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

Squirrels and the magic of behavioural economics

I was sat outside contemplating my own existence when a particularly nosy squirrel very rudely interrupted my introspective endeavours. For some reason, squirrels seem to pop up everywhere like tiny brown embodiments of red flags whenever I find myself in a situation, but that’s neither here nor there. Or, is it precisely both here and there? Regardless, his incessant stare made me realise I was due a budget revision. Of the mind, that is. Here’s a few thoughts on something about a little thing called personal accountability.

Bear with me, it’s going to get very bleak before any occurrence of any light. Also, you shouldn’t expect to read much about the original definition of behavioural economics here, so if you get your kicks from neatly putting numbers into spreadsheet columns, read the Wikipedia article on the term by clicking on this sentence.

You’d think that, with the amount of sheer introspection I shamelessly indulge in every week, I’d be pretty much up to speed on which areas to focus on in order to improve my existence. Perhaps even to such a degree that the need for any ‘home improvements’ would be reduced to barely noticeable ad hoc upkeep tasks. Turns out, you’d be wrong. In fact, you might say this particular humanoid construction is permeated by the mental equivalent of black mould, water damage, termites and poorly and/or insufficiently laid foundations.

On the personal plain only, of course. The professional part has been meticulously built for endurance and longevity, protected by impermeable scaffolding at all times. Surely, though, as the two are connected, no one could fault you for questioning whether the collapse of one would affect the other?

You might wonder how I let my personal life fall into a state of such disrepair. Well, without going into too much detail, my theory is this:

From a very young age, it was instilled into me by my caregivers that fear was the best – if not only – motivator. Meaning, of course, that any flaws or failures were to be subject to castigation of the utmost severity (i.e., you’d be terminated from the household and stripped of your privilege of any further ‘caregiving’). Success equalled strengthening the brand of the commissioner(s) – previously known as the caregivers – whereas failure to comply would lead to the ruin of the same.

The positive outcome of this for me, personally, was that I learned how to make myself do things that didn’t come naturally to me (like, say, fucking maths, meticulously budgeting and sticking to it, always paying a higher than required tax percentage and calculating the energy prices in case of inflation – all things any child should know how to do, right?) by always expecting the worst. This makes me the perfect employee, as I will always strive for perfection out of the sheer fear of being furloughed, or worse.

Alas, for someone letting fear define what’s important, the balance between work and life would be more or less non-existent. Furthermore, striving to do anything that might spark any kind of joy outside of the workplace would be deemed unworthy of the same focus, as they don’t have that same fear attached to it. Or any. So, if fear is motivation and there’s no aspect of fear in what you are doing, you’ve no real way to convince yourself that it is valuable enough for you to work towards. This should be regarded as one of the negative outcomes, of which there are plenty. For instance, you can read a little something I wrote about “love” and emotional wounds by clicking on this sentence.

Conclusion: With this fear-based approach to success, one would fail to prioritise self-care when needed – or at all. Ultimately, this could lead to forgoing any social interaction, personal hygiene efforts or indeed after-work activities that only benefits the self, meaning you’d only really feel like a ‘real’ person when called upon by the commissioner. Which, in turn, would lead to a sense of increasing worthlessness that might lead to prioritising self-harm over selfcare.

So, how does one go about changing the script, so to speak? Do you really have to go reinventing the wheel, or un-learning everything with years and years of cognitive behavioural therapy? How do you know how to spot the bullshit – or, more importantly, the bullshitters?

Well, I may not have the answers you seek, but my money’s on this: It depends on the fucking person. The one guarantee is that there’s no cure-all. But, if there’s one thing you need, I’d say it’s accountability to yourself and to your goals. And your motivation cannot be founded in fear or regulated by negative self-talk. This includes the fear of not reaching your goals!

Perhaps the key to motivation lies in letting go of a fear-based driving force. Or, maybe it’s about learning how to accept and embrace that good things are in fact real and good, and not just some mirage or dirty trick. It could be physical too, of course. Maybe you just need to allow yourself to breath in order to let your shoulders down. Whatever it might be, I think it requires the self to let go of the assumption that society expects certain things or collectively looks down their nose at you for not being good enough. In reality, it is the self that has adopted this view and made it its mantra. And that just might be the key to change.

After all, if the person holding the whip that caused those scars across your back no longer bothers to crack it; why should you?

See you next Tuesday. Until then, enjoy the fine tune below:

18th Aug 2026 1

Swan Songs

Recently, a dear friend and I were talking about how autumn had suddenly descended upon us, and she mentioned how her partner had referred to the transition as not the end of summer, but “the beginning of their year”. I really liked that. So, as a few chapters in my life are closing, I aim to view the coming time as a new beginning – rather than grieve what could have been.

According to Wikipedia (and almost every dictionary), the phrase swan song “refers to a final gesture, effort or performance given just before death or retirement“. Not only does it sound better than saying something along the lines of ‘going out with a bang’ or similar, but I find it helps highlight the gravity of purposely exiting whilst leaving behind something of value to commemorate your efforts. In other words, you’re not just burning the bridge, you’re blowing it up in ways Guy Fawkes could only dream about.

Incidentally, the above phrase is also the title of one of my favourite Down songs (YouTube vid embedded at the end of this post).

As I mentioned, there are a few things coming to an end this summer. Some have plagued my mind for what seems like an eternity, while others simply seized to make sense over the past wee while. The cost had started to exceed the benefits to such an extent that it started eating away at my sanity and everything I’d worked so hard for started to come tumbling down. Only this time, I was able to see that I was going to have to make a choice if I wanted to get my head back over the water’s edge again. I might still be treading water, but at least I’m breathing.

If you missed my last post, about the detrimental effects of avoiding making choices I should have made, you can read it by clicking anywhere on this sentence.

Some endings are inevitable, other ventures meet their demise by design. Then, there are those that come to an end due to sheer self-sabotage. Here’s hoping that sort of thing has run its course forever this time.

Short and bittersweet, like most things one may be feverishly indifferent to, this post, too, has entered its final paragraph. I’ll see you next Tuesday. Until then, make sure your new beginnings fit in with your main goal, go read this post about hope – or, better yet (for me), buy my book – or just do something that makes you happy.

“Send me love and I may let you see me. Send me hope that can spin in my head”

FTS.

11th 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

Grave expectations

“So, how’s the writing going?” he says. And I had to admit that it’s not. At all. “I’ve not done anything productive since [sic]” and instantly I could hear all the excuses I’d been giving myself for the past 6 months, for how I’ve failed to do the one thing I know will give me purpose, accountability, even joy in some weird sense.

Self-sabotage, pt. 2, eh…

You see, when something good happens, hope starts to build. Not even that, maybe just a glimmer of hope triggers something so alien and futile as a new neural path struck in the opposite direction of all the others. So, we choose not to do the things that’ll enable such hapless and fruitless endeavours. Until the next time, of course, something unexpectedly positive in nature comes around and we’re forced to look lady luck in the eye.

After all, what’s more terrifying than going after the holy grail knowing you’ve got an actual winning chance?

Welcome to Desolation Highway.

If you’re taught, early on, that disappointment is inevitable due to your existence alone, you’re no doubt better off trying to shield yourself from the things that seem unequivocally and genuinely good. And your scepticism would be coming from a place of experience, that good things only happen to other people and not to you. We’re meant to contribute to the greater good by making sure others will both have and eat all of the bukkake. Or, was it cake? Who knows – not a fan of either. But the one certainty is that self-indulgence of any kind is not only wrong, but so wrong that it takes away from the so-called greater good. Which is why completing the one thing that would show others that you’re motivated by the one good thing that actually did happen, despite your lack of trying and incessant efforts to burn all bridges, becomes a reminder of how guilty you should feel for recognising even the slightest flicker of self-worth.

Why is hope such a dangerous thing, when hurt is the feeling you know best? Perhaps it’s because you already know that, when you allow yourself to feel hopeful, you set yourself up for even more chances of finding those small pockets of happiness. But not only by chance, but with actual effort. And, if that were to go away after having had the chance to get used to it, the inevitable hurt at the end of it would be such that we could not even stand to bare it. So we do our best to stop the good things from happening, just to avoid the extreme pain of potentially becoming rejected by something we actually wanted for once.

Hope and epistemology are, to me, interlinked by the fact that they both relate to expectation. The latter may be more science-based than the former, but it’s all about being able to envision realistic outcomes based on your experience. I may not be the biggest fan of Socrates’ biggest fluffer, but I do think he ‘d know exactly what I’m getting at here. Arguably, without Plato we wouldn’t even know about Socrates. Famously, Plato never spoke in his own voice in his dialogues, yet he seemed to understand the importance of his own role in bringing forth the messages of them. Double-edged swords and all that.

I’m not sure what’s brought this philosophical babble on, it might have been a discussion I had earlier today about the theory of the Id and the Ego being excuses for horrible personality traits that you don’t want to acknowledge, and I may or may not write a word or two on that soon. But not tonight. It is far too late and I seem to have decided that I’m going to try to not sabotage tomorrow for myself just yet.

I’ll see you next Tuesday. Until then, let’s all just remind ourselves that good things can happen and that it’s okay to hope – maybe not fully expect, but certainly dare to hope – for some things to work out in our favour too. And not only despite our best efforts to stop them from doing just that.

7th Jul 2026 0

Breaking points and boundaries

Imagine for a second, that you’ve spent every second of your existence ignoring your urge to set boundaries to better serve those around you. Imagine having groomed yourself into a spineless shell of a human being by doing so, yet been able to live with yourself regardless, as you’ve convinced yourself it is the only way to go through life, only to have that belief pulled out from under you when a well-meaning stranger realises they have to inform you of your right and duty to put up a few bloody barriers where needs must. This, my friend, is where the floodgates open and the crazy pours out.

A human being is composed of a million things that can be easily broken; fingers, nails, spirit, heart … yet, only when something soulless yet visible – like a glass – breaks, we’re reminded of the complete and utter devastation something that’s been shattered into pieces leaves in its wake. In all fairness, you can both feel and see your finger breaking without the need for the bone to poke through the skin, but unless it’s completely severed from your hand, it remains attached to your body, the bone itself growing stronger and more resilient after the break. Maybe that’s why most people are willing to set themselves up for heartbreak time and time again, as if they’ve got some sort of dysphoria fetish. In comparison, you might start opting for tumblers made of metal or plastic once you’ve smashed about a dozen nice ones.

A broken glass cannot be put back together, but it can certainly be replaced by something better, new and whole. It’s rather difficult to do that with something so abstract as the personification of ones still-beating heart. Unless, of course, you invest in enough prescription drugs to turn it into an icebox. Or, you build up around it an infinite wall… with a moat… filled with ill-tempered, mutated menopausal women. A fortress both impenetrable and impossible to venture out of.

So, with this type of all-or-nothing thinking, being told you have to start setting boundaries might seem a little daunting. Especially when the people around you aren’t used to that sort of behaviour coming from their favourite doormat, or when, historically, saying the word ‘no’ in the past has met very little compassion or respect from the denied party. Enter existential crisis mode and a never-ending phase of trial and error that will surely push loved ones away and/or become the sort of thing you practise around the people you’re not afraid of pushing away.

What I mean to say is, I don’t think it’s very wise to start setting boundaries without building some confidence first. Not just in oneself, but in the whole ‘giving people the opportunity to get a sense of who you are before you’ve changed yourself into the person you know they want you to be’ thing. In a sense, not setting any boundaries where you need them is not only a disservice to yourself – it’s lying.

So, where do you start? I am in no way certified to tell anyone what to do here, but I’m at least half-decent at looking up those who do on the Internet. So, luckily for you and me, there are a lot of articles out there on the matter. The drawback, though, if you struggle with impulse control, is that there’s no quick fix. You need to be able to visualise the process – you can’t just ‘go with your gut and deal with things as and when’ or just start saying ‘no’. At least if you want to do it right and not just turn into a boundary setting machine or a NO man. I’ve linked a few articles below, for those wanting to learn more about finding out what your boundaries really are and then start setting them successfully.

Therapy in a Nutshell: Boundaries for anxious folks in 3 steps

Embracing your therapy: A beginner’s guide for those who have a hard time setting boundaries

Then there’s this ‘No-Fluff Guide from Nina Gruenewald

Why this? Why now? Well, if the smashing of a single glass becomes your breaking point – the not so gentle reminder that you’re in the midst of a whirlwind of poor decision making because you need an excuse to feel like shit because it’s much easier to wallow than it is to thrive (fuck me, I hate that word) – it’s time to have a look at how you can help yourself before every bridge you built is burned to a crisp.

I’ll see you next Tuesday. Until then, here’s a song for those whose ‘precious illusions’ no longer work the way they did.

23rd Jun 2026 0

Feeding your inner demons after midnight

I’ve written about this sort of stuff before; self-sabotage and keeping good things at bay in order to protect yourself from getting your hopes inevitably crushed to tiny fragments. But as the temperature outside shoots through the roof and the sun peeks through the clouds on a more regular basis, depression starts rearing its ugly head, yet again. Which brings my thoughts to my definition of happiness. Despite knowing a lot better, I’ve always viewed it as a constant, something you become, that which makes you you – one of those annoying shiny happy people. So, naturally, I’ve done my best to stop myself from falling into the ‘happiness trap’ by planting and cultivating dumb, destructive ideas in my own head, such as ‘no happy person ever wrote a decent song’, or ‘happiness makes you ignorant to other people’s suffering’, ‘it’s better to not have known happiness at all, than to grieve its inevitable departure once you’ve fucked everything up’. You get the gist:

To me, allowing myself something that would bring even the smallest likelihood of experiencing happiness meant I’d lose my depth, my integrity, my ability to write resonant lyrics. But now I’m thinking; who the hell decided we’ve got to be so bloody deep all the bloody time? I’ll tell you who most certainly didn’t – someone in a state of happiness.

Did you ever watch that film Happiness for Beginners, where a divorce leads to the main character going on a quest – both literally and figuratively – to find what she thinks is happiness, only to encounter layers and layers of happy accidents that make up so much more than what she’d envisioned as her initial goal? A nuanced cluster of emotion, knowledge, compassion, grief and letting go of the fear of what might happen if you dared being completely true to yourself.

Fuck me, that sounded a bit pretentious, eh?

Regardless, baring your soul to yourself, for yourself, is scary as fuck! You’ve spent all this time curating different masks for every possible event, that you feel rather naked without them, and only that next level rock bottom shit can make you feel the need to do such a thing. When you’re so far below the initial rock bottom that you just cannot be bothered to keep up the charade. At least that’s what I believe to be true for myself.

And then comes the choice between finding solace (i.e. temporary lobotomy) at the bottom of a whisky bottle, or venturing into something as self-indulgent as neuro-linguistic programming – “a set of principles and techniques aimed at enhancing self-awareness, increasing confidence, building communication skills and motivating positive social actions” – after gaslighting yourself into believing you’ll be able to open yourself to such a thing. You can read more about NLP in this Psychology Today article. Turns out, the bullshit factor vaporises when you put the work in.

An article on the US National Institutes of Health referred to the treatment as “old wine in a new glass“, which I can get behind. Although not yet a recognised form of psychotherapy, NLP is very much just the re-programming/un-learning of unhelpful tactics learned over time, much akin to cognitive behavioural therapy. Although with a little less emphasis on the psychoanalysis of trauma and a little more on introducing new ideas that are, in essence, better for you long-term. Which makes me think that this whole unlearning malarkey is a little bit overrated and perhaps even – dare I say it – unnecessary. I don’t want to appear too bombastic about this: there’s no ‘one size fits all’ when it comes to matters of the mind. And I’m certainly not about to knock CBT, which cam be tremendously helpful for a lot of people. But, some alternatives/variations/deviation are welcome.

So, what’s all this to do with demons and happiness? Was this header just clickbait, and there’s not even one single reference to either Charmed nor Buffy?

Well, I like to think that we’ve all got a tiny cluster of mini demons – cute wee ones, like Gizmo before his midnight feed, or, you know, Spike – living happily right up there in the prefrontal cortex of every child, but every so often, some ill-tempered adult drops a hefty scoop of angel dust-like protein powder in there, just to se what’ll happen. That’s when the shit starts to stir. For most, the good kind of childhood resilience will help take care of the aftereffects of the protein overdose. Yet, for some, the crooked kind of resilience they’ve been dealt means they just push everything down until it starts spilling out between the threadbare seams that struggle to hold them together and the demons in. One little crack turns into an explosion, where the debris and shrapnel gets sucked into the black hole left by the big boom, but the black hole is no ordinary black hole into which shit disappears.

No, sir. It’s a door to a parallel universe, where the shrapnel whittles down the debris into pointy, stabby things that – once properly sharpened – returns through its own rectum, only to stab the unsuspecting victim from the inside. This, in turn, causes a person the sort of trauma a person must go through in order to write a song like, say, Hurt. NIN or Aguilera, it doesn’t really matter. Those of us that keep feeding the demons, instead of letting them starve. The ones that need to feel like they can help the demon and not realising that, in the process, they are doing the opposite to themselves. The ones making sure everyone else’s gas oxygen mask is on before even contemplating locating one for themselves.

That’s it – it’s all demon fodder. But, hey, maybe some of the cute ones are worth it.

That’s it for today. Like always, I shall see you next Tuesday. Until then, enjoy this banger from Razorbats in the video below:

16th Jun 2026 1

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

What are you grateful for?

View over Portobello and Easter Road from Arthur's Seat

This is a question I’ve had to ask myself these past few days, as May seemed to whizz past like a brown-dyed whirlwind, with no sign of pausing at any point – if I’d had the money to pay someone to give me a lobotomy, I likely would.

But then, out of the blue, small moments of thankfulness make themselves known in the shape of an image, a smell, a voice message from a mind reader, that all remind me that I do have things to be grateful for. And that’s why, dear reader, I felt the need to write about the good things that make life worth living today. It’ll be a very short post, but don’t let that take anything away from the fact that acknowledging random glimpses of light makes one hell of an impact on the sometimes seemingly all-encompassing darkness.

If you’ve ever been so fortunate as to experience Edinburgh in springtime, you should be able to smell the photo at the top of this post – it’s a bizarre sort of coconutty smell emanating from the “common gorse”, its bright yellow flowers lighting the hillsides of Arthur’s Seat (and my heart) on fire. My first whiff of these bad boys, I was sure I’d overexerted myself during a run and was having a stroke!

Now that I’ve reached a ripe old age where that’s a distinct possibility, I’d kill for that to be the last thing I ever smelled. Not just because I think it’s a very nice smell, but because just looking at old photos of this peculiar plant brings me back to the things I am most grateful for – friendships forged in unbreakable materials, gargantuan gigs, the break of the first post-Fringe morning, my neighbour Iain, Easter bloody Road, running alongside Porty beach, kirkyard parties, CROY, trips down south on the Caledonian Sleeper, visits from the auld country, getting to see others experience this incredible city for the first (or thousandth) time … All I need to jump into Narnia for a brief moment, is one look at a photo.

So, I suppose I’m grateful for … Thomas Wedgwood and his failures?

Either way, there’s light in the darkness and I’m off to capture some of it. To my dear pal, whose birthday I am still celebrating two days later, I hope you know that I am endlessly grateful your light stretches across oceans.

To the rest of you, I shall see you next Tuesday. Until then, you should check out The Gratitudes.

2nd Jun 2026 1