Irreverent reveals

Someone commented on the not entirely spectacular fact that I haven’t posted anything on a social media account in over a year. Well, that’s due to a number of factors, but two of them are a) whenever I am out doing something with people whose company I enjoy, I tend to keep my phone tucked away and/or I’ve not got the Mark II on me, or b) what I consider a typical Kodak moment these days is something akin to the header photo. Now you know.

The above has very little to do with what I am about to write, though, other than that I found something that is revealed in the carving of the statue of which we can see the backside as particularly post-worthy. Why on earth would you spend time on including the cloaca of an inanimate object? It’s not like it’s going to need it? See, its mere existence beckons an array or questions.

On another note, you can do a deep-dive into cloacae (tee-hee) and/or other “digestive tract talk” by checking out the Three Bean Salad podcast. Perhaps start with the Adverts episode. Right, that’s enough of the anus for one day.

My recent posts may or may not have revealed that I’ve been on my second book, but somehow let procrastination get the better of me. So, in an attempt to force myself into holding myself accountable, I’ve decided to unveil the title, as well as the prologue to see what you guys think about it. Feel free to weigh in however you like, either by clicking on the icon you prefer below

or, you can comment on this post or use the contact form. If you’ve yet to read my book, the Kindle version is cheap as chips.

Next week’s post will also be a reveal of sorts, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.

Right… are you ready? Am I ready? Here goes:

Life in Reverse – Killing Myself to Live

Prologue / Suicide Note, Pt. 1

A year has gone by since we left Hannah on that bus, finally strong enough to take a step in the right direction and standing up for herself to a person that had caused her nothing but harm over her formative years. You would think she’d be thriving right about now, right? That she’s finally all settled in her lovely new flat, aching to get back to work with the support of her therapist, a healthy romantic relationship brewing somewhere on the horizon. It turns out, though, just because you’ve decided to start making things work for yourself, doesn’t mean the universe is going to get on board. Funny, isn’t it? We’ve all heard the words; It’s going to get worse before it gets better.

The problem is, we can tackle ‘worse’ just fine. It’s what we do! It’s the ‘better’ that might just be the end of us.

And, yes, all of the chapters are related to relevant pieces of music. Also, if that tickles you, you should read Trackman; a spectacular piece of writing by Catriona Child.

So, I shall see you next Tuesday, for my second unveiling. Until then, here’s the song mentioned in the excerpt:

25th Aug 2026 0

Catch-’26

This week, I’ve been thinking a lot about choices. Or rather, the fact that the choices I dared not make are the ones I’ve come to regret the most. To quote my dear friend Bob (misquoting Wayne Gretzky):

“You miss all the shots you don’t take”.

You could say our lives are shaped by the choices we make. Sometimes, the choices we don’t make shape them in ways we cannot control. In fact, refusing to make a choice is a choice in and of itself – it’s choosing to avoid taking responsibility for your own life and/or actions.

Right, a bit bombastic, perhaps. But you catch my drift.

The most annoying thing, though, about the choices I didn’t make, is that I went against my instincts by not making them. Every time, without fail. More often than not, I refrained from making a choice simply because I was waiting for someone else to do so – as if I was unable to make the right choice for myself when I knew very well that their choice would be detrimental to myself, if not the both of us (or worse).

Now, I’m not the type of person who wallows in bitterness. I’ve no time for that. What’s in the past is in the past and I don’t like wasting my time on making myself feel terrible because I’ve acted out of bitterness or resentment. Alas, when one is seemingly unable to learn from one’s mistakes – i.e. the pattern seems to re-emerge over and over again – one simply has to stop and try to shake some sense into oneself. Wouldn’t you agree?

Please excuse my self-indulgent ranting, but I’ve had 8 hours of sleep two nights in a row for the first time since I was a teenager and don’t know what to do with myself. We’re going full gonzo today. If you’d prefer something more nuanced, let me direct you to a page containing links to outlets from which you can purchase my book, or this post about some nonsense that other readers seemed to enjoy.

Another thing that worries me is this; what signals am I sending my subconscious by ignoring my gut feeling?

I found several pieces of writing on exactly this, but only one of them seemed to be rooted in scientific research and based on The Arbinger Institute’s Leadership and Self Deception: Getting Out of the Box (2000) and was posted on Psych Central seven years ago. You can read the article by clicking on this link. The conclusion mirrors my beliefs/fears; self-deprecation.

So, how do we change this? I once read somewhere that it takes approximately 14 days to change a habit and I’ve regarded it as truth ever since. You cannot change my mind. But, that means actively doing something to implement the desired change over those 14 days. Surely that’s a lot of work just for the sake of some unconscious self-respect? Or is it in fact a very small price to pay for something tremendously valuable?

I think I’ll put what I learned from last week’s post about hope theory to good use and set a goal for myself for the next fortnight and find out, as an experiment. Perhaps I’ll even give you an update on my findings.

I’ll see you next Tuesday. Until then, stay true to yourself and listen to Lowrider:

4th Aug 2026 1

Jagged little pills

I’m pretty sure you all knew that I wasn’t going to write about what I hinted at last week, because life happens. Or doesn’t, to be fair. Time is a fickle beast. So, let’s just move on, eh?

Also, this is going to be very, very short.

I have no idea how this song snuck onto my radar as a kid, but I’m going to assume the radio had something to do with it. (If you can’t remember a time where the radio and/or fanzines got you into new shit, this blog is not for you). Regardless of its origin and my disregard of the band’s popularity – and my being the ripe old age of about 12 – I found the song’s lyrics resonated with me in such a way that it’s still a go to for my brain’s playback system whenever I am about to head straight down into the welcoming arms of the great abyss:

“I’ll do my crying in the rain”

Makes sense, doesn’t it? It also makes me think that perhaps that song was one of many reasons I fell in love with running in Edinburgh; whenever I hit one of those milestones PBs, it was on an empty stomach, a monster hangover and an all-encompassing need to knacker myself out in order to deal with everything – and if it wasn’t raining, the morning haar rolling down off the Seat would do the trick.

Also, apologies to any pedestrians along the Porty promenade that may have found themselves in the way of a greetin’ bastard singing along to one of David Hasselhoff’s greatest hits instead of breathing, punding the pavement as if they had any right to be there…

These days, I’d like to think I’ve found better ways to deal with my emotions (or, perhaps having someone teach me how to put certain things into words rather than trying to force them out in the most violent way possible had something to do with it), but very few things will feel as cathartic as a good old cry in the rain.

And it is this that I’d like to dwell on for a bit today, if you may. Because things are bound to happen. Something will remind you of something that impacted you in your youth. I came across a lyric the other day, from one of my favourite songs off of an Alanis Morisette album, that I’d never once thought about before:

“I’m 13 again. Am I 13 for good?”

And the words moved me, because my one of three reasons for still walking this earth is trying to do things that would make ‘the dreamer‘ (AKA 13yo moi) happy. Something that would make it all worthwhile. And something’s awakened this dreamer and it has left me terrified that all of my attempts to rid the world of my essence will come back to bite me on the arse. I’ve crossed off a big item on my bucket list and I find myself daring to hope it won’t be the only one.

That is all for this week. I’ll see you next Tuesday. If you made it all the way down here, here’s a special treat for you:

14th Jul 2026 0

Sun, shades and second chances

I’m not quite sure how, but we’re at the end of another month. I’ve been waiting for Summer and now it’s almost gone before I’ve fully realised we’re in it. (Shockingly, I can be more preoccupied with analysing past mistakes than living in the moment).

Last week, however, I got the chance to go to a festival I’d otherwise be reading about in the papers. Not only did I get to see a bunch of brilliant bands (Alice Cooper, Anthrax, Accept, Death to All, to name a few), but I got to leave my laptop behind and experience the outside world – turns out I’d forgotten about all of the good eggs breathing the same air as me. Now, don’t try to picture an egg breathing.

It’s funny how anything meaningful tends to turn to shit when you’re busy staring into the abyss.

Regardless, the whole experience sort of opened my eyes to how this mystical festival realm/alternate reality became a platform for reconstructing a few bridges that I’d feared were long burned beyond repair. Turns out, an apology really does go a long way. You can read more about friendship stuff in a few of my other posts, but I think this one needs to stay a little philosophical, somewhat hopeful (yet, still, consistently anxious). The lack of any rants or verbal incontinence in this post might serve as keys to its incredible shortness, but the same can be said for my return to the living (however brief it may be).

Turns out, with the likelihood of unlikely friendships, even a thistle in all its spiky glory can experience being part of the universe’s many symbioses.

See you next Tuesday. Until then, go see a gig this weekend. Do something for you and fuck everyone else (maybe not in the carnal sense, but if you do; use protection) – I find it’s when you prioritise yourself that the good stuff happens. Also, if you find yourself in the south-eastern part of Norway, you should take yourself to Rockstream festival near Tønsberg. It’s gonna be a good’un. And you just might see a familiar face on stage Saturday night.

30th Jun 2026 0

Booty is in the eye of the beholder

Yep – you read that right. Bear with me.

I somehow managed to throw my back out from laughing like a crazed hyena last night – at a bloody meme (or, let’s be honest, its absurdity). Needless to say, I’ve slept next to fuck all and my brain is acting very much like itself. It does what it wants.

So, it should come as no surprise, then, that the very thing that made me see the Kodak moment quality of the scenery in the post’s featured image was a song that’s been stuck in my head all day without me realising it was. I was trapped in a Buffyverse-like demonic musical with no end in sight, with every song derived from the holy grail; the song that continued to escape me, just as I had it on the tip of my tongue. Until the sun ripped through the clouds for approximately 32 seconds, creating the mirage of a slightly silvery shine to the pavement, I had no idea I’d been building up to a Victor Hugo classic.

Have you guessed it yet? Not to worry, you’ll find a link at the bottom of the post if not. Well, the link will be there regardless…

Anyway… went off on a bit of a tangent there. But, if that particular song isn’t a deluxe version of a booty call, I don’t know what is.

I’ve never been fond of metaphors. Never liked the mystery, shall we say – I preferred directness’ more bombastic quality. Yet, as I’ve grown older and more afraid of being caught in a special kind of fuck up loop from which there’s no escape (unless you fancy winding up in a parallel dimension fuck up loop bonanza), it seems I’ve started using them.

“Desperation

Zombie nation

Vacant, lifeless stares

Screens displaying my worst fears“

My own goddamned lyrics, but only I know the meaning of the words I didn’t dare say. This, of course, shall remain a mystery. Unless you read my book, of course.

But, yeah, back to the booty. The term booty, as we know it today – I’m not about to go into a whole thing about its origins – is synonymous to three things; a loot plundered from an enemy (as seen in numerous pirate movies), a somewhat sizeable arse or, you know, that thing. Now, the original expression is ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder’. I’ll argue that we can gather from any anthropology experiment, that people will have different views on what they will define as either of those three aforementioned definitions as well. In fact, I think beauty in and of itself has lost its meaning, with the constant need to push beauty standards so far up into the atmosphere that you need the help of artificial intelligence to do the airbrushing. So why not say it like it is; what might shiver your timbers may not shiver those of your neighbours.

Ooft, that was a bit of a mouthful.

What do I want from you, you may ask. Why am I ending this post before I’ve even reached a conclusion? Well, I want you to tell me what you want to read about, what you think the booty’s all about, why you think a 40yo woman can’t make herself write the word that’s fallen between the lines here…

Again, buy my book and you might get an idea. Haha. It is very late and I have a sequel to write, as I was ever so gently reminded of earlier today.

Now, I am going to go “live inside my head” for a bit. See you next Tuesday.

*This week, we mourn the loss of the late Anthony Head. May he rest in peace.

9th Jun 2026 0

More is more…

A for anarchy in red on black background

Once upon a time, when the hacker was still just as elusive and enigmatic as Sméagol himself, a pointless character in a nonsensical movie franchise uttered the claim “ignorance is bliss”, a phrase that has since been quoted ad nauseam. Whilst uttering these meaningless words, said character was chomping away at a slab of beef – all the while pointing to the fact that he was aware that the steak and the whole situation in that particular reality itself was entirely artificial and bogus. Regardless of the fact, the character portrayed himself as blissful because he chose to be unaware that the scenario was being fed to him via The Matrix. Which, in and of itself, defeats the whole purpose of him being ignorant, as he was clearly aware of his existential circumstances. If you are aware, you cannot claim to be ignorant. Thus, if ignorance is bliss and you are aware, you cannot be blissful.

What’s more, ignorance is not ‘bliss’, it’s defined as a lack of awareness and foresight. To simplify – much in the vein of rock legend Yngwie Malmsteen – bliss is bliss and ignorance is ignorance. One does not follow the other in any logical way.

Yes, I know it’s just a movie, but this particular scene planted a seed… a seed that somehow grew into a gargantuan parasite that set out to infect an entire generation with thinking those words justify their unwillingness to learn. It’s given them an excuse to be selective about knowledge (something we all know is the only point in getting old and senile; you finally get to edit out the shite you don’t want to hear).

Eejits.

Hold on tight, I can smell a rant coming.

I currently find myself living in a country that seems to have some sort of vexillology fetish. If, for any reason whatsoever, there’s cause for getting a flag out, out it shall come. Hoist that fucking rag (brilliant Tom Waits song, by the way), regardless of said rag’s connotations, be they political or similarly sinister in nature.

Here, they love marching for no apparent reason. They’ll gather at the town hall and walk around in circles, waving their flags and shouting messages whose origin no one really took the time out to figure out. They just like the feeling of doing something good. They like the word solidarity, but haven’t a clue what it means.

It’s as meaningful as claiming to support ‘the troops’, without knowing what troops they are supporting, what they are fighting for, or from whence the fuck they’ve originated, for that matter. They boast about their support of one nation’s leader and proudly post about their hostility towards another on social media, not even realising they are two sides of the same coin; evils, where neither is the ‘lesser’.

They hang flags in their windows in support of a nation they know nothing about. Without thinking, they do what the Internet tells them to. Do they even know what the flag stands for?

Will they admit that they didn’t even care about any conflict. That, truth be told, it wasn’t even on their radar until it started affecting their cost of living? The energy prices have skyrocketed, so you must blame someone. Anyone. Did they think the flag they bought off Temu, that wasn’t the exact colour but close enough, was going to bring down the price of petrol?

My meaning here is not to point fingers at anyone picking sides… I think any desire to solve conflicts with warfare – cold or not – is abhorrent. No, what I mean to say is this; educate yourselves enough to know how these things can be avoided, or at least subdued. Or, worst case scenario, you’ll know enough to morally decide which side to fight on if push comes to shove. Fighting for what’s fair shouldn’t have to end in bloodshed or everlasting war.

Ignorance is not bliss. Ignorance is the beginning of the end.

If I’ve not scared you off for good, I’ll see you next Tuesday.

Listen to Bad Religion!

5th May 2026 0