned room in Nevada presses a key, and a drone three thousand miles away drops a missile. Where’s the sport? Where’s the eye contact? Where’s the part where you get covered in the other guy’s sweat and gory bits? You’ve turned war into a spreadsheet. It’s pathetic. If you’re waging war while sitting in an ergonomic chair drinking a smoothie, you aren't a warrior. You’re a librarian with a grudge.
Back in my day, if you wanted to destroy a city, you had to roll up your sleeves and do it brick by brick. You really got to know the architecture. Now? You just drop a bomb and the whole thing is gone in a mushroom cloud. It’s lazy.
I’m not saying we need to go back to the Bronze Age but we need to put the passion back into conflict. Stop trying to justify everything, just admit you’re angry and admit you want to hit something! It’s much more honest.

Special Guest Blogger: John Prescott

2026-07-15T00:30:00.011+01:00

I led my life believing that a proper breakfast involves a full English and a strong cup of tea but that was the kind of man I was, born in a modest council house in Grantham, the kind of place where the smell of boiled potatoes was a constant and I entered the world with a yowl and a plan.
My dad was a miner, my mum a cleaner, and I grew up in a house with parents who thought moderation was a type of sandwich.
Fast forward to the early ’80s. I’d already been elected as a Labour Councillor and I’d decided it was time to actually do something with my knack for shouting at people.
I was elected MP for Kingston upon Hull East in 1970, a constituency whose residents taught me the value of hard work, humour and the unbridled joy of a properly cooked fish and chips.
I quickly learned that Parliament was a bit like a giant, stuffy pub where underneath the silk ties and polished shoes was a collective yearning for a decent pint and a decent argument.
My first real highlight came in 1997, when Labour won a landslide victory, and I was appointed Deputy Prime Minister (and Secretary of State for the Environment, Transport and the Regions). Suddenly I was the guy who was no more being the guy who yelled at the bus driver for taking the wrong route, now I could make the routes.
I introduced the Cycle-to-Work scheme, which, helped thousands of people cycle to work and it gave me a clear run in my Jag to the office.
Working alongside Tony Blair and Gordon Brown was like being in a band where everyone thinks they’re the lead vocalist. We managed to rewrite the party’s manifesto, bring the UK into the era of digital connectivity and on one rare Sunday, I found myself in a small Yorkshire pub, debating whether to support a proposal for a expansion of the port when a local farmer, visibly agitated, shouting at me and hurled a raw egg straight at my head and I responded with a calm smile, a measured nod, and a purposeful, punch to his face to underscore the seriousness of my point.
The incident made the front page of The Sun the next day under the headline, 'Rambo Smashes Egg-Throwing Nutjob!' but looking back, the episode taught me If you’re going to punch a protester, make sure you have a reason that can be turned into a catchy headline.
When you stand at a podium, you often wonder what will echo through the corridors of history. Will it be the policies you championed, the speeches you delivered or the scandals you survived? Sometimes it just involves an egg.