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 0

What is best in life?

When a young barbarian was asked this very question, his reply was simply this;

“To crush your enemies, see them driven before you and to hear the lamentation of their women” (Conan the Barbarian, 1982)

To each their own, I suppose. Not my personal preference, but it was certainly what fuelled Conan’s fire in his quest for happiness. (Spoiler alert: I can also recall him chucking a witch into the fire, but with less success. I digress).

What brought me here today, to this particular quote, is a rather simple observation; we need to focus on the things that make life living if we want to get through the political shitstorm we’re all in at the moment, because tearing each other down isn’t solving anything (although, it might lead to the lamentation of a woman or two).

I’ll be very brief today, and perhaps uncharacteristically rantless, but I think – with a little help from our friend Conan, portrayed by the illustrious Arnold Schwarzenegger – that the shorter length might help spread the word.

A wise person once said that you cannot change another person. This is of course a truth with some modifications, because you can absolutely change someone by treating them badly, but the change achieved will likely not be what you were after. So, in order to achieve sustainable change in a controlled environment, you will need a subject who is entirely under you’re control; yourself.

In changing your own less desirable qualities, you might like yourself more. Hell, you might even inspire and motivate others to do the same. Treat others the way you’d want them to treat you; with compassion and respect. If they fail to return the favour, there’s an easy fix; cut them loose. You don’t need to waste your time and energy on the undeserving few.

I know what you’re thinking… “But, we’ve been friends for so long, I can’t give up on them“, or, “but they’re my mum, how can I let them down?” Guess what? If you’re the only one making an effort – and it’s making you feel miserable, to boot – they’re not holding onto you for your sake. You’ve got something they need. More than likely, they’ve already taken so much from you, that there’s very little left, apart from shame and codependency.

Cut them loose. Let go of any bitterness – it’s not going to make you any stronger. If anything, it’ll make you resentful and/or unable to give what you want to someone you do want to stick around.

We can’t change how others view the world, but we can try to understand why their views might differ from our own. You might even learn that they’re more enlightened than you first assumed, and that their beliefs are the only logical option for their situation – that doesn’t mean that you’re wrong. Our views, our beliefs, our truths are shaped by our experiences. Subjective truths may not always be factual, but I’d argue there is no objective truth in shared experience. You’re entitled to your opinion here, of course. This one’s mine.

My point is this:

Treat yourself and others with compassion. Sometimes showing compassion means leaving before it’s too late. Sometimes it means accepting an opinion we do not share. If we’re too focussed on who’s to blame or their shitty qualities, we’ll venture so far away from resolving the initial issue that the shitemongers will win.

Also, don’t take it upon yourself to take people down a peg as you see fit – I appreciate that most people have been raised in loving, supporting homes and communities that have convinced them that this is true for everyone, but you don’t know what sort of shit you’re stirring up within those that have experienced the opposite. They’re already down further than you can fathom and haven’t a peg to spare.

That’s it. I’ll see you next Tuesday. Until then, feast your eyes upon the glorious display of wholesomeness below.

12th May 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

No such thing: The urgency of agency

No matter where I go or what I do – or don’t – these days, there’s no escaping the constant bombardment of someone’s voice, whether that’s an actual voice, an advert or a poorly written – and often grossly and/or grammatically incorrect – public announcement. Whenever I apply for a job, being able to adapt your writing to their tone of voice is at the top of their wish list (where it should be, to be fair).

Please forgive my need to insert the slightly superfluous ‘constant’ in front of ‘bombardment’ – a word that per definition already alludes to a sustained activity – perhaps I was having a mini-stroke, and that it for a millisecond fed/refuelled/resuscitated my aversion to anything less intense than extra extra.

Anyway…

Whenever I turn on the telly, there’s always some beige blob waffling on about some non-topic, seemingly fearful of its own demise lest its non-message gets out everywhere, all at once, despite its obvious lack of talent, knowledge and/or personality, its trivial theatrics drowning out any relevant or important messages that might have accidentally and concurrently gotten onto the airwaves somehow. The Voice! A whole enterprise void of fucking significance, other than being a platform for the beige to celebrate the beige…

Voices, voices everywhere, yet not a speck of inspired insight within the vessels from which they’ve escaped…

Which makes everything seem so trivial, so insignificant, so unfathomably meaningless.

I do fucking love a perfectly placed superlative.

Although, not to a lecherous degree. Enough with the digressions. Despite what you might be thinking, what I wanted to write about today was not voices. No, sir. Today, I write about the message. That’s not to say that the voice or its owner is not important – far from it – but they remain empty. Nothing but conveyors of the all-important message.

We’ve all heard the saying, ‘don’t shoot the messenger’. But, although I wholeheartedly agree that we shouldn’t be going around shooting (most) people, I certainly think that the messenger should be held accountable for any misinterpretations/misrepresentations, and/or the delivery of any messages written with nefarious intent, where there is reason to believe that the delivery of said message will be catastrophic for the recipient.

Speaking of messengers, the pigeon in the post’s header was already far beyond saving when I discovered it on my way to the subway. I played no role in its seemingly grotesque beheading, which I can only imagine to have been some sort of ritual sacrifice to please the rush hour gods. I’ve named him Alfred, my he rest in peace, this eternal half-pigeon of subway lore – perhaps the last of Mike Tyson’s messenger pigeons. Who knows? Maybe, just maybe, he had failed to deliver his message and this was his punishment?

There are quite a few examples where things have gone tits up, merely due to a person’s lack of grasp on punctuation and its function, or they’ve simply failed to adhere to the concept of time and arrived too late (or too early), managing to almost cock up the future of an entire empire.

Research tells me there’s no evidence of punctuation errors having (as of yet) been punishable by death (contrary to popular belief), but I remain hopeful that one of the more reasonable of our world leaders will at least organise some sort of consequential punishment of the monetary variety, to prevent any future violations.

Nevertheless, understanding history is important, in some cases even crucial, but understanding who wrote it and why some things were thoroughly documented whilst others merely mentioned, is equally as (if not more) important, for hear me when I say;

there is no such thing as a neutral messenger.

The messenger may not have an agenda per se, but more often than not when that is the case, they will have been hired by someone who most certainly does. We see this in politics, religion, fahrking reality shows… who can even tell the difference between those three these days?

The media, i.e. us journalists, had one job; to report the news of the world, document both sides of a story to present the general public with the unbiased and honest truth, so that they would be able to form their own opinion based on actual events.

However, it’s been a long time since the media gave a fuck and a half about integrity. It’s all ’bout the money, it’s all about the dumb, dumb, dumb-bah-dumb, dumb. Or whatever Meja sang, way back when. I’d argue that the art of reporting died the second the first Netflix “documentary” aired, presenting one side of a non-story to make it seem as if there was one. This, again, led to a global lapse in judgement across the aforementioned general public, and they somehow started believing everything the internet fed them to be the absolute truth.

Idiocracy had somehow become our reality. Every headline serving up piping hot truths – or, at least, the A/B tested version of someone’s not-so-fresh take on their version of it – made the same article mean different things to different people, based on what type of headline their sordid little selves clicked on. If you’ve spent even a day past fresher’s week in uni, you know just how useful quantitative research is without its qualitative equivalent…

The sociopathic fiend that decided this was something that should be used by the media should perhaps meet a fate similar to that of our avian acquaintance Alfred. Because they have made a villain out of the messenger. The once trusted reported has become a joke, a parody, a liar and a prostitute. They’ve made the world into a place bereft of trust or hope. No wonder folks are fleeing to outer space on a pocket rocket.

If the men in the white coats fail in their attempts to locate my lair, I shall see you next Tuesday. Until then, enjoy this fabulous tune (quite possibly one of the weirdest gems to find in my dad’s cassette collection, squeezed in between E.L.O. and Gary Moore):

28th Apr 2026 0

The chains of Kakistos

Mind that episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, where Buffy and the Scooby gang battles the vampire demon Kakistos? That episode, for some reason, reminded me of a very short (yet impactful) scene from Home Alone in New York. I always wondered why, until I learned the definition of the word kakistocracy.

Knowing Joss Whedon’s writing, the demon’s name is no coincidence. Whether or not my suspicions carry any merit, the definition remains;

“A kakistocracy is a system where the least qualified people hold power”

Chew on that one for a minute. Also, according to the Buffyverse Wiki, Kakistos means ‘the worst’ in Greek. Remind you of any unfit world leaders, perhaps?

This is definitely not going to be the longest post in the world, but that, in and of itself, decreases its chances of being Kakistos. I didn’t sleep at all last night, and seeing as I’m just now ending my workday, I thought I might try to get some kip tonight.

I wonder, though, if the worst doesn’t deserve a post all of its own. What do you think? Or perhaps I should focus my energy on something that would actually benefit society and quite possibly myself as well? It’s in your hands now and, as you know, I am a woman of my word. Perhaps I’ll take you behind the scenes of a recording session that took place this weekend, or maybe I’ll write about why horses seem to like to flap their penises about whilst grazing… Dropping, it’s called.

Good grief, how on earth will I do any research on that without getting myself into trouble?

… better yet, you can read about that in the Veterinary Compendium.

Nevertheless, I shall leave you with these last words, before the inside of my eyelids catch on fire, and a lovely we video below. See you next Tuesday, muchach-hoes!

14th Apr 2026 0

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 1

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 2

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