The mighty motivator

The hunt for inspiration to get through the week can seem a fruitless endeavour at the best of times – never mind when you’re approaching the midweek deadlines with completely rudderless navigation, because the week failed to start on the day it normally does. Who even has the time to stop and think about a possible motivational aide?

There’s a lot of talk at one of my many jobs, about being ‘the motivator’. (Mind you, this is the same place where they refer to their work as a ‘jobby’, so … Oh, and if you’re reading this in Scotland, please click on this sentence. If you’re anywhere else in this world, click on this one for the definition).

Regardless of my incessant digressions, there’s no escaping the fact that motivation is key to get shit (ha) done in an orderly fashion, and to an acceptable standard. So, when the promise of monetary rewards at the end of the month no longer cuts it – where does that leave us?

Most online dictionaries have similar definitions of ‘motivation’, but, seeing as I’m interested in it in the more metaphysical sense, I came across the below explanation on Verywellmind.com:

“Motivation is the psychological force that explains why a person does something”

Our driving force.

Now, I don’t want to be a total Kant (ha-ha), so, das ding an sich aside, I think we can all agree that motivation can indeed be defined as a very real force – a need, even – in the process of driving home our goals. So what, then, if and when it slips through our fingers?

Motivation, not the Kant.

A quick browse on Revive Psychology tells me that the loss of motivation can be caused by stress, burnout, lack of clear goals (no shit), among other things. No surprises there, but it’s an interesting read, in which you can engross thy fine self by clicking on this sentence. They are professionals and can help folk get back on track when they feel they’ve lost their driving force. It turns out, you see, that you can regain motivation.

It’s not just our friendly Newcastle psychologists that are interested in helping the demotivated masses; Psychology Today have posted their ‘7 tips for when you’ve lost all motivation’. Have a read, if you think it’ll be of interest to you. Personally, I don’t have patience for a two-minute waffle about IVF, so I don’t blame you for feeling too demotivated to read past those first few paragraphs either.

Anyway.

I’m a little sick of all this barely-touching-the-surface-stuff. Meghan Trainor might be all about that bass, but I am all about that nitty gritty.

Do yourself a favour and not read that last sentence to yourself in a Vicky Pollard-esque accent.

I am sure there’s micro-levels of motivation in everything we do, down to the most basic of things – a bowel movement sure as hell motivates you to get off the couch and move your pasty pile of flesh and bone to the water closet before you accidentally relieve yourself on your crushed velvet throw pillows. But would be surprised if someone told me that such an event motivated them. In fact, all I ever hear about motivation – outside of true crime docs and Olympic athletes – is more often than not attached to a prefix; de.

I’m guilty of it to – just the other day I caught myself complaining about someone else’s behaviour being demotivating. I mean, I still stand by it, but what purpose does it serve? Perhaps, instead of letting it crush my spirit, I can let their behaviour become my motivation for changing my path to the extent that it no longer crosses theirs? Am I motivated enough to set some clear, attainable goals for myself, or do I just enjoy wallowing in the helplessness?

I used to get my motivation from the impossible; if someone told me I couldn’t or wouldn’t be able to do something, that was what I did. Regrettably, it worked the other way around as well – I’d lose interest in something if someone praised my talents or audibly supported my decision to do something. Weird. Moronic. Sad. But that’s how I worked – at least, when you smashed it when the odds were stacked against you, you somehow felt more alive. The risk of ultimate failure was perhaps the only thing that could make me do anything at all, because then I would have to reach my goal. The alternative was death.

Sounds pretty healthy, right?

I’m thinking that this all-or-nothing thinking isn’t the most sustainable life motto of all time. Perhaps I will need to allow for a few micro-motivations to slip in through the cracks to create the spark that reignites the fire.

The time has come.

Oh, before I bid you adieu, I will leave you with a video of Europe performing a song of the very same name below. Enjoy.

See you next Tuesday!

7th Apr 2026 0

Lady Cerebellum takes a holiday

I’ve no idea where my Monday went. Evidence suggests that shit got done during my mental check-out, but I couldn’t tell you how. Perhaps I’ve been visited by the adulting fairy? Although, that sounds rather pervy and I’d like to get at least an hour of sleep tonight, so let’s not entertain that particular thought.

Remember that band Lady Antebellum? For some reason, whenever I heard that one song they had, that seemed to get a lot of airplay about a decade or so ago, I could never get their name right and kept referring to them as Lady Cerebellum. Incidentally, that’s what I’ve started calling myself when that part of my brain seems to shut me out and hide its activity from me. Sometimes, it shuts itself off completely, leading to hilarious and/or near-fatal situations in which I lose my balance and/or the ability to speak properly. I could be standing completely still in the shop one second, trying to decide which type of granola to get, and then see the floor coming towards my face at warp speed the next.

Maybe this is a sign that I should try dating again – or better yet, ask my GP to assign me a carer. Who knows? I’ve managed to stay upright for most of today, though, so I’m not about to download any apps any time soon.

Without a shadow of a doubt, being in the middle of moving house for the umpteenth time in five years was what caused my Monday blackout. I’m living in a box, I’m living in a cardboard box (in my case, there’s ten of them, but who’s counting). I’ve had that song stuck in my head all day – likely all of yesterday as well – so I don’t feel bad for passing along this little earworm.

Also, if you’re not familiar with this song, you’re too young to be reading this.

When I was getting ready for bed on Sunday, after having returned from a work trip, unpacked and re-packed what I had just unpacked in one of my ten boxes, I was thinking about how impossibly long this week was going to be, as I had almost four whole days before getting the keys to my new flat – so my brain saves the day by stealing one.

It’s not the end of the world (at least not in this particular scenario – but I’d stay away from the news). In fact, I’d go as far as to say that this particular post would end up on the cutting room floor had I been the editor-in-chief. Oh, wait, I technically am her… so, today I say fuck it. We all have days like these, don’t we?

Perhaps we could use this post as a reminder to take a step back. Today, a colleague I hold in very high regard told me that she’s trying to use her phone less, so she’s taking up all sorts of cool hobbies. I think that, once I get settled in my new flat, I’ll take a page from her book. Not that I spend a lot of time on my phone – I think I’ve actually developed an allergy against it – but I need a hobby. At the very least, it would keep me switched-on for long enough that my brain won’t have the chance to organise a mutiny behind my back.

See you next Tuesday, from a rung or two up from the bottom of the food chain…

In the meantime, please read one of my other, better posts. Or buy my book. I need the money more than ever, now I’ve become a home owner. Ha.

Also, go check out my pal, PT and exquisitely inspirational life-turn-arounder (ooft) Danny Appolinari, if you want to see some top-notch wellbeing content and exercise and nutrition hacks. Congrats on completing the Rome marathon!

24th Mar 2026 0

There’s a bee in my bonnet

Happy Tuesday! I’m back, from inner space… and something’s been grinding my gears.

A new¹ trend appears to have manifested itself onto the meta-verse, where some random humanoid with an indiscernible semi-Scots accent in a run-of-the-mill heather-y hillside excitedly claiming the origin of everyday terms to be Gaelic. I mean, if this is what people want to do with their lives; roam the countryside donning nought but a tourist shop-bought “kilt” and a selfie stick, then, by all means… But don’t try to tell me that you think that everything that sounds the same (ish) means the same. Ever heard of false friends?

If you haven’t, I am willing to bet my finest cardigan on the assumption that you’re not a linguist or philologist. Thus, you should not be “teaching” unassuming doom scrollers about what you reckon might be the origins of the English language. Or any language, for that matter.

What I mean to say is;

Don’t believe everything the Internet tells you.

I would link to one of these videos here, but I don’t want to help spread any more misinformation (and I don’t like to point fingers) – I’m sure they’re nice to animals or something). What I can do, however, is provide some links to proof that this nonsense has been debunked. The word this time, if anyone gives a crêpe, was ‘smashing’:

Wiktionary. Perhaps not always the most reliable of sources, but this seems well-researched.

Apparently, Daniel Cassidy is to blame for this pish. On Cassidy Slang Scam, you can read the following: “There is no evidence of an Irish or Gaelic origin. Smashing does not occur first in Irish or Scottish contexts and there are no conscious references to it as an Irish or Gaelic expression. This is not what we find with hubbub, or shebeen, or banshee, or Tory, or claymore, or slogan.”

Read the entire debunking of New Yorker Cassidy’s poorly researched work here, from the same site as above, only better.

I doubt that the lad in the videos I watched has ever heard of Daniel Cassidy, but he claimed to have all the facts nonetheless. Another thing I fear he’s failed to consider, is that the general public have stopped looking to books and educators for knowledge – instead they scroll away on their social media, mistaking entertainment for education.

Thank goodness the end is nigh.

See, there’s more to verbal communication than just phonemes and syntax – or, speech sounds and sentence structure to you unscholarly types. In fact, did you know that the words describing the sound an owl makes in Danish is slang for penis in Norwegian?

And, don’t take my word for it (even though I do have a degree in linguistics). Look it up! And, no, don’t ask some AI shitbot, use your Internet browser for what it’s worth – really get into it. Even better, if you’ve got access to a Danish book of birdcalls or a trusted Norwegian pal that could let you in on the secrets of their magnificent language, you should check with them. Should your research on owl sounds bring you to the answer², though, I suggest you resist the urge to type that particular term into your Internet search engine, as it might end up biting you on the arse. Even if you do enjoy having your buttocks nibbled.

In summation, we’d all be better off without the “assistance” of the Internet. Read this short article on Psychology Today, about why you shouldn’t believe everything you read on the Internet, if you’re thirsty for a more in-depth look at the emotional backlash such blind belief can foster.

I’ll go watch this week’s episode of High Potential (yes, using the Internet for streaming purposes, I know) – I’m hooked and I don’t know why. Actually, that’s a lie. I’m hooked because Kaitlin Olson’s performance in this thing is through the roof – as is that of the one and only Judy Reyes. Never before have I enjoyed anything even bordering on crime/whodunnit, but this is a good one. Great, in fact.

To wrap things up, I’d like to give one of my favourite peeps (whose birth fell on this date some 40+ years ago, but who’s counting? Well, he is, because he’s a drummer) a special shout out. You’re a legend and a half, Rob! For those of you having made it through to the end, you can enjoy one of his bands in the below video:

See you next Tuesday!

I am old, so ‘new’ is relative – it could mean anything between now and Y2K ↩︎
Hint: the featured image is a clue ↩︎

17th Mar 2026 1

You feelin’ alright?

Snapshot of a YogiTea Simple Yoga exercise

Thanks for askin’, Joe, I’m actually not feelin’ too bad myself. For a change. (Yes, those were the words of Dave Mason of Traffic I just butchered, but I prefer the Cocker version. One of my favourite songs, actually, so I’ll leave a treat for those of you who make it to the bottom.)

It’s bizarre, with everything going on in the world, that I’ve managed to remain seemingly unperturbed. During a Blood Moon, no less (!). I hadn’t even thought about the fluctuations in the earth centre’s gravitational pull until I saw the big old pizza 3.14 up in the sky when I left the house earlier.

For once, it seems I’m in a state of not needing a rant. I am not pining for the fjords. The ranter has ceased to be. I am an ex-ranter.

Or perhaps it’s the lack of sleep in the last 24 hours.

This might be the least connected I’ve ever felt to the lyrics of the first verse of Feelin’ Alright.

And that is why I’ve decided that, instead of adding onto all of the other shit going on by screaming my fingers off and stirring shit up today, I will urge you to try and find some peace and block out all of the noise. You can do the yoga exercise in the photo (cheers, YogiTea!). If only for a second. The world’s not going to stop burning without us.

(OK, subtle wee rant, but that’s it)

What’s changed? Nothing. Everything? Perhaps I’ve tried hypnosis and it really sort of helped? I’ll write about that next week, but for now we’ll relax for a bit. Accept the fact that there’s some things we can’t fix and that we’d be better off focusing our energy towards what we can – or even show our support for those who can.

I’m not going to try to persuade you into buying anything here today – not even my take on some far-fetched theory. All I want from you, dear reader, is for you to know that your reading this is helping someone.

I will leave you with some more words from Feelin’ Alright, as performed by the late Joe Cocker, one of the finest singers to have ever graced this earth:

“Don’t get too lost in all I say
Yeah, by the time, you know, I really felt that way
But that was then, and now, you know, it’s today
I can’t escape so I guess I’m here to stay
‘Til someone comes along and takes my place, yeah
With a different name, oh, and a different face”

If there’s still something for us all to wake up to tomorrow, I shall see you next Tuesday. Until then, stay weird and don’t be afraid to get in touch. Let’s hope they keep light on for another couple of years. This thing is just starting to get good, and I’ve got “too much to do before I die”.

3rd Mar 2026 0

Hume-our me or go Home: a minute of your time for some chat about passionate reasoning

Now, as a young first-year Philosophy student, I must admit I was never partial to David Hume’s school of thought (although I did find it funny that he supposedly changed his name from Home to Hume, because “no-one in England went by Home”. Pretty far-out behaviour, for someone from Lawnmarket, Edinburgh.

Looks like the drugs are finally out of the system – let’s celebrate the return of my ever-charming personality!

So, why the hell would someone in their right mind all of a sudden start reading Hume, when they already know they won’t like it? Next-level asceticism? The short answer is no, this was not an act of self-harm. In fact, I’ve not been reading at all – he was quoted (if only very briefly) in a podcast episode. I cannot for the life of me recall what podcast this was, and I refuse to go through the log on my streaming app, seeing as I’ve listened to hours and hours of music since. But I know it had something to do with reasoning and causation.

The original (and full) quote is from section 3 of the third part of the second book in Hume’s A Treatise of Human Nature. It is grossly taken out of context – much akin to a headline from The Sun – and reads as follows:

“Reason is, and ought only to be the slave of the passions, and can never pretend to any other office than to serve and obey them.” (1739-40)

The quote is often seen in combination with another part of the text so far down on the same page that you have to assume the latter works as a sort of book-end to the former, after a series of examples of how the ‘self’ defines reasoning driven by passion. The latter does not follow the former without some degree of detailed explanation. You can read the entire thing by clicking anywhere on this sentence.

Now, feel free to call me on my jumping onto the express train to judgement city, but I’ve spent enough time behind semi-dodgy boozer bars to recognise the drunken ramblings of a grown man with certain, shall we say, repressed urges.

Nevertheless, it turns out the 2026 version of me actually quite likes these musings of Hume. And, what resonated was the part about our passions bleeding into our reasoning – and not only in matters of the heart. What are we, without passion? To me, life would have very little meaning without it. The joy you feel when a risky venture pays off. The slack you might cut yourself if it doesn’t, because the passion drove you to act carelessly.

I believe that any human creature capable of emotion can be passionate about a multitude of things. I mean, need I bring up the bog roll conflict?

When shit gets, well, real shitty, my passion-fuelled reasoning is the only thing that can shift my focus. Albeit not always in a good way, but still. Just like a limp handshake, a passion-less existence is not for me. Which might be why antidepressants only make me unwell – I need the passion to feel alive. I thrive on the chaos I’ve created, because I lets me access this superhuman stress-tolerance in the event that real chaos erupts. When you flip the switch, however, just crossing the street might feel overwhelming.

If you ever feel overwhelmed, dear reader – or if you’ve had enough of these seemingly unstructured ramblings – I’d like for you to drop me a message via the contact form. I’ve got loads of ideas, but I’m up for a challenge. Finally! 10 points goes to the first person that manages to stump me.

I am going to love you and leave you for now. I shall see you again next Tuesday!

Until then, this video had me mesmerised for so long I lost track of time the other day… Enjoy responsibly (by clicking on this paragraph, or get your ya-yas out to the embedded video below).

24th Feb 2026 0

Discontinuation depersonalisation

“Shivering, muscle pain, fatigue, excessive sweating, headaches, weakness, vertigo, gait imbalance, dizziness, ataxia, tremors, paraesthesia, nausea, vomiting, diarrhoea, abdominal pain, electric-shock-like experiences in the brain (referred to as brain zaps), visual disturbances, insomnia, vivid dreams, nightmares, agitation, irritability, anxiety, tearfulness, sexual dysfunctions” (Special Issue Psychopharmacology of Affective Disorders, 2021) – these are a few of my favourite things.

I jest, of course. You’d be hard pressed to find so much as one of these things anywhere even remotely near the list of things I’d wish on my worst enemy (apart from maybe the diarrhoea), yet they are some of the more common symptoms associated with the discontinuation of the ‘serotonin modulator and stimulator’ (a type of antidepressant) Vortioxetine.

Other research studies mentioned such lovely side effects as depersonalisation, emotional incontinence and the inevitable return of the depressive symptoms.

Needless to say, I stopped taking my meds due to their inefficacy and rather intolerable, to me, side effects (I have an intolerance to certain types of medication, and I am not claiming this to be some sort of universal fact or that all drugs are bad. This is just my personal experience.), and now I’ve gone a bit extra bonkers. I’ve been so out of it, it didn’t even occur to me that it could be withdrawal symptoms (I was on a very low dose to begin with, and tapering is not normally necessary), until it was pointed out to me by a professional.

The good news is that it’s not permanent. One day, I’ll be less likely to start greetin’ like a wee bairn whenever I hear any hit song from 1995, and I can get through a whole day without feeling as if I’m only observing my physical body from another realm hidden by a thickening veil… Perhaps one day I’ll be a little less pretentious-sounding as well.

Anyway, my recent lack of inspiration and focus has an explanation. My brain will resume its brain-like activities yet again – soon, even. Multiple trusted internet sources tell me that I am at around the time where the more adverse symptoms reach their climax (YUCK), and that I can expect them to taper off and (hopefully) disappear within the next fortnight.

Just knowing that there’s some logic behind my very odd behaviour in recent weeks helps a great deal – I’m sure I’ll be back to writing fascinating content about, say, how far a human fart can travel before losing speed, aroma or altitude in no time. Perhaps even next week?? You know you’re in for a treat – here’s hoping no one will steal my idea whilst I’m contemplating my existence, the meaning behind the lyrics to Tears for Fear’s Shout, or the secret behind Michael Hutchence‘s incredible charisma.

I dare you to click on the above ‘fart’ link.

Whilst my synapses have been frying themselves in the last drops of oil meant for lubricating my myelin sheaths, and my prefrontal cortex has fucked off on an all-inclusive EasyJet holiday to Lanza-fucking-rote, the world has been burning. But, at the same time, people seem to be finally waking up. I’ve noticed more people spending less time on their phones on public transport this past week, making eye contact and even smiling (!) at strangers. Perhaps there’s hope for our species yet? If not, I’d better hurry the fuck up and finish the second book before we all go *poof*.

Regardless, I’m pretty sure I’ll see you next Tuesday. Until then, you can read this post that I wrote about something absurd, or you can listen to one of the finest NWOBHM albums of all time, Killers, on YouTube.

17th Feb 2026 0

The unavoidable convergence of kindred energies

In the not too distant past, I said I’d write something about friendship. But then life happened and the flames died down, leaving nothing but an ember behind. Well, the wait is over, because someone stoked the fire into a mighty roar!

If you manage to read through the whole thing, I’ll include the very words that inspired me at the bottom of this page.

All my life, I’ve flitted from loner to loner like a very busy little people-pleasing bee, trying to find matches for those who seek me out. Not bothering to seek out people I’d consider a good match for myself, of course, because that’s far too scary. (Also, I never planned on being around for very long in the first place, so why bother).

Regardless.

I wound up becoming everyone’s pal and confidante, but without having any real pals of my own. And with my constant need to be everyone’s best friend, I was ultimately an unpaid agony aunt-cum-matchmaker.

(Boo-hoo, poor me! Relax, it’s not that kind of post). But, if you’re in the mood for something a little darker, head on over to another one of my posts here, or buy my book.

I did get to a point, though, where I’d had it with the upkeep of these one-sided, fair-weather friendships, and I’d have to move far away and/or burn all bridges as thoroughly as humanly possible. As it turns out, you simply cannot rid yourself of a real pal that way.

I’ve known my very best friend for 30 years, and it’s the most effortless human relationship I’ve ever had. That’s not to say that we don’t go all in for each other when needs be – because we do – but it doesn’t feel like work. I know she doesn’t expect anything from me, and vice versa. We’re not afraid to say what we mean to each other, because there’s an unconditional love tying us together. She’s been there for me through some really horrible shit, and she’s still there – she must be nuts. But she’s my nutter.

The interesting thing here, though, is that we’ve lived hundreds of miles apart for the better part of those 30 years. For the longest time, I suspected this physical distance to be the only reason anyone would ever stay friends with me for any longer than a few boozy hours down the pub. These days, however, I’ve realised that’s not the case.

The pandemic probably helped change my mindset as well. In Edinburgh, we didn’t really have the opportunity to socialise the way we used to- at least not face-to-face – so if you did reach out to someone, it was out of a genuine wish to interact with that particular friend. And even now, as I live miles and miles away from my home, these guys are the ones I speak to more regularly than the people sat next to me in the office every day. And, as it turns out (with one or two exceptions in my geographical proximity), the friends I’ve made that are scattered all over the globe, are the ones I consider my closest.

What might have started out as a need to protect myself from the potential hurt of losing a friend has ended up being a sort of confirmation that I am worthy of being someone they’d want to keep in their lives. And the other way around.

Apparently, there’s something about ADHD and challenges with adult friendships worth researching, but I think all adult friendships require something more. They need to challenge you, to sustain you, to elevate you and keep you grounded, to enable you to see your own story from a different perspective when you’re stuck in a downward spiral (or a narcissistic doom loop, for that matter), and you need to be that for someone else as well.

My plan was to research this properly, because I came across a podcast episode on this. Not just one, to be fair. There are hundreds. But this one seemed like the real deal. I’ve yet to listen to it, so I’ll share the link below so we can all listen to it together.

And, as promised, I will now share the inspirational words of Mr. B (with his permission, of course). This, to me, is what friendship is all about. I consider myself to be very fortunate to have been on the receiving end of these words:

I share with you the strive to do better, to be better

I share self-loathing and self-sabotage

I share self awareness.

I share distrust of others.

I share utter devotion to the (very) few.

See you next Tuesday. Drop me an email if you have a topic you’d like me to write about!

27th Jan 2026 0

Grievances from a shallow grave

I never quite managed to tell The Tell-tale Heart and Death of a Salesman apart – or the latter from Fiddler on the Roof, for that matter – I was so bored out of my skull from all the pretentiousness that I somehow blocked out the differences. I’d rather read The Salesman Fiddler Tell-all (Death on the Roof). (I mean, who wouldn’t?)

What’s this got to do with the price of moth-eaten stockings? Well. All three of the aforementioned works of fiction (one would assume) are quite dark. And being introduced to them during my hormone-infested formative years, when I was already submerged in thoughts about the frailty of the human body, they all seemed to embody the same message; death will come for us all. I suspect that’s when I first decided that I wasn’t going to let death take me by surprise – I was going out on my own terms.

And, thus, my fear of death was born. Much thanks to the flawed human psyche. I wanted to finish myself off. I had made my peace with dying, but I had a few things to tick off my list before I could escort myself off the ledge, as it were. I didn’t dare to sleep, in sheer fear of never waking up again. (Which eventually resulted in fainting from the exhaustion, but you’d be surprised at just how long a stubborn child can manage to stay awake if left to their own angst-ridden devices). Thanatophobia, for you learned folks.

I know I promised you a post about suicide and friendship, but I changed my mind. And then, as I was running through a graveyard to catch a bus yesterday, I started thinking about the link between death anxiety and suicidal ideation – surely there must be one. But now I cannot find any research on the matter, so I am hoping this finds its way to a person in the position to do a proper study on it. In the meantime, you can read about “Attempted suicide and Death Anxiety” on the American National Library of Medicine. It was the only thing slightly scientific, not in a Reddit thread.

And instead, I will give you my two cents on how forced time off work/paid seasonal leave can lead to burnout if you have fallen out of love with your job. I’m not talking about going away on holiday here, I am talking about being faced with whole days completely without team meetings, work calls, the constant need to check your phone for notifications and the endless to-do-lists, and you haven’t had to ask for it.

Most people will enjoy the time off, fill it with family activities, festive pish, a Tinder-palooza if so inclined, and some might feel a bit anxious about not being able to respond to emails, or they didn’t manage to get everything done before they left the office on the last day, but even those people will be able to relax after a few days have gone by without any disasters. And, depending of just how many days one is awarded off, some of these people might start to notice how their sleep pattern improves. Some might notice a slight weight loss, their complexion clears up, all of a sudden, it’s been a full week without them reaching for a single Paracetamol. But they might think very little of it – they might even brush it off as them finally starting to get over that cold that somehow came over them mid-October and never quite left.

But then, as if by magic (or, rather, a curse), the last day of the holiday arrives and they unable to fall asleep, because they’re terrified the alarm won’t wake them, so they pass out some time around 1am, only to wake up in a pool of sweat two hours later, which then has them twisting and turning until about 40 minutes before the alarm’s set to go off, when they finally fall asleep. One alarm and five snoozes later, they’re standing in front of the bathroom mirror, wondering what has happened to the person looking back at them the day before, when they hadn’t even needed an alarm to get them out of bed by 6. The week is off to a shitty start, and when they get to the office, they are inundated by emails they are unable to respond to, because of the incessant post-hols chatter between the more cheerful colleagues, who have been looking forward to seeing everyone again (and no doubt get to see a little less of their respective families). So, little by little, the sleep-deprived shell of a human being just sits there, staring into their computer screen(s) looking for the meaning of life, as the first headache starts to brew, accompanied by a fever and a slightly elevated heartrate from the stress. This, of course, is followed by nausea, but at the same time they are overcome by a seemingly insatiable hunger – they can feel their body expanding just at the thought of food… If this is you? I have one word for you; burnout.

We don’t talk enough about the physical symptoms of burnout, or the detrimental effect it can have on our everyday. There is a chance that a change of scenery can fix it, but, regardless, you can benefit greatly from seeing your GP about this. Just talking about it with a professional can be a tremendous help. This is your body screaming at you to stop what you’re doing and tend to it before it shrivels up and dies a slow, painful death. Or, if you’re just dying to leave a cortisol-filled middle-aged corpse behind, continue ignoring it.

If the prospect of going to work feels like a fate worse than death and fills you with dread – or worse, with indifference – you might want to update your LinkedIn profile…

I leave you today, with the immortal words from Clare Harner’s 1934 poem Immortality, as published in the December issue of poetry magazine The Gypsy:

Do not stand
   By my grave, and weep.
I am not there,
   I do not sleep —
I am the thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints in snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle, autumn rain.
As you awake with morning’s hush,
I am the swift, up-flinging rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight,
I am the day transcending night.
Do not stand
   By my grave, and cry—
I am not there,
   I did not die.

Because, I am not there. I did not die. I just listened to my body and managed to get myself pulled out of the abyss before I was buried alive. Now, go buy my book, please. Or, you could send me a wee message! See you next Tuesday.

13th Jan 2026 1

Finding calm with a busy brain

I took this photo at a gig this weekend, just as the shutter on my camera stopped working properly – hence the blur. Not a great thing to have happen mid-show. Alas, when I was going through the hundreds of images I had uploaded from my trusty Canon onto my desktop in the hope of finding something usable, my heart jumped a little at this particular photo. THIS is what my brain feels like when I’m told to be quiet or to sit still for any undisclosed length of time. It might resemble noise pollution to most, but, to me, it is more akin to an everchanging tapestry of neurons firing and processor overload.

If you, like me, have a slightly over-active mind, where there’s no end to the constant chatter going on behind your eyes, you may have been guilty of rolling your eyes so hard at the mention of the word ‘meditation’ that you’ve given yourself a headache on more than one occasion. Like trying to silence the voices in your head whilst sitting completely still for who knows how long is going to be anything other than a gigantic waste of time. Because, as we all know, this is how it works; the road to enlightenment/serenity is awarded only those who can shut down completely, sit in a lotus position for hours on end, breathe in and out in a pattern of inhalation for four seconds, hold for four, exhale for seven, without getting caught up in the counting, stop thinking about anything other than roots springing out of your arse and into the centre of mother earth (and also avoiding thinking resentful thoughts brought on by the word mother), be oblivious to the fact that the earth’s centre is filled with lava that will surely burn your rectal roots and not ground them, all the while trying to keep your eyes closed and not check the time every five seconds, to make sure you’ve counted your breathing seconds correctly. WRONG!

This might be how traditional meditation has been presented to most of us through books, films, YouTube channels and podcasts, and “everyone” all claim that meditation is “great” for people with ADHD, but no one’s ever bothered to tell us why it’s so great, shared with us the philosophy behind it, or let us know that there aren’t really any rules to how you should meditate. Turns out, you don’t even need to keep your eyes closed!

If you started reading this under the misapprehension that it would be another well-researched post filled with interesting links, I apologise. I’ve been under so much stress lately that I’ve been searching rather desperately for anything that could help, so when I came across this random podcast episode where they were discussing ADHD and meditation, I didn’t remember to bookmark it for later. (Very clever, I know). But the general gist of it, I remember, because the host and their guest confirmed something that I have been theorising for quite some time; that meditation can be relative to the person doing the meditation.

Let me explain for a second: I find running meditative, especially when I go hard enough that my body becomes so tired that I can no longer stop my thoughts from flowing freely, which in turn brings forth many a solution to any conundrums I have had in the past. If I need to sort something out, that I can’t get my head around, or have an impossible deadline and keep procrastinating, I go for a long run, aiming for a PB. That works for me. I’ve tried sooooo many guided meditations, both live and to recordings, and all they do is stress me out. There’s too many rules! And how am I meant to find inner peace when people keep breathing, or the so-called guide keeps mispronouncing certain words or saying nonsensical things? Why can’t they just shut the fuck up so I can collect my thoughts for a second? Oh, I’m meant to “empty my mind and let go of what no longer serves me”. Right. How about giving me a goddamned second to think about what that might be? Oh, we’re manifesting now. Okay. What the fuck? I need to do things my way.

Needless to say, I was more than relieved when I heard the aforementioned episode, because – like many others with ADHD – I need confirmation on certain things. I need to know I’m doing things correctly. (It’s a miracle that I ever manage to walk anywhere without overthinking my every step, because no one has ever confirmed that I’m following the foot placement recipe correctly).

So, I thought I’d share this with whoever else out there needs it. It gave me some piece of mind and I am allowing myself to stop torturing myself with the biweekly guided meditation pod I’ve been following for the past three years. That’s more than 39 hours of time wasted… but it could have become a lot more had I not realised that I can meditate in the way that I see fit.

So, what is the purpose of meditation? I like what I found on study.com: “Meditation is an act of connecting the mind and body to the present moment.”

They also list seven different types of meditation, in which we find ‘movement meditation’. I feel like so many have focussed on the relaxation aspect of mindfulness meditation, that it’s become ingrained in our culture that we need to be half-asleep in order to connect with our truth. There is something to be said for the breath work in meditation, of course, but I don’t necessarily think that you would have to follow a pattern set by someone else. Do you have someone set the temperature for your shower as well? I certainly hope not. It can of course be helpful to have a look at different techniques and what works best for which type of meditation, but at the end of the day, your meditation practice needs to work for you. It’s precious alone time for you and your brain – even the busier kind!

To finalise, this is a time of year when there’s more unwanted noise coming from every angle than normal. Perhaps we can find a way to turn all that food noise, money noise, people noise into background noise by finding a small pocket of alone time in a day. Just five minute can be enough, this podcast told me – that’s less than an average poo!

And on that note, I bid you farewell for the last time in 2025. See you next Tuesday!

Oh – please buy my book. I am very poor and in need of a new camera.

Perhaps I’ll kick the new year off with an interview with an up and coming band from Norway’s metal scene… Keep your peepers peeled!

HAPPY NEW YEAR, MAY THE NEW ONE BE A BIT LESS SHIT.

Wee update! I found a great article on ADDitude.com, where they provide a detailed account of how you can make meditation part of your daily routine without too much hassle. Click anywhere on this sentence to read. Cheers!

30th Dec 2025 0