TO BALDLY GO...

CRUNCH TIME

2026-05-15T14:00:42.801+01:00

t's time to come clean. To admit to everyone and myself that I have a problem. Addiction is something that creeps up on you. It starts with a taste, then a bit of recreational consumption and before long its a habit. I have to admit that it's become a problem. My consumption has become an issue and is threatening everything.

I am of course speaking about my love of crisps and savoury bagged snacks. Doritos, Wotsits, Nik Naks plus regular crisps are so delicious. I love them. But I'll happily demolish a so called 'sharing bag' in a single sitting and it has to stop.

It turns out my lack of willpower is actually a triumph of modern engineering. I’m not just a man with a bag of Doritos; I’m a biological system being dismantled by 'Vanishing Caloric Density' and a perfectly calculated 'Bliss Point.' I’m not weak—I’m just outgunned by food scientists.

But before I tackle the problem I feel I must rank those tasty delights...

Created using AI

I need to deal with my problem, but I have to be honest: cutting them out completely isn’t realistic. They are far too delicious for a total exile. Perhaps the answer, then, lies in moderation rather than banishment. From now on, crisps will become a weekend treat—something to be savoured and respected rather than demolished on autopilot. I’ll still allow the occasional mini multipack offering in my snap tin* for a bit of mid-shift morale, but beyond that, I must exercise restraint. It is a difficult path, certainly, but every warrior must eventually face their trials—even if that trial is flavoured with chilli heatwave.

*In Yorkshire, “snap” means food taken to work, and the “snap tin” is the sacred vessel that carries it.

This week, I headed over to my physiotherapy appointment for my back. I haven't mentioned my recovery from the cycling accident back in November for a while, but I’ve been attending private physio sessions for some time now. I’m making solid progress, and the treatment is definitely getting results, though I never imagined I’d still be feeling the effects six months later.

This week’s session was a bit of a departure for me: I had acupuncture. My physio did say I might feel a little prick but I said that's usual for me (didn't happen). It was a completely new experience—painless, surprisingly—and while it hasn't eliminated the pain entirely, it has made it far more bearable. The effects only last a few days, so it’s vital that I keep up with my exercises too.

A Birthday Shout-Out

Thursday saw Magnus, my beloved four-legged companion, celebrate his 5th birthday. He has been such a source of comfort, fun, and companionship over the years. I am so glad we have him in our lives.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

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BREAKING THE SILENCE: THE TECTONIC SHIFT

2026-05-11T12:54:00.001+01:00

marked the spot. Last week, the UK went to the polls. While I usually keep this blog a politics-free zone—mostly because things get messy and divisive the moment you frame them that way—it feels impossible to stay silent after the events of the last few days. We are living through troubling times, and I’m not sure there is an end in sight.

In England, voters headed out for numerous local council seats and mayoral posts. However, the stakes were even higher in Scotland and Wales, where people were voting for the Scottish Parliament and the Senedd, respectively.

In my corner of the world, there were no elections, leaving me as an outside observer. Unfortunately, what I observed wasn't altogether pleasant.

What I saw was a landscape of division. It feels as though people are being driven by a rhetoric of "us vs. them." The rapid rise of Reform UK is, frankly, alarming to me, and I struggle to understand the shift toward them. One reason I avoid political posts is that they tend to invite endless arguments, and I’m just tired. It’s disheartening to find that people I once considered perfectly reasonable now view Nigel Farage as an "OK bloke," and the media coverage often feels incredibly one-sided.

The results in Scotland were somewhat predictable, though Reform still made gains there. The real nail-biter, however, was the Welsh Senedd vote. It was clear leading up to the election that Labour was set for a loss, but the big question was who would step into the vacuum. It turned into a high-stakes race between Plaid Cymru and Reform. I find it baffling that Reform was even a consideration for many Welsh voters, given their stance on specific Welsh issues. While Plaid Cymru was ultimately victorious, Reform came in a very close second, fundamentally changing the opposition.

Closer to home, Reform made significant inroads into Sheffield City Council and actually gained full control of Barnsley. All in all, it feels like a sad time for the country. I’m really struggling to make sense of it all.

Perhaps the most surreal part of the week was watching the total collapse of the Labour Party. For a party that has dominated places like Wales for over a century, seeing them crash into third place felt like witnessing a tectonic shift. They didn't just lose; they seemed to evaporate in their traditional heartlands, falling behind even the smaller parties in areas they’ve held for generations. It feels as though the old political certainties have completely dissolved, leaving a vacuum that is being filled by movements I find deeply unsettling. It’s no longer a 'two-party race'; it’s a fragmented, unpredictable landscape that feels more precarious by the day.

The most exhausting part of it all was how the media treated last week. By billing every local council seat and regional post as if it were a high-stakes General Election, they gave certain voices a massive stage to perform on, often at the expense of the actual local issues people care about. It felt less like a democratic exercise and more like a carefully produced drama, and I can’t help but feel that this constant spotlight only deepens the divisions I’m seeing. For now, I’m stepping back from the screen to find some peace, but it's hard to ignore that the landscape of our country has fundamentally shifted.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

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CURTAIN UP ON ANOTHER YEAR

2026-05-07T12:24:00.001+01:00

irthdays are usually a personal affair—a time for others to celebrate you. Things are a bit different in our house, however, with Morticia’s birthday falling the day after mine. The beginning of May is entirely about "us": first me, then her. This year, there are no milestone birthdays to celebrate, and the plans are staying quite low-key.

The Ealing Escape

My "pre-birthday" was a bank holiday, so I avoided the crowds. I had no desire to join the masses desperate to do something "valuable" with their time, so I opted for an Ealing Comedy marathon instead: The Titfield Thunderbolt, Whisky Galore!, The Man in the White Suit, and Passport to Pimlico.

Reflection & Battenberg

My birthday actual began with quiet reflection, shared only with Magnus. I spent some time contemplating age, life, and the inevitable plummet towards death. That isn't me being morbid; it’s just being realistic. To be honest, it didn't quite feel like a birthday until Mum and Dad popped over, followed by my eldest. Later, Morticia and I headed down to the Riverside pub for tea. Between the gifts and the well-wishes, it turned out to be a thoroughly good day.

A more recent tradition has been the cake. Ever since my 50th, my best friend from work, Keeley, has treated me to a homemade Battenberg. She is a brilliant baker—her cakes are truly top notch—and since Battenberg is my absolute favourite, it’s become a real highlight.

The Joint Celebration

The next day was Morticia’s turn to celebrate. As we have done many times before, we combined our celebrations with a special trip, beginning with a short six-mile bus ride into Sheffield city centre.

We don’t get into town often, so we took the opportunity to explore the city of my birth. There has been an immense amount of regeneration recently, and we wanted to see the changes firsthand. One such project is the renovation of Leah’s Yard—a collection of 19th-century industrial workshops that has been beautifully restored to house independent shops, makers, and creatives.

Food was always a priority, so we headed to the Cambridge Street Collective. We first visited this food hall a couple of years ago and were impressed then by the variety and the relaxed atmosphere. This time didn’t disappoint, even if it was fairly quiet. The food was stunning; Morticia opted for Greek, while I went for a brisket burger.

As it neared time for the main event, we took a stroll through the new Pounds Park. I had to snap a photo of a Pete McKee mural for my blogger friend, Debra; McKee is a celebrated local artist whose work perfectly captures the essence of Northern life. The splodge isn't part of the original work and no one knows where it came from.

A Night at the Lyceum

Then, the main event: a trip to the Lyceum Theatre. I love the Lyceum; it is a true jewel in the city’s crown. A stunning Grade II listed Edwardian venue, it has an amazing history of survival against the odds. It sits proudly next to its younger, perhaps more famous sibling, The Crucible, which had only just finished hosting the World Snooker Championships.

Our entertainment for the evening was John le Carré’s The Spy Who Came In from the Cold, starring Ralf Little. Many will know him from Death in Paradise, Two Pints of Lager, or The Royle Family, but this role was a complete departure for him.

The performance was brilliant. Little was superb as Alec Leamas, the British intelligence officer caught in a web of counter-espionage and lies. The ensemble cast really shone, delivering a tense, well-paced thriller that perfectly captured the mood of the 1960s Cold War. You would think I’d have read le Carré’s work before, given how many spy and detective thrillers I’ve devoured over the years, but for some reason, I never have. I’ll likely rectify that after tonight.

A Final Surprise

Then came the added bonus. While waiting for our bus on Arundel Gate, directly behind the theatre, we came across the star of the show himself.

Ralf Little took a moment to greet us and was happy to have a photo taken—a fantastic birthday treat for both of us.

Looking back at the quiet, slightly morbid reflection of my birthday morning, I realise that these few days were the perfect antidote to those heavy thoughts; the "plummet" feels much further off than it did at sunrise on day one.

The "festivities" are concluded. The beer has been drunk and cake has been eaten, the spy has gone back into the cold, and the bus eventually turned up. I may be a year closer to the end, but at least I’ve got a photo with Ralf Little and a rested pair of legs to show for it.

Back to the real world tomorrow, but for today, I’ll just enjoy the lingering taste of almond sponge and the quiet of a house that’s seen a very successful birthday. Until the next one.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

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STEEL BONES AND STERILE AISLES

2026-05-03T14:08:00.008+01:00

eadowhall: a glass and steel monolith built over the bones of the old Hadfields Ltd steelworks in the Don Valley. I found myself there this week with Morticia, on a mission to find birthday cards for one another. Having just finished a shift at work, my enthusiasm was non-existent—though, in fairness, I never have much time for the place.

Meadowhall is a sprawling shopping centre just two miles down the road from my home. I’ve always found the centre to be a soulless labyrinth, a commercial necessity rather than a destination. The centre is often credited with the decline of Sheffield’s city centre and the nearby Rotherham town centre. Yet, amidst the sterile atmosphere, I had two brief, genuine interactions with the younger generation.

The first was in The Lanes; while I was eyeing up a collection of decorative skulls, a group of girls stopped to tell me they liked my jacket. Shortly after, a young lad interrupted my walk to ask about my band t-shirt, sparked by a shared love for the music, before eagerly sharing details about a gig he was heading to in a few weeks.

I don’t dress for the approval of others, but there’s a quiet satisfaction in a stranger recognising the effort behind the aesthetic. Especially when it comes from the younger generation.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

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PENSIONERS, POLISHED PLATES, AND PROPER CHATS

2026-04-30T12:35:00.056+01:00

henever my shift pattern gifts me a Saturday off, I tend to head over to see my parents. They only live ten minutes away, making it easy to catch up, though I usually have to wait for the "all-clear" text before dropping by. Like stereotypical pensioners, they insist on doing their weekly shop on Saturday mornings—stubbornly ignoring the quiet aisles of the working week to brave the crowds when the rest of the world is off.

I truly treasure our chats. Mum is the custodian of our family history; there is always so much to learn from her. I’ve been fascinated by our ancestry for years, and I suspect I’m being groomed to succeed her as the keeper of the stories. Dad, meanwhile, usually falls asleep in his armchair. Some things never change.

It wasn’t always this easy. We went through some rough years where we didn’t speak at all, but thankfully, those storms passed long ago. We’ve since settled into a happy, steady routine that I don't take for granted.

This week, we decided to treat them. Morticia, the boy, and I picked them up and headed over to one of Rotherham’s finest eateries: the Toby Carvery in Dalton. We are a family of simple tastes, and there is nothing quite like a proper roast dinner to bring everyone together.

We finished the afternoon off with a round of desserts—a chocolate brownie for Atreus, while Mum and I opted for ice cream. We all left full, satisfied, and happy. It’ll be a couple of weeks until my next free Saturday, but these visits always keep me grounded until the next one.

Tomorrow is Sigrblót/Beltane, the start of summer and one of the big events on the pagan calendar. The first of May is still important in today’s culture and celebrated to some extent; it even gets a Bank Holiday on the first Monday following. In actual fact, Sigrblót and many old celebrations aren't usually on a fixed date because most predate the modern calendar, using the lunar cycle instead. For this reason, I choose to celebrate by joining both the Celtic and Nordic traditions, as is my way.

I’ll be spending time at my altar, making offerings to Odin and asking for a successful year to come. Later, I’ll light the fire pit and settle in for some quiet contemplation under the stars.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

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PAVEMENTS, PYJAMAS, AND PERMANENT ADDRESSES

2026-04-24T22:51:00.021+01:00

enerally, I shy away from commenting on what people choose to wear. Personal expression is something I hold sacred; I’m a firm believer that you should be yourself and feel free to express your identity however you see fit. However, there is one boundary I simply cannot ignore.

It’s a habit that has bugged me for years—one that likely started further back than I realise, yet it still grates. I’m talking about wearing nightwear outdoors. To be clear, I’m not criticising a quick trip to the bins in a dressing gown or lounging in your garden. But heading to the shops—or the pavement—in full pyjamas? That is where I draw the line.

There is a couple I see regularly when I’m out with Magnus on our night walk. They’ll be out walking their own dog in full nightwear and slippers. Even under the cover of darkness, how is that right?

I might get roasted for this, but it’s a hill I’m prepared to die on.

Earlier this year, we lost our long-standing next-door neighbours when they moved on to a new place. Kat and Dave were in a similar position to the one we were in when we first moved here; it’s been a privilege to witness a young family grow and develop. However, their landlord was selling up, and they had to find a new home. The new owner is friendly enough—we’ve chatted over the fence many times—but like the previous owner, he doesn't intend to live there. He’ll be renting it out shortly, which makes me very apprehensive.

I have a real issue with landlords buying up the lower end of the housing market. It strips away affordable housing and traps people in the cycle of expensive private rentals. Of course, the solution is more social and council housing, but since Thatcher sold off the housing stock and prevented councils from rebuilding, the road back feels impossible—especially in an age where home ownership is framed as the ultimate, mandatory target. My grandparents never owned a house; they never felt the need to.

So, we wait to see who comes to live alongside us. I'm not sure who the "ideal" would even be. What truly makes a good neighbour?

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

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MYTH OF THE QUIET HOUSE

2026-04-21T12:25:00.011+01:00

very now and again, my wife heads off for a few days of well-earned respite. She’s with a friend who understands the ins and outs of her disability and knows exactly how to help her navigate the world to get the best out of the trip. This week, they are down in "that London" for a whirlwind of fun and frivolity. Me? I’m here, keeping the gears turning as usual.

In the past, I’d have thrown in a leave day just to soak up the silence. But the new shift pattern is a greedy beast; ten-hour shifts mean my annual leave vanishes far too quickly. So, I’m working through. Besides, "peace and quiet" is a myth in this house lately. Between my daughter, her boyfriend, and their son/our grandson all living under our small roof, the walls feel like they’re shrinking. An empty house is a relic of the past.

While she’s living it up at ABBA Voyage and Kinky Boots, I’m holding down the fort and keeping house. I don’t envy her the location, though. I’ve never been the biggest fan of the capital—it’s alright, but I wouldn't lose a wink of sleep if I never set foot in it again.

My heart is permanently anchored in the green, preferably where the air tastes of salt. Fate had a cruel sense of humour placing me this far inland, surrounded by the urban grime. People tell us we’re lucky to have the countryside nearby, but it’s a thin compensation when you’re wired for the coast.

This is the longest week of the shift rotation, and the house feels louder yet somehow emptier without my Morticia to come home to. Thank the gods for my ever-loyal dog, Magnus; he’s always glad to see me.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

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THE VIKING IN YOUR KITCHEN

2026-04-17T16:20:00.004+01:00

orkshire is the place of my birth, where I live, and where I will probably die. It is in my blood and, more importantly, in my voice. My accent is a mix of Old English and heavy Old Norse influence, brought by 9th-century invaders who settled the region. My particular flavour features Mercian roots—a "broader," harsher sound hammered into shape by 19th-century industrialisation.

When I speak, I’m not just using a regional quirk; I’m using a survival. My voice carries the weight of the Norsemen who sailed up the River Don over a millennium ago, weaving their tongue into the very soil. They gave us the thorpe in our villages and the gate in our streets, but more than that, they gave us a way of being.

Whilst our dialect is considered one of the purest surviving forms of Old English in Britain, I fear for its future. Modern media has diluted and softened the way we talk, and some still think a dialect makes you "common" or lower class. That couldn't be further from the truth. It is our identity. If we let it go, it is practically impossible to get back.

We don’t have a language we can hang our horned helmet on, but we certainly have our own words. They aren't curiosities for a museum; they are the gears and cogs of our daily lives. When I’m fettling my bike, grabbing my snap for work, or telling a mardy kid to stop being so nesh, I’m not just talking—I’m echoing those who stood on this same soil before me.

Words like loppy, gennel (soft 'G' in South Yorkshire, thank you), beck, gawk, addled, and wazzock all have a place on our tongues. Phrases like ey up, reyt, and put wood in't oil are small acts of rebellion against the softening of the world.

The Norse influence goes deep. A Wapentake was a historic administrative subdivision within the Danelaw; Yorkshire itself was famously divided into three Ridings (from the Old Norse thridjungr, or 'third part').

These might be marks on an old map, but for those of us of a certain age who spent our nights in the dark, loud corners of Sheffield city centre, the name 'Wapentake' means something else entirely. It was a subterranean sanctuary—a place where the history of the Danelaw met the thunder of rock and metal. It was a place with immense history and amazing memories for me, and (separately) for Morticia.

It’s where the ancient and the modern collided, and for me, that’s exactly where the spirit of Yorkshire lived. But while the physical 'Wapentake' is a memory, the dialect remains. It’s the one piece of our history we carry with us every day. So keep your accent broad and your words ‘reyt’—because if we don't speak for our past, nobody else will.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

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THE VOICE WITHIN - A CARTOON STORY

2026-04-11T13:58:00.010+01:00

epression has been described and personified in many ways. Those of us who live with it see it in various ways; for some, it is a ‘black dog’ that stalks and threatens. But I see it differently: it is a familiar, friendly voice that we learn to trust. It is coercive control from within. It is incredibly hard to describe, but I wanted to try in the only way I know how.

I decided to start this project in February when I went through my last bout; [you can read a post I published about it here]. If you don’t already know, I draw cartoons. Drawing comic strips was always my childhood dream. Whilst I did have a drawing published in the Dandy back in 1981 (see the clipping below!), I never truly realised that dream until the internet allowed me to self-publish. Since 2019, I’ve shared over 300 strips. Readership isn't massive, but the fact that people enjoy them is fantastic for me.

But I digress. Sharing this particular work feels different. It is very personal and revealing, and quite frankly, it’s a piece of my private landscape. My visualisation of the entity of depression is unique to my experience, but I hope I’ve captured the essence of that darkness in a way that resonates.

The whole process of creating this saga has been therapeutic. Translating these feelings into lines and panels allowed me to step back and finally understand parts of myself that usually feel tangled and obscured. It has been a way of mapping the shadows so they no longer have the run of the place.

I am incredibly proud of this saga. This week, I am publishing the prologue to a five-part series. The remaining four parts will be released weekly, every Tuesday.

Above is the first frame; you can read the full prologue and follow the journey [here] or check out the whole back catalogue [here].

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

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THE CHARIOT OF MÀNI: BEARING WITNESS

2026-04-07T14:00:00.119+01:00

oon exploration, when mentioned, has always been a thing of the past for me. A relic of the sixties and seventies illustrated by low-quality, crackly videos of astronauts weightlessly bounding across the lunar surface...

...until now.

This month’s full moon has welcomed potential new visitors. The Artemis II mission promised to send humans around the far side of the moon—further than anyone has ever travelled—and kick-start a new era of exploration.

The last time a human walked on the moon was December 1972. I was only eighteen months old, entirely unaware of the giants leaving the earth. Because of that, this moment excites me immensely.

I sat up and watched the launch with bated breath. Aware of the historical significance, our daughter let our grandson stay up to watch with us. I don't think he quite grasped the magnitude of that streak of fire, but we will be able to tell him he was there when he’s older. He is the same age now as I was during the final Apollo mission. While he only sees the glow of the screen for now, I am keeping this memory safe for him—a bridge between the moon-walkers of my infancy and the voyagers of his future.

I feel honoured to bear witness to this. I always felt I lived in a strange middle-ground where lunar exploration was both behind and in front of me, a feat I might never see in my own lifetime. Now, there is a real chance I’ll see a human step onto that orbiting lump of cheese.

In Norse mythology, Máni is the god of the moon. Brother to the sun goddess, Sól, he guides his chariot across the sky, accompanied by the children Hjuki and Bil, while the wolf Hati pursues them relentlessly through the dark. Seeing modern steel follow that same ancient path feels right.

Looking ahead, the Artemis mission represents a fundamental shift in our relationship with the stars. This isn't just about a brief visit; it is about building a permanent hall among the craters. By establishing the Lunar Gateway and a base camp at the South Pole, they are learning to live off the land—harvesting ice for water and fuel—and turning the Moon into a stepping stone for the long voyage to Mars. It is a bold move toward self-reliance in the deep black. As I watch history unfold, I am hopeful that the path paved by Máni today will be the one my grandson walks tomorrow.

I’ve been following the mission closely, watching history unfold. It is a worthy, hopeful diversion from the horrors currently unfolding on our own soil.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

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VICTORY OF THE LIGHT: SIGRBLÓT, CERNUNNOS, AND THE CRICKET CLUB

2026-04-03T11:30:00.003+01:00

aster is often viewed through a single lens, but history reveals a far more complex tapestry. It is a season of renewal and rebirth that predates modern practices by millennia. While some today may aggressively lay claim to these origins, there is room here for all faiths—and for those with none.

I choose to honour the ancient archetypes: Cernunnos, the antlered lord of the wild, and the Green Man, the bringer of life emerging from the winter’s grip. For me, this transition isn't a single day, but a journey—starting at the first stirrings of Imbolc and stretching through to the height of spring. It is the 'Quickening' of the earth and the spirit alike.

To our Norse ancestors, this was the season of Sigrblót. It marked the third and final great sacrifice of the year, a celebration of 'Victory' as the summer half of the calendar began. They knew that to win the season, you had to start with intent.

Writing this in the wake of the clocks changing here in the UK, the shift feels literal. We have reclaimed an hour of light which gives us a sense of awakening—a literal expansion of the day that calls us out of the longhouse and back to the forge and the field.

This year, that awakening took a very practical form. We were honoured to take our beloved grandson, Atreus, to a kids’ Easter party at Conisbrough Cricket Club—the same ground where we celebrated Hallowe'en last year.

Watching him run, hunt for eggs, and navigate his first game of pass the parcel was a reminder that the 'return of life' isn't just a myth—it’s the boundless energy of the next generation.

By the time we returned him to his parents, he was exhausted, sleeping with the deep peace that only comes from a day fully lived.

As anyone tasked with maintenance knows, the gods of the hearth and the gods of the high winds are rarely in total agreement. My plans for the Easter Bank Holiday weekend have hit a snag. Following the damage detailed in my previous post, further issues have occurred, leaving two panels and a post in desperate need of replacement.

I reached an agreement with my neighbour to split the costs of materials 50-50, and those materials are scheduled to be delivered today. The intent is there, but Storm Dave is on the horizon. With a forecast promising gale-force winds, Njord—the god who governs the gale and the sea—has not been kind to my timeline. It is frustrating to finally have the time and the resources only to be held back by the elements, but part of my path is knowing when to strike and when to batten down the hatches. I’m not sure what the weekend holds yet; for now, I wait and see.

We do not fight the wind; we build to withstand it. When Njord breathes a storm upon the site, we use the delay to sharpen our tools and refine our plans. A fence built in a hurry is a fence that falls; a fence built in the right window stands for many years.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

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MECHANICAL INVADERS OF SHEFFIELD

2026-03-31T12:30:00.027+01:00

obots, we were promised back in the 70s and 80s, were the inevitable future. But what was that actually meant to look like? Popular fiction has shown us every variation imaginable: mechanical servants designed to make our lives easier, or chrome-plated overlords destined to end us all, depending on which film you watched.

We are now more than a quarter of the way into the 21st century and, aside from inside factories, I’ve yet to see robots becoming part of the everyday fabric of life.

Until today.

When you think of robots, you probably—as I did—envisage these guys:

But have you seen one of these?

I’d seen them on television, usually in America, and I was aware of them appearing in London and Leeds, but I was genuinely shocked to come across this little chap in Sheffield. He was sat up on City Road. For those who don't know the area, this is Manor Top—a place with a bit of a "reputation."

In Sheffield, we have a way of testing things to their absolute limit. If you want to know if something is truly "Steel City proof," you don't put it in a lab; you put it on a street corner in the Manor. It’s an area that doesn't suffer fools—or fragile machinery—gladly.

I must admit, I feared for the little fellow. I actually got in touch with the operators because I thought he might be lost or abandoned! They assured me that this was simply its default parking spot, and it was merely waiting for an order to pick up. Apparently, they’ve been rolled out successfully in similar "tough" areas before, but I remain a skeptic.

Will the little guy and his siblings survive the challenge of Sheffield’s streets? One can't help but remember the ill-fated OFO hire bike scheme. Those yellow bikes were launched with similar optimism, only to end up being repurposed as canal-bed ornaments or stripped for parts within weeks.

Is Sheffield ready for this kind of mechanical integration, or will the spirit of the local hills be a bit too much for these tiny couriers? Time will tell if this robot is a pioneer or just the next resident of the River Don.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman. Whether it’s ancient gods or mechanical invaders on City Road, the daily reality of staying grounded remains the same.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of my journey and the daily reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join in:

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BONDS OF IRON OVER GEARS OF STEEL

2026-03-27T16:00:00.080+00:00

y bike is my loyal steed, my iron horse that gets me everywhere I need to go... until it doesn’t. I thought we'd started to forge a bond in the miles out on the road especially since my current daily go to was only purchased back in January, so you’d think we would still be in the honeymoon period. I certainly did.

That changed last week when I noticed an ominous creaking echoing from the chainset. At first, I chalked it up to a few days of accumulated road grit after some particularly wet weather. But after a thorough cleaning, the noise persisted, and the mischievous road wight finally revealed itself.

One of the pedals wasn't sitting right. It was immediately clear that the screw threads had misaligned. After a massive struggle to get the pedal off for a closer look, my worst nightmare was confirmed: the pedal had completely stripped the threads away.

Then began the quest for a replacement. After hours of clicking and swiping, I found plenty of 170mm and 175mm left crank arms, but trying to find the 172.5mm I sought proved to be like hunting a ghost in a blizzard. In the end, I was left with no choice but to order a full replacement crankset and new pedals.

Beyond the unwanted expense, it means the bike is officially off the road until the components arrive and I can find the time to fit them.

Fortunately, the weekend offered a much-needed distraction. I finally had the chance to catch up with my oldest and best friend, Ian. We hadn't sat across from one another since Midwinter, and the fellowship was a welcome reminder that while machines fail, bonds of iron don't.

We parted ways with a promise not to let so much time slip by next time. After all, it didn't take much organising—just good company and a bit of perspective.

When the machine fails—and it will—we return to the hall. We find perspective in fellowship. A broken crankset is a costly offering, but it is also a reminder that our true strength lies in the bonds of friendship that do not strip or fail under pressure.

The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman. When the gears of the world grind or the wights cause mischief, find respite in the saga.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more of the journey, the mechanical battles, and the daily tactical reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media. Join the fellowship:

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THE FUTURE'S ORANGE

2026-03-24T11:00:00.025+00:00

ublic transport is something I’m quite passionate about. Some might say it’s in my blood. Back in the nineties, I drove buses, but it goes back even further than that. I grew up with public transport in my life; it was always there as a backdrop.

My Dad was a bus driver for most of his working life. He drove through most of the seventies—the "heyday" of council-run services when travel was cheap and frequent. The stories I’ve heard from this time mirror the sitcom On the Buses. But my links with the industry go back even further: my Nan—Dad’s mum—was a conductress on the old Sheffield trams. I know little about her stories or even how long she worked for the corporation, but the legacy is there.

In 1986, the worst chapter in the story of public transport began. Margaret Thatcher sold a story of private competition bringing better service and cheaper fares. Passenger numbers were already in decline and reform was likely on the cards, but what happened was definitely not the answer. Fares quadrupled and services were cut, especially the more rural and "unprofitable" ones.

In the nineties, I found myself in a bit of a hole; I’d just gotten engaged to Morticia and had lost my job. My dad opened a door and got me an interview, which started an 11-year chapter behind the wheel. I loved the public service aspect but hated the monotonous nature of the job. I eventually needed more and moved on.

My bus driving days

Apart from London, buses have been subject to market forces and declining subsidies for 40 years. This has left us with a poor service that, for the most part, doesn't serve the public properly. Last year, however, the South Yorkshire Mayor stated his intention to bring transport back under public control through a franchise model. They also took back the Supertram network, reintroducing publicly owned transport to the region for the first time since the eighties.

This month, the Mayor’s office unveiled the look of the new network. Heavily influenced by Manchester’s "Bee Network," the livery and name are massive callbacks to our region’s history. The name—"South Yorkshire People’s Network"—nods to the 80s nickname: the "People’s Republic of South Yorkshire." The bright orange is supposed to represent molten steel. I love the new scheme (partly because orange is my favourite colour) and it will be applied to the trams too.

The most important detail in this news is the joining up of fares and ticketing. As a regular user, this is vital; it removes the confusion for both regular and casual users.

So, the future is bright (orange) for public transport here in South Yorkshire. I hope the changes mean a better service for those areas that have lost or seen services reduced over the years. I can’t wait for my first ride on an orange bus.

Read the full story on BBC News: https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/cjrqxz22z3vo

The spirit of the "Urban Viking"—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more about my journey, the battles and the daily tactical reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media.

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BlueSky ● TikTok

SURVIVING THE "A" BOMB

2026-03-21T12:00:00.007+00:00

ife has a way of creating chores for us and then making it difficult to complete them. It can be hard to get stuff done when, suddenly, there’s something else that needs doing.

Last week, a weather bomb literally exploded in our garden. Stuff was blown everywhere, the greenhouse was devastated, and we lost a fence panel. Strictly speaking, the panel belongs to the neighbours, but since the house is rented, it’s not clear if or when it will be replaced. I need to make some temporary arrangements to secure our respective gardens, especially since we both have dogs. I do have some old fence panels that I might be able to use to fashion a suitable barrier in the short term. Years ago, the fence blew down regularly, but since the surrounding trees grew tall and wide, this hasn't been an issue for a long time.

Since my accident in November, I’ve not seen a doctor (except for the medical assessment for the claim) since that night in A&E. Although I have physio coming up soon, I wanted a professional opinion on my recovery, which seems to have plateaued lately. I made an appointment at my surgery—quite a while ago, since it wasn't classed as an emergency. I didn't know this doctor, but as someone who isn't a regular patient, that’s to be expected.

He checked me over and viewed my X-rays from the night of the accident. He then told me the A&E doctor was probably a little optimistic with his 6–8 week recovery estimate. Then, he dropped the "A" bomb: age. He said recovery would be slower at my age! I was a bit taken aback, but I suppose being over 50 means I fit into a particular bracket. He said the upcoming physio would be needed to push me over the line to a full recovery and that I shouldn't expect any lasting issues. I hope he's right.

The spirit of the "Urban Viking"—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman. It’s a space where the same themes of authenticity and grit meet the dry humour of holding the line against weather bombs, aging, and the general chaos of life.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more about my recovery journey, the battle to secure the garden, and the daily tactical reality of staying grounded in the modern world over on social media.

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THE RELUCTANT SOCIALITE

2026-03-18T10:27:00.127+00:00

reat social gatherings were once the backbone of my week. Years ago, work events were constant, brilliant, and effortless to navigate. Somewhere along the way, however, the "social rust" set in. It isn't that the desire to be social has vanished—I’m no shy-away type—but the "tribe" has to be right. There is a world of difference between sharing a table with a few trusted friends and navigating the broad, noisy sea of a workplace crowd. With the former, the guard is down; with the latter, the armour is firmly buckled.

Trepidation is a heavy weight when a work social day looms on the calendar. In a smaller group of kindred spirits, I’m grounded and engaged. But in a vast, professional setting, the effort of "performing" feels far more taxing than it used to. Having missed the last event due to injury, the pressure to show up was mounting. There was a genuine fear of becoming the office ghost, yet the thought of that specific, large-scale socialising felt daunting.

Beneath the nerves lies a deeper fear: the risk of truly revealing myself. To be clear, there’s no risk of turning up naked; it’s the exposure of those aspects of my character that colleagues rarely see. Years ago, a "middle ground" persona served as a convenient buffer, but those days are gone. At my age, the philosophy is simple: if who I am isn't acceptable to you, that is your problem, not mine.

Determination eventually won out. A Viking doesn’t just sit out the raid because the wind feels cold. Donning my best battle vest, a tactical decision was made: show up, engage, and honour the invitation. It wasn't about being the "life and soul," but about standing in the line and being present. With that, the journey began toward the bus stop and Sheffield City Centre.

Gathering at the meeting point just before 2pm, I found the numbers were healthy—around nine or ten of us, despite a few cancellations. We started at a Wetherspoons before moving on to an Irish-themed bar called "Four Leafs" on West Street. I’d initially thought it was previously 'Barkers' back in the day, but that was actually next door.

With St Patrick’s Day looming, the place was packed and the vibe was high. However, instead of the obligatory Guinness, I opted for a pint of Welsh Stout—Tiny Rebel’s Coal Drop. It felt like a quiet middle finger to the transatlantic commercialism that usually surrounds the season.

The night was enjoyable, though the absence of my work bestie was certainly felt. It was a genuine opportunity to show my true self and, equally, to see others without their professional masks. My hope for the future is that we see more of these events; it would certainly make for a better, more cohesive team.

I chose to depart just after 7pm. It was the right time for me to make a move. I did consider popping into the Dove and Rainbow—a long-established rock and metal bar that’s more my speed—but time was short and I’d had a few by that point. Had I been out with Morticia, I likely would have ventured in, but the draw of home was stronger. The bus was perfectly on time, delivering me back to the door with enough of the evening left to take Magnus out for his walk.

Sometimes, the victory isn’t in being the last man standing, but in knowing you showed up, stood your ground, and returned to the longhouse on your own terms.

The spirit of the "Urban Viking"—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman. It’s a space where the same themes of authenticity and grit meet the dry humour of just trying to hold the line without losing your mind.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more about my path, my tactical social raids, and the daily battle to stay unmasked (and fully clothed) over on social media. Join the shield wall there:

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MOTHERS: THE ARCHITECTS OF THE HEARTH

2026-03-15T09:30:00.001+00:00

other’s Day is a sacred time, not a retail opportunity. Forget the hollow hype of the greetings card industry and the plastic tat that clutters the shelves. This day should be more than a commercial obligation; it is a moment to honour the architects of our lineage. In a world that feels increasingly chaotic, I’m looking at the women who forged the foundation I stand on. Today, I’m honouring the mothers in my life.

Long before the high-street "tat," our ancestors were already marking this tide. The Greeks and Romans held spring festivals for the Great Mother, and many of us still feel the pull of Imbolc—the Celtic festival of Brigid. She is the goddess of the hearth and the "waking" of the earth; the first spark of life after a long winter. While my Norse beliefs don’t point to a specific "Mothering Day," the figure of Frigg looms large. As Queen of Asgard, she represents the sacredness of the home and the weaving of wyrd (destiny). She reminds us that motherhood isn’t just a role—it’s the architecture of the future.

By the 1600s, this shifted into the Christian "Mothering Sunday." It was a raw, gritty tradition for the working class. Young domestic servants were granted their one day of the year to walk miles back to their "Mother Church" and their families. They didn’t buy overpriced bouquets; they gathered wildflowers from the hedgerows because they were free, wild, and honest.

Of course, the Americans brought the "hype." The modern iteration was born in 1908 when Anna Jarvis sought to honour her mother’s Civil War service. But the story has a bite: Jarvis ended up loathing her own creation. By the 1920s, she was being arrested for protesting the very florists and card makers who had turned a sacred tribute into a profit margin. It took the efforts of Constance Penswick-Smith to pull the UK’s tradition back from the brink of extinction, reminding us that the day belongs to the hearth, not the retail park. But this didn't stop the capitalist circus from taking hold.

Today, Mother’s Day belongs to everyone—irrespective of belief or background—as a moment to stop the clock and honour the foundations we stand on.

Despite the noisy "capitalist circus" that surrounds the day, the core remains. For me, that core is built by four women—the architects of my own history and the weavers of my family’s future.

My Mother

The woman who gave birth to me, raised me, and set me on my way. She was the most important person in the first chapter of my life. Like any long road, we’ve had our ups and downs, our sharp turns and our smooth paths, but we are settled now. Today, she’s living out her retirement with my Dad and their two dogs. I dropped off the flowers and the obligatory box of Maltesers (her favourite) on Friday, clearing the decks so I can help my daughters honour their own mother today.

My Beloved Morticia

Then there is the mother to my girls. She was born for this role. She has navigated every one of life’s crises with a bravery and dignity that I can only admire. She gave our daughters the freedom to become exactly who they wanted to be, always putting their needs before her own—a selflessness she still carries now that they are grown. She is the steady flame at our hearth.

My Mother-in-Law

An honourable mention must go to Morticia’s mother. Over the years, she has become a true friend to her daughter. It has been a rough year for her, but she has faced every challenge with a quiet, stubborn courage that commands respect.

The Newest Branch

Finally, there is the newest mother in our family: my youngest daughter. She is now the proud mother of our wonderful grandson, and watching her navigate the chaos of a mischievous toddler is a reminder of where this cycle begins anew. The lineage continues.

I honour them all today. My advice to you is to ignore the junk in the shops and look to the people. If you can, visit your mum. If you can’t, call her. And if she is no longer walking this earth, take a quiet moment to remember her and the foundation she built for you.

Happy Mother’s Day.

While I honour the foundations laid by those who came before—the spirit of the "Urban Viking" lives on in my webcomic, Northman. You’ll find those same themes of lineage, grit, and endurance woven into the rugged landscapes of Jorvikshire.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more about my path and the day-to-day reality of living an authentic, grounded life over on social media. Join me there:

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CHAOS IN A SMALL SPACE BY THE HEARTH FIRE

2026-03-12T11:30:00.006+00:00

wenty-five years ago this year, we moved into our home. We were a young family with a five-year-old and another on the way. It’s a little house—three compact bedrooms that were perfectly fine for our small family at the time. Life, as it tends to do, unfolded in its own way, and today we still find ourselves in the same place. However, looking back at those twenty-five years, I realise I haven't yet shared the current makeup of our household as it stands today.

Years ago, we were a family of four plus a cat. We always imagined that as the children grew, we would move to a larger house, but life rarely follows the plans we lay out. Morticia became ill and has remained disabled since—a shift that naturally affected our income and anchored us here. It was a difficult transition, but it’s the reality we navigated together, and it’s why this little house remained our home.

Fast forward to today, and the current makeup of our household is quite a different story. Our eldest daughter moved out years ago; she’s married now and living in a flat near Hillsborough. Our cat, Angel, passed away five years ago and has been succeeded by our dog, Magnus. My youngest remains at home, joined two years ago by her boyfriend—a tall thirty-year-old man with famously enormous feet. Their son, our grandson, arrived twenty-two months ago, bringing a renewed and beloved chaos to our lives.

It is a cramped, busy, and often loud house. In the middle of that whirlwind, I sometimes crave a moment of stillness. Occasionally I find it—but I can always retreat to my shed, my noddfa. It is my sanctuary, a "thin place" that serves as the quiet counterpoint to the crowded energy indoors.

Our home is small, full to the rafters, and often feels like it's bursting at the seams, but it is ours. In my own way, I’ve always seen these walls as a boundary, a small world of our own that we’ve protected despite the challenges, keeping the metaphorical hearth fire burning through every season. One day, the youngest will (very probably, perhaps) move on with her family, and then these few rooms will fall quiet, leaving just Morticia, Magnus, and me. That calmer future isn't on the immediate horizon, but for now, we are simply living the life we have been handed, right here where we are.

Today the weather turned, and I’ve had to make a decision on the commute. With the wind sitting at 30-40 mph and even nastier gusts forecast, the road is a different beast entirely. In years past, I’d have just put my head down and fought through it, regardless of the strain. But I’m still dealing with the fallout from November’s crash; the back injury I picked up then gives me enough daily grief without adding a gale into the mix. A genuine sense of foreboding told me to leave the bike at home today, so I’m taking the bus. It isn't about backing down; it’s about being smart enough to stay in one piece for the work that’s still to come.

While I navigate the "chaos" of our compact home—tending to my noddfa and the quiet resilience of our small space—the spirit of the "Urban Viking" lives on in my webcomic, Northman. You’ll find those same themes of endurance in the rugged landscapes of Jorvikshire.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing more about my path, the upcoming projects, and the day-to-day reality of living full-to-the-rafters over on social media. Join me there:

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PROJECT: HIGH CONTRAST ARMOUR

2026-03-05T10:00:00.005+00:00

s I’ve mentioned before, my "battle vest" often draws compliments and recognition, and even my everyday jacket gets its fair share of attention. The irony is that I’m frequently mistaken for a motorcyclist. I’m not; I don’t have a licence, and the act of riding a motorbike has never actually appealed to me. I’ve never understood why that rugged motorcycle aesthetic hasn't crossed over into the cycling world more often. So, what if I decided to expand that look into my own cycling outerwear?

Before we talk about the vest, let’s look at the helmet. It took a long time to find something that matched the look I wanted, but last year I finally found a base ripe for customisation. With some vinyl transfers and a set of steampunk goggles, I finally created something unique.

My current outerwear is a sleeveless cycling jacket decorated with patches in a battle vest style—a "poor relation" to the real thing, perhaps. Recently, the zip has started to fail, and its life is coming to an end. Considering how tough the last few months have been, and the long journey back from my collision, a new jacket feels like a statement of defiance—a middle finger to fate.

My plan is to acquire a lightweight denim vest and treat it with a waterproofing spray. While I’ll always carry a raincoat, I need something to defend against the odd shower. The big question, however, is: to high-viz, or not to high-viz

High-visibility clothing can make you easier to detect, but detection is not the same as protection. Real-world evidence doesn’t consistently show that hi-viz reduces crash risk; it may help you be seen, but it doesn’t guarantee that drivers will behave better. Lights are different—they create a presence. Clothing can enhance visibility, but it is no substitute for illumination

Then there is the matter of liability. Safety evidence and "courtroom optics" are two very different things. In the event of a collision, hi-viz may help demonstrate that you took "reasonable steps" to be seen. It may not prevent the crash, but it shapes the narrative afterwards. Lights protect you in law and physics; hi-viz protects you in perception.

So, the choice is between black or yellow. Yellow usually conjures images of flimsy hi-viz mesh, "construction-site chic," or the kind of off-the-shelf compliance that feels like an apology for being on the road. But what if it didn't?

I’m starting to see a different path: Urban Viking Endurance. Yellow doesn’t have to mean safety-standard-issue. It can mean structured yellow denim. It can mean a tactical cut with reflective detailing integrated into the design. With an intentional layout of patches—not a festival archive, but a curated selection—it stops being a hi-viz apology and becomes high-contrast armour.

I turned to an AI image generator for a glimpse into the future...

...Well? Granted, I don’t look quite as "polished" as this computer-generated chap—I don’t have the "guns," the tattoos, or much of the hair these days—but the vest actually works. It retains the rugged, battle-hardened vibe while making a very loud statement of presence.

With a potential start date of next payday, I have time to weigh my options. But with visibility and liability weighing heavy, I’m seriously considering taking the yellow path—not for the sake of compliance, but for the defiance of the Urban Viking.

A quick update on the 'broken mug' saga I mentioned last time. After some digital scouting and a few well-placed messages, I managed to locate the maker and purchase a replacement. It’s a small victory, but drinking tea from the right vessel is a daily ritual I wasn't willing to sacrifice.

While I am focusing on a much-needed overhaul of my gear—starting with the birth of a new, custom-armoured "Urban Viking" vest—the journey through the rugged landscapes of Jorvikshire continues in my webcomic, Northman. If you’ve enjoyed these tales of resilience, you’ll find that same spirit alive in the comic.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

I’ll be sharing the evolution of the new vest project, along with more glimpses into my Norse-inspired path and the day-to-day of the "Urban Viking" lifestyle, over on social media. Join me there:

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THE DIGITAL PENCIL

2026-02-28T20:26:00.095+00:00

rawing cartoons has been a passion of mine for as long as I can remember—transitioning over the years from doodling on scraps of paper to crafting full-scale digital creations.

Before I kick off this post—which probably won't be as interesting as the last couple—I’d like to talk about what happened after York. Well, nothing really. When I got home, I was immediately struck down with an awful cold; I've spent my days off sneezing and coughing through a forced standstill that I’d hoped would have been productive. To make matters worse, my large Viking-inspired mug that Morticia bought me at last year's Jorvik Viking Festival was involved in a bit of an accident and smashed on Tuesday. I am absolutely distraught at the loss of my favourite drinking vessel. The irony is that had this happened last week, I could have replaced it at this year's festival.

For my 50th birthday (almost five years ago), I used some money gifted by my parents to invest in a Samsung tablet with a generous 12.5" screen. It came with what I thought was the ultimate game changer: the S-Pen. I’ve been perfectly happy with that setup for five years, but recently, I found myself curious about what else the market had to offer. I’m not quite ready to splash out on a full hardware upgrade just yet (though I wouldn't say no if the opportunity arose!), but I wanted to see if I could enhance the experience.

My research led me to the world of third-party styluses. After looking through countless options, I decided to treat myself to the Staedtler Noris Digital. Honestly? It’s a revelation. It looks and feels exactly like a traditional pencil in the hand, which feels far more natural than the standard plastic alternatives.

Creating my comic strip is something I deeply enjoy. While I’m never quite sure how many people actually see the final result, the process itself is incredibly therapeutic. Lately, I’ve been moving in a more serious direction; I’m currently working on a piece about depression. It’s important to me to show that cartooning isn’t always about punchlines or funny situations—I’m not afraid to use my art to face the darker moments too.

A sneak peek at my current work-in-progress,
'Northman', coming mid-April.

My tablet remains one of my most treasured possessions, almost exclusively for its drawing features. It is my digital anvil, where I hammer out ideas and sketches. Imagine my surprise, then, when returning to the room following a brief errand, I found this unexpected pic in the image gallery.

It seems my grandson, Atreus, found the allure of the glowing screen too much to ignore. He knows he isn't meant to touch, but like a true explorer, he just couldn't resist. It’s a perspective only a curious child could capture—a little bit of domestic mischief caught in the frame.

To wrap things up, I have some truly fantastic news to share. We have officially booked our next journey to Cymru. In just 100 days, we’ll be crossing the border and returning to our "happy place." There is a specific kind of peace found in the Welsh landscape that resonates deeply with my Celtic leanings. The countdown is officially on!

If you want to see my current drawings then check out my webcomic, Northman, which chronicles "our hero's" adventures through the rugged landscape of Jorvikshire.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

Stay Connected For updates, behind-the-scenes content, and hopefully a few photos of me back on the bike soon, you can find me on social media.

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JÓRVÍK: A VIKING PILGRIMAGE (Part 2)

2026-02-23T17:30:00.015+00:00

órvík Viking Festival is an annual, week-long celebration in York, established in February 1985 following the landmark opening of the Jórvík Viking Centre the year prior. Now recognised as Europe’s largest Viking event, it has become a massive pilgrimage for living history enthusiasts, battle re-enactors, and history buffs. It’s a unique space where the academic meets the atmospheric, drawing in everyone from Viking fans to Heathens.

Last week we visited York for the Viking Festival; I covered day one in my previous post (here). Our remaining time in this glorious city was spent taking in the Viking vibe and enjoying everything York has to offer. Between the scent of woodsmoke drifting from the encampments and the steady beat of drums echoing through the streets, the atmosphere was incredible.

From the encampment to the marvellous Valhalla bar (a must for anyone who loves Viking culture), every corner felt alive. The Merchant Adventurers' Hall hosted the 10th-century traders' market, which was brimming with Viking and medieval goods. Morticia even treated me to a new drinking horn—one that holds a full pint!

Our evenings were spent in Valhalla, just around the corner from the famous Shambles. It is truly the place to be during the festival, with a spirited mix of Vikings, re-enactors, and metalheads all crossing the threshold. The music is great, the food is excellent, and the ale is top-tier.

While the live music can be a bit hit-and-miss, the beauty of having three floors is that you can always find a spot that fits your mood. It was heartening to see so many familiar faces; people we see year after year where a simple, knowing nod is all that’s needed to acknowledge we’re amongst our own again.

Last year we took in the Jorvik Viking Centre, so this year we decided to change pace. Though it's a slight departure from the Viking genre, we thought it would be a bit of fun to visit the York Dungeon.

Before that, however, we popped in to 'visit' Dick. The Blue Boar is famously reported to have held the body of the notorious highwayman, Dick Turpin, following his execution. Down in the cellar—where you can still sit and soak in the history—there’s a coffin and details of his grisly end. Having been before, we couldn't help but notice they’ve added a pool table to the cellar area; it does take away some of the atmosphere, but the history of the place still lingers.

The York Dungeon is a theatrical journey through 2,000 years of the city's macabre history, billed as a 'scary-fun' experience. While I found it highly enjoyable, the 'scare' factor didn't quite hit for me—perhaps I’ve just developed a high tolerance for the genre over the years!

Morticia has visited the London Dungeon and maintains that the London offering is superior in scale and thrills. However, I’m not written off yet; I think next time I’d look into their Dungeon Lates (18+) for a more adult-orientated, late-night experience to see if that can truly rattle my bones.

Saturday brought the famous March to Coppergate, where the Vikings march through the winding streets of York; it is truly a sight to witness. We didn't manage to snag the best viewpoint this year, as the streets felt even busier than usual, but I still wouldn't have missed it for all of Midgard. There is something powerful about the sound of boots on cobblestones and the roar of the warriors that stays with you long after they've passed.

An interesting bit of history to keep in mind while wandering: the many street names ending in ‘gate’—so common here in the North and in other Viking-settled areas—actually originate from the Old Norse word gata, meaning ‘street’ or ‘way.’ It’s a linguistic echo I see all the time back home, and it’s a nice reminder that even when the festival ends, we are still walking the paths laid down by our ancestors.

A final walk around the Viking markets and one last meal in Valhalla closed out our visit. By then, both Morticia and I were feeling the physical toll of the weekend; my back was giving me significant trouble and, with her own disability, it was clear she was also struggling and ready to head home.

Unlike last year, the train journey was thankfully uneventful and even on time. Our train departed York Station at a quarter to seven, leaving the city behind as we turned our focus toward home and the rest we both needed.

However, the pull of the city is already working its magic; we’re already looking forward to next year’s festival and are even considering a cheeky visit later this year—funds permitting, of course.

On our travels, I often get comments on my ‘look’—usually it’s the beard or the jacket, and occasionally even the glasses. Every visit to the festival seems to result in someone wanting to photograph the back of my vest. So, this time, while the night brought out the true beauty of The Shambles, I asked Morticia to take a photograph of my back (perhaps my best side?) so I could finally share whatever the fuss is all about.

While I am back from the physical streets of York and focusing on a much-needed reset, the journey through the rugged landscapes of Jorvikshire continues in my webcomic, Northman. If you’ve enjoyed the tales of my time in the city, you’ll find that same spirit alive in the comic.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

The festival may have ended, but I’ll be sharing more photos from the encampment, the March on Coppergate, and the mystery of the "vest" over on social media. Join me there for more glimpses into my Norse-inspired path:

Instagram ● Threads

BlueSky ● TikTok

JÓRVÍK: A VIKING PILGRIMAGE (Part 1)

2026-02-21T17:30:00.002+00:00

ork is a remarkable city. While my soul is generally more at home in the rural coastal wilds of Cymru, Jórvík is the one urban landscape that calls to me. Driven by a fascination with our Viking heritage, we’ve set out on what has become an annual pilgrimage to Britain’s Norse capital to immerse ourselves in the Jórvík Viking Festival.

Before I start this post proper, I’d like to thank everyone for the love and kind words following my previous post. It showed me that I’m not on my own and that I have the strength to keep going, even when the path feels difficult. Thank you so much for your support.

This trip feels particularly vital to us this year. For me, it is a necessary reset; for us both, it is a much-needed escape from the chaos of our overcrowded home. I’ve always found a certain peace in rail travel, and part of the joy of this pilgrimage is that we are making the journey by train. As we head from the south of our county toward the north, the rhythmic hum of the carriage creates a perfect 'buffer'. By the time the industrial landscape gives way to the open breath of the Vale of York, the mental noise of my life starts to quieten, making room for the ancient atmosphere of Jórvík to take hold.

We stepped off the train at York Railway Station at twenty minutes past midday on Thursday. The journey was pleasant enough, though it was standing room only on the final leg from Doncaster. We wasted no time heading to the hotel to drop our bags; with check-in not until 3pm, we were eager to get straight into the city centre. The River Ouse was back within her banks following some flooding earlier in the month, a return to her usual majestic self.

Parliament Street was, as ever, home to the 'Viking Encampment.' Between the living history displays and the merchants, the air was thick with the scent of blacksmiths' fires and the primal thrum of a drumming troupe, which made the atmosphere feel truly immersive.

For dinner (I'm northern, dinner is the midday meal), we returned to The Fat Badger—as the saying goes, if it ain't broke, don't fix it. I’m not usually one to photograph my food, but this was a culinary work of art: a Yorkshire pudding filled with pulled pork and topped with a rich gravy. I don’t often do 'posh,' but it was bloody lovely.

After officially checking in and getting changed for the evening, we gravitated towards Valhalla on Patrick Pool. It’s our go-to spot; the music is great, the vibe is spot on, and it’s where the Vikings truly hang out. I even received a couple of compliments on my vest, with one lady asking for a photo of the back.

We ended the night with a wander down the Shambles, discovering a new pub called the King's Inn. It’s a bit touristy, but they served a good pint. A final stop at the chippy on the way back to the hotel closed out a perfect first day.

With the modern world finally starting to recede, we’ve settled into the heart of the city. The pilgrimage has officially begun, and I’m looking forward to seeing what else Jórvík has to show me this year. In my next post, I’ll be diving into more of the sights and sounds of the festival, and reflecting on the headspace I find among the hearths, histories, and heathens within the encampment.

While I’m off-grid and soaking up the atmosphere of the festival, the story in my webcomic, Northman, continues its journey through the rugged landscapes of Jorvikshire.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

Stay Connected for live updates from the city, behind-the-scenes glimpses of the encampment, and more from my pilgrimage North, you can find me on social media:

Instagram ● Threads

BlueSky ● TikTok

FINDING MY FEET AGAIN

2026-02-18T09:00:00.029+00:00

’ve been quiet for a couple of weeks because I realised I needed a bit of a reset.

Since the cycling accident back in November, my headspace hasn't been where I'd like it to be. To be honest, I haven't quite been myself lately, and I’ve made a few mistakes while trying to navigate the fallout. Between the physical recovery and some other personal challenges, I found I was struggling to find my usual rhythm.

Getting back on the bike has been more difficult than I anticipated, and the constant back pain hasn't helped. Rather than trying to force things or over-analyse why I’m feeling this way, I decided to just hit the pause button.

This break has been about clearing the slate and finding my footing again. I’m not quite there yet, but I’m taking things one step at a time and focusing on that reset.

Tomorrow, I’m heading to York for a few days of much-needed distraction. I’m really looking forward to the change of scenery. Let's see how things go from here.

While I’m focusing on my own recovery and getting back to fitness, the story in my webcomic, Northman, continues through the rugged landscapes of Jorvikshire.

You can read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

Stay Connected For updates, behind-the-scenes content, and hopefully a few photos of me back on the bike soon, you can find me on social media.

Instagram ● Threads

BlueSky ● TikTok

BEATING THE BLUE

2026-01-24T11:30:00.015+00:00

lue Monday was allegedly last week, falling on the third Monday of January as it does every year. It is widely said to be the most depressing day of the calendar, and while I don’t entirely subscribe to the theory, I can certainly recognise where it stems from. It’s that familiar cocktail of the post-festive slump, short daylight hours, and the long, cold stretch toward payday—though I’m fortunate enough to be paid mid-month, which spares me that particular sting.

Change at the Doorstep

At the end of last year, our neighbours moved out. We had a great relationship and wished them well, but their landlord was selling up and they had an opportunity to move on. Last week, the new owner arrived. Unfortunately, it’s another private landlord.

I’ve never had much time for the "buy-to-let" market, particularly when it prices lower-income buyers off the housing ladder, but I won’t get started on that again—at least not today. For now, my main grievance is the noise. The renovation is in full swing, and while I know it's temporary, it’s certainly put a dampener on the extra days off I’d booked for some peace and quiet. Given some of the horror stories we’ve had over the years, I can’t help but feel a bit apprehensive about who the new tenants will be.

The Road to Recovery

On a more personal note, I recently attended a medical assessment regarding my bike injury from last year. The goal was to secure a formal report on my ongoing condition, as I’m still dealing with a fair amount of pain and discomfort.

The doctor confirmed that I need physiotherapy, which should apparently be covered by the other party’s insurance. I’m currently on a waiting list for physio through occupational health and have a GP appointment in a couple of weeks, so for now, it’s a case of "wait and see."

Back in the Saddle

Despite the niggling injury, I’m making good progress with my bike commutes. Surprisingly, the cycling isn’t impacting my back, and the exercise is actually aiding my recovery. Some might say winter isn't the most logical time to resume outdoor training, but I’ve always been known as a determined cyclist—or perhaps just a bit of an idiot, depending on your point of view!

I also managed to get into my shed last weekend to clear out all the junk that had been shoved in there before the festive period. I finally have proper storage for my new bike, alongside my others, and more importantly, I’ve reclaimed my "special place." My description in a previous post perhaps painted a picture of a much larger outbuilding, but as you can see from the image, it’s a cosy space—and exclusively mine.

If you appreciate the stark resilience of northern life—and the persistence it takes to tackle both steep climbs and daily hurdles like the ones I've shared today—you'll find those same echoes in my webcomic, Northman. While I’m busy reclaiming my shed and navigating the road back to full fitness, my characters are traversing much more treacherous terrain through the rugged landscapes of Jorvikshire.

Read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

Check out my social media

For regular updates, behind-the-scenes content, and further reflections on my creative path (and perhaps a photo of me back on the bike!), connect with me on social media.

Instagram ● Threads

BlueSky ● TikTok

WALES IN YELLOW: LE TOUR RETURNS

2026-01-22T13:18:00.013+00:00

have amazing news, something I’ve been waiting for has finally dropped: the Grand Départ is returning to the UK! There is an unrivalled magic when the Tour de France crosses the Channel, and I am absolutely buzzing that the world's greatest sporting spectacle is set to grace our backyard once again. Not since that spine-tingling summer of 2014 have we seen the peloton on British roads, and the prospect of that electric atmosphere returning is nothing short of incredible.

This time, however, the yellow jersey is heading north and west. With Stage One in Scotland, Stage Two in Cumbria, and Stage Three in Wales, the route is skipping Yorkshire—but it's that Welsh stage that has me dreaming. To see the world’s elite riders tackle the roads of my favourite place on earth would be a total thrill. While I’m a realist about the logistics of making it to the roadside, you can bet I’m already looking for ways to tag a viewing onto one of my usual trips.

But the excitement doesn't stop with the men's race. In a historic first, the Tour de France Femmes avec Zwift is also coming to the UK for its own Grand Départ later that month. While I'll be looking west for the men, the women’s peloton is bringing the drama right to my doorstep. Stage Two on Saturday, 31 July, is set to finish in Sheffield after a grueling climb over the Snake Pass. It feels like a beautiful full-circle moment to have the world's best female riders finishing in the same city where I watched Nibali take the yellow jersey back in 2014.

My excitement is rooted in

my original post from that incredible weekend in 2014

. I can still feel the ache in my legs from that 6:00 am start, cycling out of the city to find the perfect spot on the Côte de Midhopestones. I remember sitting on the summit with my sandwiches, soaking up the atmosphere as the helicopters crested the hill and the peloton flew up a climb that I’d been 'blowing out of my arse' on just hours earlier. Seeing myself on TV highlights later as Marcel Kittel passed my spot cemented it as a true life event. I would give anything to experience that kind of magic again.

From 2014

Of course, the desire to be there in person is even stronger now that the landscape of television coverage is shifting. The issue of free-to-air access remains a frustrating hurdle for fans, a topic I covered in a post last year when the end of an era was first announced. If we can't rely on the traditional TV experience, then making it to the roadside becomes more than just a dream—it’s the best way left to witness the spectacle.

If you appreciate the atmospheric grit of northern life—and the resilience it takes to tackle both steep climbs and daily hurdles—you'll find those same Norse echoes in my webcomic, Northman. While I’m busy planning my route to the Welsh roadside and dreaming of the peloton, my characters are navigating much more treacherous terrain through the rugged landscapes of Jorvikshire.

Read the latest chapter here: northman.kirt.me.uk

Check out my social media

For regular updates, behind-the-scenes content, and further reflections on my creative path (and perhaps a photo of me back on the bike!), connect with me on social media.

Instagram ● Threads

BlueSky ● TikTok