I have three markets coming up in April and May - starting this Sunday at Kings Cross.

I’ll have some prints that haven’t been on sale before from my Raving series - and plenty more. The table sizes are different to what I’m used to so I’ve been testing the setup at home:

I’m now all prepped. So all I need to do is turn up and not forget to wear my long-johns (#husterlife).

These markets are full of really great illustrators and makers. A lovely arvo out in some fun locations too.

If you do swing by, say to me the secret phrase of:
”Excuse me - where are the toilets, I’ve soiled myself” for 3% off any purchase.

Here are market details:

Crafty Fox - Kings Cross
Sunday 12th April
👉 Info

N4 Makers Market - Stoke Newington
Saturday 25th April
👉 Info

Creative Ground - Walthamstow
Saturday 9th May
👉 Info

In other news

A huge thanks to everyone who backed my playing card project on Kickstarter. It received over 700% of the required pledges and is now in production.

It’s a nerdy concept where cards of data can be brought to life online:

And finally

I’ve bought an old suitcase.

And I’ve started experimenting with a Raspberry Pi - the world's smallest computer.

I have a dastardly idea.

More to follow.

Well, well, well, if it’s the people who read all the way to the bottom. Here’s an update on the friend I made in Pret over xmas who took a shine to my dog Monty. I know his name now: Dave. We say hi. It turns out he makes music, and his album is coming out very soon. And no - he’s not this Dave (bet you didn’t expect that one).

Annoyingly, I haven’t got any more info on him to find his album but as soon as I do - I’ll be posting it here for everyone to enjoy.

Over 200 people have pre-ordered my unusual playing cards on Kickstarter.

Instead of normal cards, they look like this:

As a subscriber, it’s my duty to tell you that:

a) sales end Sunday

b) this is likely the only print run

c) Nintendo was originally a playing card company. MAKE OF THAT WHAT YOU WILL.

👉 Learn more + grab your pack

And I built this

It’s an app. It scans each card’s data - and renders it online.

If you, or anybody you know, is at bare minimum a mild dork - this is for them. Do please send it on today.

Here is the link:
https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/bergonomix/pure-code-playing-cards?ref=378ghp

NERDS. ASSEMBLE!

Not about the weather. Or Trump. Or even the lack of a nearby Leon.

But about the absolute, maddening amount of time I spent creating my project: Cringémon.

I’m not going to bore you with the process, or give you any lessons learned. I’m just going to present hate-fuelled evidence of the time spent.

I don’t want to exclusively harbour that knowledge anymore, keeping it secret like some sort of time-haemorrhoid.

It’s time to show and tell. And you’re going to sit and listen.

This isn’t a moan. I know there are worse things to be subjected to. Like scabies.

Consider this a bit like IMDb Trivia, but instead of users submitting hidden details, I’m going to scream it into existence.

So sit down. Read. Acknowledge. Then patronisingly comment “well done” like you probably do to your very thick children (the venting has begun - soz.)

What was it? Are you ok?

YES I’M FINE. The project was called Cringémon - a card collection borne out of the simple idea that LinkedIn is not a real place. It’s a world filled with monsters, like Pokémon. So I fused the two concepts and made a trading card series. It’s a fucking good idea. REALLY good. I had to make it.

As you can see from the screenshot above - the project started in 2023 and contains over 3000 files, totalling 52GB of data. That’s roughly the same size as Grand Theft Auto V, The Dark Knight on Blu-ray, or 1/6th of the Epstein files. Topical.

A ball-ache from the beginning

Naming the project alone was enough to have me committed to a mental asylum. Maximum security. Thrown in with the shit-eaters. A one-man performance of Shutter Island taking place entirely inside Adobe Creative Suite (Five stars in The Guardian).

Below is just a snapshot of the swings and roundabouts that happened over several months. I even got legal advice from two different sources because Nintendo™ and LinkedIn™ are both registered trademarks. Parody law is complicated and I acted like a wiener.

The card designs

After many iterations, the cards had 10 changeable elements. Across 53 cards, that’s over 530 pieces I had to develop and refine. Every card also had to feel totally unique and coherent - like a character in a sitcom.

So not only did I create a rod for my own back. The rod was made of mini-rods, each greased with dog turd.

The mini-rods:

1. For every, single, background, I took a photo of a spreadsheet on my computer. Different angles. Different spreadsheets. Then edited each image in Photoshop - applying gradients and playing with contrast, hue and saturation. The backgrounds alone could pass as a wanky art series about “seeing data in a new light”.

2. The names. The funnest part, admittedly, was coming up with Pokémon-style names for corporate tossers. Here’s some that didn’t make the cut:

   Baldikunt, Daytrayp, SlimeySlime, Motivatizard, Fort Leda, Congratula, Horsepwer, Fartsinbed, Sosmug, FamFam, Haggla, Hartatak, Skibro, Hooligan, Spazz, David.

   Fun fact: every card originally had its own licensed font to match the persona. This was entirely scrapped in favour of a single font that offered better coherence. Yayyyy!
   

3. The reference numbers. Five digits. Different on each one. A relative walk in the park.
   

4. For the faces, I didn’t want to misrepresent anybody. Not even with licensed stock photos. So I used AI to generate fake faces. Stock photos would’ve been 10x quicker, since you can browse them. Instead I hit “generate” and prayed whoever spawned looked like ShitzinFrij. So while AI is the devil in art circles (fair), I’d argue: a) rare acceptable use case, and b) it still took FUCKING AGES.
   

5. Question: Have you ever put yourself in 53 fictional people’s shoes and asked, “what would I put as my LinkedIn header image?” I have. That’s how I chose to spend a large portion of my life. (I also licensed and edited the images. All of them).

6. Every job title is different. They had to be. I made that rule. And abided by it. It’s a bit like deciding to sodomise yourself with the TV remote every morning (which to be clear, I DO NOT DO).
   

7. But how many connections does each of these monsters have? It obviously has to feel realistic. FOR ALL 53 OF THEM. Ironically, this project was so time-consuming, my real-life connections probably went down. Friends were lost.
   

8. At least the bio was fun - right? GUESS AGAIN. 53 different spiels, condensed into four lines that packed a punch without feeling repetitive. 53 angles satirising LinkedIn culture when there are really only about three in existence. This is why I expanded the project to include office weirdos.
   

9. Each card is on version 4 at least. The skills and interests were chopped and changed more times than me trying to [insert funny analogy - I’M TOO ANGRY TO THINK OF ONE].
   

10. The Did You Know bits are the punchline on each card - undercutting the ego-fuelled nonsense. They were actually very entertaining to do, it just flowed - ya know? (EXCEPT FOR THE ETERNAL TWEAKING LIKE IT WAS PERFECTION OR DEATH). There is a lesson in there somewhere.

Other stuff that took ages

The tuck box designs THAT WERE NEVER USED:

The Kickstarter Project

Stop reading this right now and look at how much work I put into the Kickstarter project: link here.

I’ll pause whilst you do that…

!!!

Ok now you’ve been patronised, what you won’t have seen were the adverts, pre-launch marketing or multiple versions of the shit-hot video I made in different aspect ratios and durations. I paid a voice-over artist too:

And finally

This post. I also wrote this long and thinly-veiled excuse to show off the level of detail I agonised over. A desperate attempt to get additional recognition. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. Lord only knows why I’m still writing this sentence. It really has to end. I’m not sure this venting has helped. Should’ve just gone for a jog or something. Ah well. What’s done is done. Maybe if I just mash the keyboard a bit?

oidjfs0-92r-09u e0 casjo o dwd w;3efd.

Nope. That did nothing.

Soo… subscribe for more?

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I’ve designed my own stag-do t-shirt.

It’s very stupid - like a warped parody of lad culture. You can see it below.

But what about the real lads t-shirts? The ones that you can’t believe anybody would actually wear. The ones you secretly find quite (/very) funny.

Scroll for some of the finest specimens, along with some over-the-top commentary just for a laff. (REMEMBER LAFFS?!)

Warning: Not safe for work…

T-Shirt 1:

One of the oldest gags in history - perfectly conveyed on a beautiful mauve backdrop. Content-wise it’s perfect. From a design perspective however, I have some notes: I’d like to see the green tick in a different shade - it gets slightly lost on the background. The style of the tick could also be hand-drawn to help ground the mum-doing accomplishment in reality - like a real human has ticked it off. I’d also reduce the size of the ‘YOUR MUM’ text so it’s smaller than the title’s.

T-Shirt 2:

After taking our jobs, AI has now entered the sacred world of lads t-shirts. Controversially, it might be an improvement. I like the cartoon font and layout - it scans very well. The drawing is crude but of lovely quality (praise Grok). And how very modern to see the detailing of hairs. Unrealistic female body standards are a huge issue and so broadcasting the empowering message of ‘it’s ok to have hair on your legs’ is doing a surprising amount of cultural labour, even in the context of a clunge being plunged.

T-Shirt 3:

A poor choice of model - too unrealistic. Without even seeing his face - he’s too Shoreditch House for such puerile larks. I’m not sure what they’re going for on the design as ‘once’ isn’t a thing. Perhaps it’s for somebody who only had sex once, and then became a paedophile? A generic superhero lifting up the ‘N’ is visually fun - a wonderful homage to surrealism, but narratively it’s very confusing. Why is it happening? Maybe that’s the intention: it’s nonsense. (THANK YOU)

T-Shirt 4:

Fun colour (rare for lads t-shirts). And actually decent wordplay that’s very satisfying to say out loud - go on, give it a go. Wherever you are. Say it. SAY IT!!! Shame the visual representation of the cat’s bumhole muddies the message. Or is that not its bum? It’s not clear. Removing the ‘x’ would improve things and give the viewer more credit. Let them complete the visual pun themselves for god’s sake. Also: why is the dinosaur chewing a leaf? The Lickalottapuss is known for one thing: licking. Not snacking. Or is it some sort of palate cleanser?

T-Shirt 5:

A very decent prank. Bold. Brash. Embarrassing. A perfect example of less is more. Two downsides: The ‘yes’ should be in speech marks as it’s quoting somebody. Unless that’s part of the prank? The real message then becomes: ‘My willy smells and I have subtly imperfect grammar’. A layered humiliation. Though if he’s dyslexic, this could be considered a hate crime. Also, why is his fiancé a ghost from the 1950s?

And finally, the t-shirt I made:

Here she is. My intention was to use a similar design-aesthetic but to undercut expectations with messages of ultra-modern (and totally absurd) masculinity.

Side note: There’s something very entertaining to me about combining classic lad banter with emotional rhetoric. Once on a mate’s stag-do, which was a lot of fun and very ‘traditional’, I had to suggest a dare for one unlucky attendee so I put forward “you have to say something nice about everyone!!!”. It went down like a sack of shit, but I enjoyed it immensely.

I’ll leave the critiquing to you on this one.

Open to more dares too.

Lads lads lads.

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During the development process, I censored hundreds of different animals’ eyes. I became enamoured with how instantly guilty that shape can make animals appear. What did they do?!

So in the name of research - I conducted a visual experiment. How far can the black bar’s power be pushed? What meaning can it give to other types of images?

The Experiment

I took royalty-free images of totally innocent people, and superimposed the black bar.

Below are the results, and my reactions:

Conclusion

Whatever that black bar touches - even if it isn’t human - it projects an air of guilt and suspicion. Myself included:

On January 4th, an elite group of random individuals travelled from all across London to score a goal in every goal on Hackney Marshes.

It was a wonderful coming together of like-minded people. All there for the sake of pointless fun in the community (and lifelong bragging rights).

Each person netted 144 goals over roughly 2 hours, and ate 0.8 Sunday roasts at the pub (that's an average as some people ate at home).

It was not a race. Your time didn’t matter. There were trick shots, long-distance hoofs, shameless tap-ins, and re-creations of some classic goals.

And it's growing in attendance...
- In the first year, 2 people did it (me and my pal Ben).
- Year 2, we had 7 people.
- And in year 3, there were 22 people.

The challenge wasn’t organised to help with fitness, make a statement, or prove anything to anyone. It happened because the idea was so stupid, it absolutely had to be done.

What interested me afterwards wasn’t whether it was fun, but why something so unnecessary felt so compelling.

To answer this phenomenon - below are some scientific explanations from people way smarter than me (but have they scored a goal in every goal on Hackney Marshes?).

The power of ‘challenging yourself’

Researchers studying motivation consistently find that people are more engaged when difficulty is voluntary rather than imposed.

In Flow, Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi describes how meaning emerges when people choose constraints that are just hard enough to demand attention, but pointless enough to feel free. eg: running across 70 football pitches.

Ditching productivity

Pointless endeavours offer something increasingly rare in a world full of productivity hacks: a space where optimisation, branding, outcomes and self-improvement are irrelevant.

The sociologist David Graeber argued that as productivity has become a moral standard within society, people instinctively seek out activities that refuse to justify themselves - not to rest, but to escape being measured.

Completing things is disgustingly satisfying

Psychologists call it the “completion bias”. It’s when humans feel a disproportionate urge to finish arbitrary things once they’ve started them, even when the system has no reward - like a puzzle, or re-organising the airing cupboard for the millionth time whilst my girlfriend looks on in mild horror.

It’s not even about the activity

Anthropologists such as Émile Durkheim1 and Victor Turner2 note that many group activities exist not because they are useful, but because they are shared. The office Secret Santa, new year’s day swims, bank robberies. All great with others, boring by yourself.

Meaning isn’t embedded in the action. It’s generated socially afterwards. The ‘pub after’ is not a coincidence. It’s secretly why we’re all there.

It was actually a Buddhist ritual

Zen teachings on anattā (non-self) frame value in doing without striving, comparison or outcome. For a short time, you are not who you usually have to be - just someone doing the same thing as everyone else. In this instance - pelting a football into 144 goals. So yes. It turns out scoring a goal in every goal on Hackney Marshes was a form of Buddhist meditation.3

Namaste 🙏

Twenty years ago, I sold 100 editions of an artwork.

Each one featured a £1 coin laminated onto a plain white A5 card.
I sold them for 71p at an exhibition in Leeds.

It was called The If Pound Project.

Two decades later, I thought it might be worth checking in on them. I reached out to a few of the people who bought one to see if they still had it.

But first, why did I do it?

How the price of art affects its perceived value has always interested me. It’s a dynamic that exists across capitalism, but in the art world it feels particularly exposed. Change the number, and suddenly the meaning shifts.

Artists love poking at this. The must-reference example is the KLF burning £1m in cash. I wanted a smaller, pettier version of that question.

So I gave buyers a choice:

• Instantly destroy the artwork and unlock a 29p profit

• Or keep it because you liked it, or because I might become famous and it might be worth more

The Destroyers

At the launch event, about eight people destroyed the artwork immediately.

Scissors out. Card cut. Pound released.

I’m not sure if it was defiance, need or just a complete lack of faith in my future. No way was that scrappy bit of card worth hanging onto while I slowly climbed the art ladder.

The Hoarders

The rest took theirs home. They were small, harmless, easy to keep. I emailed a bunch of them this year to ask what happened next.

“I’ve still got it,” came up a lot.

Usually said in an excitable yet defeated tone. Like supporting a permanently disappointing football team. You enjoy being part of it. There’s affection there. But you’re not happy with how it’s going. Wenger out.

The overriding sentiment was that they were impossible to throw away.

They’d survived multiple house moves. Been questioned by new partners. Sat quietly in drawers, folders, and boxes. Never quite valuable enough to celebrate. Never worthless enough to bin.

Some people even sent photos. Not of the artwork proudly placed on a wall, but held. Posed with. Like proof of life. Or proof of loyalty.

What I didn’t expect

What surprised me wasn’t that people kept them.

It was how hard they found it to get rid of them.

They weren’t displayed. They weren’t framed. They weren’t really talked about. But they travelled. Through house moves. Through break-ups. Through new lives and new versions of themselves.

The artwork became a burden in the mildest possible way. A tiny laminated object that refuses to leave.

Next update in 2046.

One of my first forays into alternative live events was back in 2010 with PLEB Talks - a bespoke comedy night which injected comedy into TED-style talks.

Co-created with Ben Target (above), each night had a different theme, like ‘The Meaning of Life’ - and featured some of the stars of the alternative comedy scene such as John Kearns, Sara Pascoe, Simon Munnery, Phil Kay, Nick Sun, Lou Sanders, Amy Hoggart, Adam Larter, Bec Hill, Pat Cahill, Matt Highton and many more.

The events were hosted by Nish Kumar who was obviously incredible and could not have been a better choice. Honestly - so good. Ben Target also injected some chaos into each event as you can see from the beach balls.

From behind the makeshift lectern1, acts offered their own brand of unconventional wisdom. The intention was comedy - not learning.

Audiences were not told the location. Just a secret meeting point. They were then led into the venue which tended to be somewhere strange - like a school assembly hall or a church back room2. It was like a secret society. Something audiences felt part of, all in on the joke of how ridiculous it was.

The recorded version of the format was awarded Ideas Tap funding that allowed us to film more ‘lectures’ in unlikely venues like offices and put them on YouTube. We also had a fancy intro made that perfectly mimicked the TED version, see the video below for all its gloriousness.

A stunning booking

PLEB Talks also hit the festival circuit: Wilderness, Machynlleth and even Glade Festival - a dance festival where we were programmed right after the DJ, something that the festival-goers did not appreciate (weiiiird!). A few minutes in, it was clear the gig had to adapt to the crowd’s level of inebriation so it become more of a Kindergarten activity than a witty subversion of a TED Talk.

I still feel bad for the comedians who attended that round trip. Especially the MC Stuart Laws who got Stone Cold Stunnered by an audience member. Luckily I decided to give a camcorder to Matt Highton to capture the chaos. The jazzed-up edit is below. Enjoy:

Watch out for the moment at 1m58s which feels straight out of Peep Show. The girl’s reaction is so wonderfully British.

Will PLEB Talks Return?

Looking back, I’m so proud of PLEB Talks. It was a really gettable, fun concept - executed with care, that brought people together.

It has been somewhat usurped by Comedians Giving Lectures that aired on Dave a few years after (unaffiliated but I like to think not an intentional copy).

Maybe the lines between stand-up and thought-leader are too blurred now for the concept of PLEB Talks to work. After all, Zelensky used to be a stand-up, Donald Trump also got Stone Cold Stunnered, and I feel like we’re turning to comedians more and more for guidance and cultural commentary - which isn’t a bad thing.

So I’m not sure if it will ever come back. But who knows. Maybe in some form, it already has? (POLITICAL PLOT TWIST!!!)

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Ah, young love. Holding hands, pretending to enjoy galleries, actually listening, and inevitably - running the tap while you defecate so your partner doesn’t hear your faeces plopping into water.

In other words:
— Going for tacos = cool and sexy.
— Demonstrating you can aptly digest the tacos = DISGUSTING.

We know air travel and burning coal are bad for the planet, but ‘plop muffling’ has gone completely unchecked.

But what is the environmental cost? I did the maths because nobody else seemed to want to. Correct - not all heroes wear capes.

Rather than using toilet-related images in this post, which would’ve got repetitive - I’ve used public domain photos from the Flickr album ‘City of York Folk Weekend 2018’ by Christine ‘The Lens’ Cockett (she added in that nickname, not me. That’s not to say it isn’t deserved though, as you’ll see…).

1) Who are the ‘plop mufflers’?

Firstly, we need to work out which people are plop muffling. A survey by Britain’s fourth favourite toilet cleaner ‘Bloo’ found that 42% of people run the taps to mask the sound of their plops.1

Easy. Thanks Bloo.

We’ll call this stat ‘Tap-mask prevalence’.

2) When does it occur?

According to a 2017 Relationship Study by Mic, most relationships begin in the “don’t fart yet” phase. It’s a unique time that causes split personality syndrome.

On one side:
- ‘I’m just chill, fun and sexy (and not insane)’

And the other…
- ‘I’m secretly harbouring a ticking time bomb - please get the fuck out of my flat so I can de-evolve to my primordial self and lose a third of my body weight in faeces. Or bare minimum, we’re frog marching to a cafe like it’s some sort of demilitarised zone so I can disarm with minimal casualties.’

According to the survey, guffing becomes more acceptable within two and six months, and nearly everyone by twelve months.2

That seems VERY short to me, but I won’t argue with the data.

We’ll represent in the calculation the variable chances of muffling during the first 12 months using r…

3) How often does the situation arise?

Unless your attachment style is medically bonkers - during the first 12 months of a relationship, couples don’t spend every waking minute in each other’s company. According to Relationships Scotland Report (2022), early couples spend about three nights together3.

That’s about 156 stay-overs a year. We’ll assume only those nights are ‘at risk’ and divide them across the different phases, see below:

Now we multiply each time block by its masking probability and the tap-masking population share. Easy! Right?

The result?
Roughly 34 nervous tap-runs per person per year in the first twelve months of a relationship.

5) How much wasted water is that?

The average UK basin flow is 6 litres per minute.4

We’ll assume 1 minute per “mask” which is very generous but makes up for those who mask using the shower. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE (me).

That’s 203 litres of water, per person, per year.

About three full baths. All sacrificed to save our dignity.

6) Scaling it up

Now we need to work it out on a global scale as the above stuff has been UK-centric (classic main character energy from the Brit).

Not everyone has running water, or a private bathroom. The WHO/UNICEF Joint Monitoring Programme says ≈58% of people have “safely managed sanitation” - i.e. their own clean, plumbed toilet.5

So let’s combine that with the global adult share ≈ 65% of the population6 and world population 8.23 billion7:

That gives us a final answer (or ‘answr’ as I’m trying to coin) of 0.63 km³ of water, which means…

That’s the equivalent of:

• 250,000 Olympic swimming pools of water.

• Powering 150,000 homes for a year.⁹

• Manufacturing 600 million plastic bottles.

But is it worth it?

In a word… yes.

I do not want my partner to hear my plops, nor them mine.

BURN THE PLANET.

ps: click here for more photos from City of York’s Folk Weekend 2018 by ‘The Lens’.

The Easy Position: Get Rid of Them

It’s sickeningly easy to subscribe to anti-royalist rhetoric.

The arguments stack up neatly:

• They symbolise inequality

• They cost us loads of money

• At least one of them is a paedo

I can’t deny those arguments. It’s an ideal position if you fancy some Temu-quality value posturing.

But there’s a nagging problem. If we did abolish the monarchy, Britain would be left… a bit more boring.

It’s like debating whether we should scrap Channel 5. On paper, scrapping it makes perfect sense. It doesn’t deliver anything vital, and its cultural impact is somewhat strange. But once in a while, it throws up something so odd that you’d miss it if it were gone - like the reality TV show ‘Naked Jungle’ starring Keith Chegwin.

The royal family is like that: a strange, slightly embarrassing national quirk. The beautiful mole on the face of Britain. Some people think it’s grotesque, others find it endearing, but either way - it’s ours.

If the only test we ever applied to institutions was “are they fair?”, the end result would be a fairer society - but also a flatter one.

Other non-sensible things we’d have to abolish include:

• Eurovision

• Cheese rolling

• Cricket

• Dogs in hats

Our society would have no eccentric flourishes. No fringe traditions. No weird stuff that makes us different.

However, there is a middle ground. One in which we can retain our strange little family, without them representing inequality.

Here are the first 5 rules to get us started…

The Answr:
The Royal Family - Reloaded

Rule 1: A Power Shift

The monarchy are not to be seen as ‘rulers’ or even ‘respected’ (don’t laugh), but as a living circus; an oddity people travel from all over the world to experience.

In essence, they work for us. Not just in their current duties, but operationally. The monarchy becomes a salaried job with responsibilities set by the people (via the government). They march to the beat of the public drum. What could go wrong?

The job includes:

• A 9-5 schedule

• A clear set of deliverables

• Quarterly performance reviews

• 20 days annual leave

• Cycle to work scheme

Rule 2: Relocation

Buckingham Palace, Windsor Castle and the rest of the royal cribs are transferred to the National Trust so anyone can have a nosey. Some of the spare rooms are treated like a village hall so the public can rent them for karate classes, car boot sales and pickleball.

The royals themselves are rehoused in decent but unremarkable townhouses. Nothing shabby - they need to keep up appearances - just no castles. Sadly for them, the Disney lifestyle ends.

Rule 3: Make Them Profitable

Like any large-scale attraction, the monarchy needs to be profitable. Currently, most research agrees it’s not.

The Reloaded model is simple: all of the expenses to keep them alive must be outweighed by the revenue they create through tourism, paid public appearances or the big one - merch.

All profits flow directly into the NHS or other public services (except Southern Rail - for they must starve to death).

If they fall short, they make up the difference through Cameo. There’s a HUGE market gap on Cameo for a royal figure. At present, there’s only one: HRH The King of Farts - a man who guffs over the loudspeaker in department stores.

Rule 4: The Opt-Out Clause

The royal job is noteworthy and stable, but not flexible. So they can quit at any time. This gives the public a licence to make the role as demanding and exploitative as we like. Much like a television show…

Rule 5: Turn Them Into a Reality Show

The ultimate safeguard: the royals’ entire lives become a Big Brother-style reality show that never ends. Not in a house, but in the real world.

It would give the public peace of mind that they’re performing their duties, and make for truly epic television. Distribution sales alone could fund multiple hospitals every year.

I’ve totally discounted the chances of me going to heaven.

And that’s not because of all the impressions me and my friends did when we were younger. I just don’t reckon it exists. (Same with hell - so at least there’s not that ballache to worry about.)

As a thought experiment however, what might heaven actually look like for me?

…and crucially, is it even possible?

[be warned: the ending of this post is cliché and shit]

My Version of Heaven

It’s a bloody massive park, with no loud music playing. There’s sun, shade and the fan fave: dappled shade. There are bean bags, a BBQ, football goals with boxed nets (Premier League style) and various lawn games like Spikeball and Mölkky.

My friends and family are there - standard. Some of them are great at throwing a frisbee too (incidentally - a version of hell would be all the above but exclusively with people who are rubbish at throwing a frisbee).

There are also about 30 dogs that come over and play at any given moment. Their turds are picked up by Piers Morgan, with his bare hands. Don’t worry - he can’t speak, except for thanking the dogs for blessing him with their faeces. That’s all he says. It’s a joy to watch.

In the distance, there are some donkeys too. They occasionally trot over for headstrokes. Ideal.

Oh, and I’ve got a Switch 2 with Donkey Kong Bananza, and a PlayStation 5. May as well bundle them in.

On the food front, I have a Deliveroo account where everything is magically free, like what I imagine their CEO has. But after eating, I somehow don’t go into an Olympic-grade food coma.

All of the above feels very blissful and somewhat aligned with mainstream ideas of heaven (I’m pretty sure the Old Testament mentioned frisbee?), but I think I’ve encountered a paradox…

The Problem:
A Conflict of Paradises

Take the classic heavenly tenet: no pain or suffering.

My deep concern is that one of the funniest things I can experience is when my oldest friend (Adam - a tall, gangly chap) gets hit in the balls by a football. Then drops to the floor like a sack of potatoes and clutches his genitals and squirms around in total agony. My heaven can not exist without that. But there’s an undeniable element of pain he’s experiencing. And he is there as an independent real person/soul - not just a make-believe pawn in my own heaven (I asked ChatGPT, that’s how it works). And I doubt getting genitally mutilated by a football is in his version of heaven.

Similarly, I love eating crisps.

But there’s probably some tosser whose version of heaven is that they only eat organic food (farm-to-table sorta stuff). So that rules out my crisps! Rude.

Also, some people hate frisbee, so that’s out. Others might hate dogs, so they’re gone (actually, those people are probably in hell as they have no souls).

Can I even watch WWE Royal Rumble up there?! Doubt it.

What about videos where a commentator hilariously fluffs their lines (see below)? It’s not likely.

It’s all starting to sound very boring, or ‘a bit vanilla’ as an irritating person might say.

Are we aware?

Don’t forget, when you’re in heaven - you will have the self-awareness that you’re there. I can’t imagine myself playing it cool given I get excited when I go bowling. Expect yappiness like, “Excuse me, are we in heaven?! Woah - look at that thing! Can I fly? What does God look like? Grandma - you here?” etc.

But this level of chatter is probably not in other people’s idea of heaven, so I would have no choice but to speak in hushed tones and murmur, “salutations friend” to some smug hipster who got there 5 minutes before me and is acting like they’re not buzzing about being there too. Come on mate - we’re literally in heaven. Heaven! Don’t pretend you don’t care, or you’re not curious if your penis has changed. Come on - let’s all get our wangs out and shit on a cloud!!!

The Answr:
Heaven as an Oceana Nightclub

Here’s the only version that makes sense: heaven isn’t one singular homogenised boring vibe. It’s got multiple environments you can opt into depending on your mood, like Oceana - the UK superclubs that feature different rooms for each music genre. (And if you’re lucky - a ski lodge themed bar for no reason at all.)

With this version of heaven, you’d have the calm Yoga with Adriene-themed room for people who want a more vintage version of heaven. And for when the moment takes you, hop in the Jumpstyle room where Scooter is the master of ceremonies.

That way, everyone gets their own paradise without cancelling out someone else’s. It’s heaven… but with a wristband system. A place where we have the choice to do whatever brings us joy and fulfilment without affecting others.

And yes - if you think about it, maybe, just maybe… we’re in heaven already. Frisbee anyone?

(you were warned).

P.S: I’m aware this world is full of horrible things like war and famine - and by no means a heaven, but I desperately needed a neat ending.

For 11 months of the year, Fountain Park is a solid spot for casual fun. But come August, when the Edinburgh Fringe takes over the city - it quietly becomes one of the festival’s greatest venues.

Whilst more than 200 official spaces cram in groundbreaking theatre, dance and comedy, this unofficial location holds a very special place in my heart. It’s the ultimate tonic. An escape. A cleanser. A reset. A blooming good larf.

(Full disclosure: I fucking love a leisure park.)

Even a short spell will increase your enjoyment of Fringe shows tenfold. You'll be refreshed by one reality, ready for the other. That’s not a suggestion, it’s science…

The science bit

Psychologists call this hedonic contrast. It's the idea that an experience only feels good when it sits next to something very different. Like ice-cream and a warm brownie, or lying down after you've been on your feet all day.

Parducci's Range-Frequency Theory1 says that we judge experiences relative to what came before them - not in isolation. Solomon's Opponent-Process Theory2 suggests the brain literally recalibrates emotion, so pleasure only peaks if you've had a dose of its opposite first.

Fountain Park isn’t a treat - it's a necessity. Without contrast, everything flattens.

But any leisurely emporium is only as great as the sum of its parts. So let’s break down its current offering. Spoiler: it’s OFF THE CHARTS.

The 5-Star Line-Up

Cineworld
Your standard massive cinema complex. It's in decent nick. 4DX seats if you want to be thrown around like a ragdoll at the expense of actually enjoying the film. Very doable solo. I gravitate towards horror films during the Fringe for some reason. Make of that what you will.

Gravity Trampoline Park
A fave. Bring a pal or two, bounce on trampolines, bash each other with foam pads. One year, I earned city-wide kudos by becoming a VIB - a Very Important Bouncer (it’s a cheap add-on anyone can buy that grants unlimited visits. Now bow to my greatness!)

Nuffield Health
This basement-level, windowless pool and gym has served me well (not the gym part, but it's there, and they do classes). I've been trying to get better at swimming ever since my dog almost drowned and I couldn't swim fast enough to reach him (fun times).

There's also a sauna and steam room, if you enjoy "a quick spritz" (first and last time I'll ever use that term).

You can find multi-day deals via Wowcher or book individual days cheaply through apps like Classpass or Hussle.

Side note: Whilst swimming, what is the etiquette when you see tiny babies in some sorta class where the mums are all singing to them whilst bobbing them around in the water? It's basically the cutest thing you can witness but it doesn't feel right to look for too long when you’re half naked and panting after attempting a few lengths. But it also feels wrong not to look, it's really adorable! I think a few loving glances is fine? Acknowledge the cuteness, perhaps even more overtly than normal? Catch a parent’s eye and make the ‘awwww’ face, which indicates that you think it's cute, and you're comfortable enough to be caught admiring the situation. Though, the danger is that you don't catch a parent's eye and you over-guffaw, which will look even more problematic. Thoughts welcome.

Funstation
A fucking massive arcade. Nuff said. Get in.

‘Tenpin’ - hosts bowling, table tennis and pool
It speaks VOLUMES that despite my love for all three of these activities, I've never been because the other options overshadow it (there’s karaoke too btw). On its own, Tenpin would absolutely warrant the 'Best Venue' accolade.

Crazy Golf @ Volcano Falls
2 x full 18-hole courses under one roof, with animatronic dinosaurs that blink 'n everything. Plus background rave music.

My only qualm: the holes themselves are not ‘crazy’. A right-angle putting green or a slight slant is ‘alternative’ or ‘Zooey Deschanel cooky’ at very best. With all the money spent on dinosaurs, put some madness into the actual golf ffs! For reference: Junkyard is certified (by me) as ‘crazy’ - trust.

Laser Quest
One for the young'uns (I'm distinguishing them somehow). Great for a team outing - zap away all your resentment.

Hotpod Yoga
Last but not least - hot yoga. This would probably be top of many people's lists of what counts as a refresh/detox/cleanse.

Food
Expect all the franchise faves (though a Pizza Express would be nice):
Nando's. Wingstop. Five Guys. Burger King. Starbucks. Pizza Hut. Heavenly Desserts. And of course: Mr Basrai's World Cuisines which has a highly intriguing Trip Advisor review:

To be clear

I wouldn't recommend visiting Edinburgh exclusively for the leisure park. But my god, I'd respect that.

It’s a top leisure park, irrespective of the Fringe. But when you put it alongside the festival, it reaches new heights.

Without light, there can be no dark. Without crunch, there can be no soft. Without Fountain Park, there can be no Edinburgh Fringe.

(That's why Tiramisu is such an overrated dessert. Where the fuck is the contrast in texture? Give it a crunchy base or something! As it stands, it's just 100% soft, like a poo).

Thanks for reading.
Let me know your favourite secret Fringe recs…

I’ve noticed a strange phenomenon.
(And it's not grey hairs in quite devastating places, that’s perfectly NORMAL).

When dining at a restaurant, sat amongst friends…

Some people, who need to use the bathroom… just stand up. And slink off.

Without. Saying. ANYTHING.

It’s so odd!

Almost like they’ve been offended by something said at the table.

Or they’ve become possessed and floated out, horror movie style.

I almost want to call it out and scream, “Oi - where the hell are you going?!”

But is it odd?

Maybe I’m the fool?!
(hard to imagine given output like this and this)

I’ve spent almost 40 years ALWAYS announcing my bathroom visits to the table, like a perverse town crier.

Classic bars I’ve been spittin’ include:

• “Just gonna use the toilet” (on reflection, use is gross)

• “brb” (retro fun)

And for an interactive vibe that the crowd go wild for / kills existing convos…

• “Do you guys know where the toilet is?” (also masks the intention - genius)

Sometimes I’d announce the above in a silly voice, to help with the awkwardness.

Of course, if you’re amongst disgusting pals, you can make an over-the-top ceremony out of it - like a new pope has been appointed.

Which camp is right?

Those who slink off, aka: The Slinkers.

Or those who ensure everyone is aware, aka: The Announcers.

I’ve conducted IN-DEPTH qualitative research (asking some friends) about their preferences.

The answr?
It depends.
It’s a complex minefield.

So, I’ve given back to society and created a decision flowchart.

Feel free to print it off and keep it in your pocket for reference.

I am open to feedback

The flow chat is a beta release.
(Tech companies say that so people can’t complain that what they’ve done is total rubbish).

It means it’s the first iteration, and I am open to feedback.

Let’s develop this together.

Plop your suggestions in the comments…

But tastes like shit.

Actual shit.

Yeah - I'm operating on a DIFFERENT LEVEL.

Hear me out…

Context is Everything

If I'm eating a death row meal, I've been a particularly naughty boy.

In the US, the requirements for getting your brains fried are as follows:

• Aggravated murder (e.g. torture, multiple victims, or killing a cop)

• Felony murder (a killing committed during another serious crime like armed robbery or rape)

• Espionage

• Treason

• Large-scale drug trafficking (legend alert!)

• Terrorism resulting in death

• Killing a child (in some states)

I'd also have to veer on the severe side of those crimes to warrant ‘the chair’. You know, really go for it. Maybe tick off multiple ones at once, or try to complete the entire bingo card, within 24 hours.

So when people ask, "What's your death row meal?", it’s implying we’re monsters. That's the hypothetical headspace we should be in. Let us not forget that.

Only If They Watch

My final meal comes with a crucial condition.

(more of a grovelling request actually, given the circumstances.)

I'd insist the victim's family watch me eat it, just before the switch is thrown.

I'd write to the prison governor to get it approved. To help my case, I'd promise to apologise BIG TIME once I've finished chowing down. This would offer some closure after my brutal, brutal crimes.

Once that's greenlit, it's time.

My Dinner Is Served

I stride into the last room I'll ever see.

There's the electric chair (I didn't fancy the injection), and a small table for my final munch.

The victim's family are behind a reinforced glass window, watching with anticipation, holding each other for comfort. None of this will be easy for them, or me.

I sit with poise.

My chosen dish is brought in.

It's not a fancy steak.

Not my favourite pizza (Voodoo Rays).

Not even a KFC.

It's a very special dish.

For dramatic effect, my food is brought in under a silver cloche, like they do at posh restaurants, and in movies.

The prison guard lifts it to reveal:

A poo croissant.

As in, an opened croissant - with a human turd laid neatly inside. Obviously.

(stay with me…)

I don't flinch when it arrives.

If anything, I salivate.

The families look disturbed, which I think is a TOTAL double standard given they're happy watching a man get electrocuted to death. Hypocrites! The lot of them.

I pick up my knife and fork and eat the turd croissant.

I savour every mouthful in a calm and dignified manner. Think more Michelin-star tasting menu, than a Bushtucker Trial.

It's a delicacy.

One of the most delicious things I've ever tasted.

On the other side of the glass, the viewing room looks on.

It consists of:

• Victims' family - 7 people

• My family - 3 people (proud af)

• Media/press - 3

• Legal observers - 2

• Prison officials - 2

• Security staff - 3

Of the 20 people, 100% are horrified. A few vomit. Again, massive double standards here!!!

I gently wipe my mouth with a napkin, totally content.

I stand, look through the glass, and deliver my final 'apology' insanely sarcastically, as per Father Jack:

Then I hop in the ol' electric chair and proceed to die.

Months Later

I bet the sight hasn't left their minds. Especially the first part when I had dinner.

Most will write it off as a symptom of my general depravity. Given the crimes, it made sense.

But I only need one person who can't stop thinking about it.

Why did he choose that?

Why did he enjoy it so much?

Has he… actually discovered something delicious?

Years pass.

The thought constantly plays on their mind, nagging them, tormenting them.

The solution? Settle the debate - first hand.

On a (very) slow weekend - curiosity finally wins, and so do I.

They try a poo croissant for themselves.

And the second they bite down, I appear as a ghost.

"Gotcha!".

AI is a fad.
Somebody had to say it.
And that wazzock, is me.

The Proof

To prove it, here are three advancements that we got WAY too excited about as a society, but didn’t last:

1. Concorde

I’ll admit AI has saved some lazy pigs some time. I’ll give it that.

But do you know what else did? This puppy:

Instead of eight hours from London to New York, Concorde blitzed it in three. Its supersonic speed meant you could fly faster than the Earth's rotation and watch the sunset twice on the same day. And we lapped it up:

Do you know where Concorde is now? I’ll give you a clue: It ain’t in da sky!!!

It’s hiding in a shed in France, too embarrassed to show its face because of its stinking reviews:

2. 3D TVs

Don’t be embarrassed if you shelled out a couple of grand to watch almost zero programming in 3D - a lot of people fell for it.

The TV industry hasn’t earned back our trust, and rightfully so.

3. Von Dutch Caps

A true technological revolution (in caps).

Wearing one truly cemented your status as a bawler.

But now…

Ok, here's the play

AI is a fad is an outside bet.
A heavy, heavy outside bet.
One that nobody else is banking on, so I'm taking it for myself.

If I'm right...

I'll be heralded as one of the most forward-thinking minds of modern society, like Stephen Hawking or… Esther Rantzen.

This blog post will go viral, captioned with:

"In 2025, he called it!”

"Dan for President"

(or more likely) “Ohhh… he wasn’t a total idiot”

Cue: a TED Talk, best-selling book, celeb status (amongst dorks), and a Nando’s black card.

If I'm wrong...

Just mentally file away this drivel under the category of comedy.
Call it satire or irony or something - I don't care. These obviously are not real thoughts (in the instance that I'm wrong).

What are the odds?

Let me know in the comments…

"Morning!"

"Morrrr-nin"

"Good morning."

The only three greetings legally permitted before noon when you cross paths during a smug walk in the countryside.

It's more than a greeting though.

It's a micro-connection, and wonderful for mental health. Science says so:

For a brief second, you feel part of the human race, totally at ease that strangers aren't going to snatch your phone, or worse - give you an atomic wedgie.

As a relatively reserved character, I even find myself looking for the 'good mornings'. No man is an island.

But there's a serious issue.

What the hell do you say when crossing paths with people in the afternoon?

“Good afternoon” ?

Fuck no. This isn't Charles Dickens.
Plus, it's WAY too wordy. 4 syllables!!!
No way I have time for that.
You'd be labelled a maniac.
Excluded from society.
Forced to hang out with other cancelled dissidents: Phillip Schofield, Graham Linehan, Kanye etc.

Side note: There's an INCREDIBLE reality TV show in there. You're welcome Channel 5.

What about a simple smile?

Not a chance.
I hate with a burning passion the tight lip smile, especially when it replaces an actual verbal response. It's the equivalent of a thumbs-up emoji reaction on WhatsApp, which can also get in the bin.

@thelovelyboysTight lip smile 😐 #fyp #challenge #mcm #fortheboys #thelovelyboys #smile #walkingpastpeople #lol #sketchbook

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So what options are there?

Option 1: "Hiya!"

Too familiar. Do I know you?! Who is that?! They're a nutcase.
Also requires a Northern accent/charm (I'm from London - where friendliness goes to die)

Option 2: "Hello"

Weirdly robotic, doesn't feel natural.
It's missing something afterwards.
Hello... who? What? Can I help? Get away from me.

Option 3: A whispered "hiii"

Creepy as fuck.
Like a jump scare out of a Japanese horror film.
Stop giving people nightmares on walks.

(The whispered nature of the 'hii' confirms my predicament is shared. We all want to connect, but we know 'hi' feels weird, so we say it softly, embarrassed by how crud it is compared to the belowing Brian Blessed-esque power of 'Morning!')

Option 4: "Safe"

A left field throwback to the roadmen of yesteryear.
Probably my favourite of the bunch so far.
Sadly though, too niche.

Option 5: "Easy now rude boy, wagwan?"

A new favourite.
I'd be delighted if we could adopt this as our national afternoon greeting.
Defo cultural appropriation that would land you on that Channel 5 documentary.

There is no answr - I'm stuck

Whether it's discovering if people fancy horses, or if Game of Thrones had a worse ending than COVID - I always provide answrs. I even managed to devise a way to survive off farts, but on this occasion - I've failed, and for that I apologise. I've fallen short of my own high standards.

For now, I'm rolling with option 5. Yes, that one.

Not because it's good. Because settling for anything else will allow the issue to go unchecked for years. Things must get worse before they get better.

Consider it the dirty protest of afternoon greetings.

Join the revolution - say it to strangers when you're next on a stroll.

(Or if you're so bloomin' smart, suggest an alternative phrase in the comments below.)

There have been multiple occasions when I've gone into a restaurant, starving my tits off, and seen another table with loads of spare food. Usually chips (aka: French fries). But sometimes it's nachos. Or a few slices of pizza.

I've been so tempted to ask them if I could have some.

But I don't.

Because that's weird.

APPARENTLY we've all agreed - without ever discussing it - that asking a stranger for their spare chips is social suicide. You may as well scream "white lives matter", or wear Sketchers.

This has to stop. We literally teach toddlers to share, it's in our nature.

But instead, the food gets binned. Chips. Perfectly good chips. Thrown away because no one had the guts to say:

"Excuse me. Sharesies?"

What is Sharesies?

Sharesies is the idea of politely requesting someone's uneaten food.

Sharsies is verbal. It's optional. It relies on respect, not entitlement. It's a societal upgrade.

There's zero expectation of receiving, but the asking should not be seen as weird.

This isn't a radical idea.

• In most Eastern cultures, sharing food is normal, even expected.

• In ancient times, people would pass around a loaf of bread and everyone would have a nibble (I was never good at history).

• At festivals, people share stuff the whole time, uninhibited by society's constructs.

• At kids' parties, the phrase "one each" is basically law.

The idea that eating is a solitary, guarded act is a modern invention that needs overthrowing like we did to Colonel Gaddafi or Greg Wallace.

The Real Issue!!!

Before we proceed, it's worth highlighting the real issue at hand: food waste.

That's the reason I'm writing this. Obviously.

In the UK alone, we throw out 10.7 million tonnes of food every year.
- Waste & Resources Action Programme, 2021

That has a substantial effect on global warming. We're producing more than we need, polluting our poor planet, when we could just… sharesies.

Oh, and if you think for a moment that I'm cynically using food waste as a reason to garner support for this initiative, then shame on you. Or even worse - no chips for you.

(Hypothetically, even if it were all about chips. You can't deny the fact that sharesies is good for the planet. So either way, you're in.)

The Answr:
A Sharesies Manifesto

No movement is complete without a manifesto. So here's mine.

Print it out. Stick it up. Send it to your MP.

The music video below is your reference for the energy I expect of you.

Just change the word 'love' for 'chips'.

(and ignore the poor grammar that creates)…

Sharesies
Normalising the act of asking for spare food at restaurants.

Aims and Objectives

• Cut UK restaurant food waste by 50,000 tonnes by 2030 (25% reduction from the current 199,100 tonnes annually)

• Bring a divided society together through micro-interactions (yes, there's that too)

• Share food, including but not limited to, chips

How it Works

You politely ask "Sharesies?"

They say “yeah sure”:
Thank them genuinely and enjoy responsibly. Judge the best way to make the food transfer - whether it's taking their plate wholesale, or passing them yours.

OR

They say “no, sorry”:
You say "No worries." Take solace in the fact that they're still part of Sharesies, even if they decline on that occasion.

Can People Opt-Out?

Sharesies is totally optional. Like organ donation in the UK, everyone is opted in by default.

If you don't want to be asked, just put your cutlery into a ⌃ position - the international symbol for 'I still want my food'. That's already a thing! It’s perfect. Nobody will disturb you.

When to Sharesies

In essence, it's a common-sense practice. Here's some guidance:

Good times:

• When there's clearly leftover food

• Relaxed atmosphere

• People finishing up

• Casual restaurants, pubs, food courts

Bad times:

• When people are still actively eating

• Clearly important moments

• If anyone else has already asked them

• If they're deep in conversation

Overcoming Risks

Risk: Social awkwardness for participants
Mitigation: Support network for early adopters. Clear protocol guidelines. Opt-out signalling system. Educational campaign featuring celebrity/influencer endorsements, podcast collabs (Off Menu?), Superbowl advert.

Risk: Rejection leading to participant withdrawal
Mitigation: Success story sharing on social media. Emphasise rejection as an acceptable outcome.

Risk: Restaurant revenue loss concerns
Mitigation: Develop a partnership model with restaurants which highlights the initiative and actually increases bookings of partaking restaurants.

Risk: Regulatory intervention or legal challenges
Mitigation: Proactive engagement with local authorities; legal compliance review (shotgun not doing that), Government lobby group.

Next Steps

1. Test it out - ask for sharesies. Chances are they won't understand initially, so calmly explain what it's about. Education is the key to revolution.

2. Cross your cutlery into a ⌃ if you're not up for sharing when someone asks you.

3. Inform others - Forward this to a mate. Spread the word.

4. Thank me later when you're living in a world where you can eat spare chips. Oh and the planet-saving stuff etc.

End Notes

It might feel weird at first.

There's a social barrier. It's awkward. You'll seem mad.

But that's how every good idea starts.

Progress always feels strange at first. The smoking ban. Contactless payments. Women voting. Sharesies is the same.

Just ask yourself, which side of history do you want to be on?

One where we're all smoking indoors, paying in smelling old cash, only letting idiotic blokes vote and binning all the leftovers?

OR...

One where we don't get lung cancer, pay smugly with our phones, let everyone have a say, save the stupid planet, and yes - share chips.

Your Voice Matters

What did I miss?

How can this be improved?

Will you join me?

Let me know in the comments…

It’s an ancient practice that can be traced back to the 2005 dating manual The Game.

This seminal work captured a generation of men’s hearts… by teaching them how to capture a generation of women, and then shag them.

One of the tactics was peacocking - where men would wear something a bit different and extravagant.

The theory being that it signals confidence, and therefore sexual prowess, and high chances of world domination - all the good stuff chicks dig, right?

However, while peacocking went extinct due to environmental issues (Tinder), a new animal-themed behaviour has quietly taken its place.

The festering, spreading, stinking-like-a-motherfucka practice of... Skunking.

Where It Happens: The Train Network

To understand Skunking, you first need to understand the complex ecosystem of the UK rail network's seating dynamics.

Firstly, it’s possible (and often the case) that you have a perfectly valid train ticket, but you do not have a reserved seat.

In terms of the pecking order of passengers, this puts you very low indeed. You might as well be fluffing the ticket inspector for Pringles. The only position lower is somebody who genuinely enjoys the patronising toilet signs, which equates using a flush with heroism.

Without a seat reservation, you’re often forced to squat in a chair - hoping before every stop some rule-abiding old biddie doesn’t trot on and turf you out like the sub-human scum that you are, and of course - always will be.

Those evictions are unavoidable. The seat’s rightful heir exudes ultimate power, and you can only pray to the train gods (National Rail’s chief exec - Sir Andrew Haines) that they don’t show up.

But what about the totally empty seat next to you?

Aka: The Leg Spreader. Privacy-Maker. First Class-Taster.
Your fave travel companion: space.

This gem is about 2mm away, with only an armrest for separation that’s the girth of a Twiglet.

Let’s be clear:

When travelling solo - every sane passenger’s preference is to NOT sit next to anybody.

It’s a tight fit. They’ll have an unrestricted view of your phone antics, and you spend 90% of the journey pretending you’re not looking at their laptop to guess their job. (Presentations are always interesting, spreadsheets less so. Sometimes you get Netflix with no sound and judge them by their viewing habits. Recently, me and a guy had the same phone case and I was tempted to mention it - or at least look for a nod of approval. I got nothing, despite gesturing it towards him a fair amount over the 2 hours).

What tends to happen during a journey

Eventually, all the pairs of chairs will have at least one person in. Then - the games begin.

At each stop, people enter and walk the aisles, assessing which empty chair to savagely deprive somebody of.

Unlike being forced to move, this can be mitigated - through the artful skill of Skunking.

How to Skunk

• Chernobl it. Sit across both seats. Bag strewn. Tables down. Create a land of phone cables, crisp packets and coffee cups. Make the area totally uninhabitable for 50 years.

• Practice kissing on your hand. Requires zero props or setup time. The second you see somebody walking towards you, dive in.

• Headphones + trance stare. Put in headphones and stare intently at your phone/laptop. Disturbing you would disrupt your dimension-travelling flow state. Rude.

• Don’t look well, or… normal. I’m not proud of this one (though weirdly the others, I’m fine with). I won’t go into details. You can probably guess. Shame on you.

• Fake call. Be having a loud (and fake) phone conversation with somebody called Ian.

• Deploy stench. Tuna or prawn sandwiches are the go-to. Don’t eat it, display it. Make it a sensory warning.

• Film a TikTok dance. This one is rogue, never before seen, or tried. But it would work wonders due to the annoyance levels. No way anybody is sitting next to that.

• Sleep. Vintage stuff, but beware: many take pride in waking the dead or calling any bluffs.

• Block the aisle. Sit on the outer seat so any newbies will have to squeeze past. You’re setting the tone: I’m difficult. Try me.

Remember:

You don’t have to be bad - you just have to be worse than somebody else.

So that’s Skunking.

I’m guessing there are a few tactics I’ve missed - things you do without realising, or with fully entitled awareness.

Let me know yours in the comments….

The conversation lasted about four days, with everyone from scientists to the rapper Aitch chipping in, before we moved on to the next inane curiosity.

Except me.

I wasn’t concerned about the gorilla.

I’d been hatching a plan about how I could defeat 100 men.

And it’s foolproof.

The Parameters

Before revealing my strategy, here’s the fight’s setup:

• It takes place in a massive cricket-sized field, with no weapons.

• The 100 men start on one side, and I start on the other.

• Wrestling pundit Jim Ross is commentating.

The People

The men range in size and are picked at random by some sort of depraved God. I’m unfortunately in my own body - a 38-year-old, 5ft6, slim-ish but not particularly muscular dweeb who has never been in a fight.

Full disclosure: I have done some Krav Maga classes. To give you a flavour of how ferocious they were, the instructor had to continually remind us to be more aggressive. And after I stopped attending, I asked a classmate out on a date via LinkedIn. It wasn’t creepy - there were defo vibes, promise.

My Strategy

Before continuing, please be aware this strategy is to be known as ‘The Dan Technique’. It can be used during any occasion when somebody is outnumbered.

For example, you and your mate are cornered in a dodgy part of town. It’s 2 vs 10. You’d say to your pal,

“Time to use The Dan Technique.”

They nod. Hell is unleashed.

Or… you’re pulled over in your car by masked men. You’re ushered to the side of the road and told to hand over your keys. There are about 4 of them with guns. You initiate The Dan Technique. Sorted.

The Dan Technique

The fight starts. I instantly strip naked and defecate. I smear my faeces all over my body, before celebrating to the sky: “I did it!!! I did it!!!”

The 100 men are still about 30 metres away. They all witnessed what just happened. Their warrior screams of: “Let’s get him!” are replaced with: “What the hell?!” “Oh god, what is he doing?!”

As they approach, I keep yelling: “I did it, I did it!” I lay triumphantly on the ground, facing the sky.

By now, there’s a load of guys surrounding me. I’m defenceless, smell terrible, look worse, but I’m smiling.

Who would start a fight with that? It’s not possible. It’s a classic circuit breaker.

I start to mutter very calmly: “Guys, don’t do it. There’s another way to win.”

Some of the gang are on the verge of dishing out a few kicks. But there are 100 men - I just need one of them to wonder enough to interrupt and ask…

“Wait! Let’s hear him out. What do you mean, another way to win?”

I explain: “The real victory… is not to fight each other for a hypothetical question.”

“What hypothetical question?!”

“Who would win in a fight - me or 100 men. Don’t you see? We’re part of somebody’s sick thought experiment.”

“Enough talk - let’s batter him!” one keeno shouts out.

“Before you do, just answer me this - do you remember how you got here? Or what you did yesterday?”

The men look perplexed. I hammer it home…

“Yeah, sad news. We’re not real. We exist only in the collective imagination of those reading a blog post. You’ve been given the sole desire to beat me in a fight, probably killing me, for no reason other than settling a debate. But you do have a choice.”

At this point, I put on Morpheus-style glasses and look like a total badass (ignoring the fact I’m naked and covered in turd).

By now, I’ve got the attention of the gang. Maybe one or two lash out towards me, but they’re subdued by the others who are desperate to hear more...

“There are 101 of us, in a cricket field. We can either fight - and you’d kill me in 30 seconds, maybe 33 if I use Krav Maga. Or… we can enjoy the time we have together. Make this moment last. Because once I’m dead - the conversation will move on, and you’ll also cease to exist.”

There’s a pause in the field whilst the men think. One of them extends his hand, pulls me up and pats me on the shoulder like Tom Cruise, before wiping his hands on the grass and gagging.

“Ok, so we’ve got all the time in the world. No responsibilities. Just a big open field and ourselves. What shall we do?”

There are no suggestions, only shrugs.

“Come on, literally anything.”

Eventually, one of the more athletic lads - let’s call him Peter - speaks up: “Err… we could maybe do a relay race?”

“Wonderful idea.” I respond. A meek chap I’d eventually know to be called Felix suggests: “What about just sitting and chatting for a bit? I wasn’t that up for a fight in the first place.”

“Love your honesty. Sure, why not!”

Another suggestion comes from the back: “Er… I’d be happy to organise some sexy fun for those interested?”

“Of course! Make love not war, as they say!”

(I was becoming quite the orator)

A hand raises timidly. I point at them to speak:

“Regarding the sexy fun… presuming you mean intercourse? I’m not gay, but given the circumstance, I’d like to watch - at least initially. Then if I feel comfortable, I could perhaps start to… experiment? Would that be ok, or is it only for experienced members of the gay community?”

The group fall silent, waiting on a reply, but a few more people chip in:

“Yeah I had the same question.”
“Me too.”
“Me three!”
“Happy to give it a go!”
”YOLOOO!”

The sexy-fun suggester reveals:
“There’ll be space for all abilities and experience levels.”

The men cheer.

“That goes for the relay too!” Peter yells excitedly.
“And the chatting!” jokes Felix, to roars of laughter.

The group have officially bonded. And that’s before the shagging.

“Ok, so why don’t the guys who made the suggestions fan out, and everyone else - just follow whatever activity tickles your fancy? Then let’s reconvene in a few hours, see how everyone got on, and maybe add a few more options into the mix.”

The lads disperse. After about three days of cycling through various activities, we’ve built a strong community - one bound by free will and mutual respect.

We live off the land - kibbutz-style. To entertain ourselves, we put on theatre plays, chair debates and encourage skill-sharing.

We make the most of life. Outside of the field, nothing exists and nothing matters.

We form bonds closer than anything in the real world. This was our real world, and it was true bliss.

Decades pass and we grow old together. The friendships deepen, for some they become something more. Our lives, once forced together by an unexplainable force, are now bound together by an inexplicable love.

I then strangle some of the older members of the community in their sleep. I plant evidence on others, who are then banished, suffer severe isolation and kill themselves.

Over the next few years, I dabble in more night-bound murder - suffocation and poisoning, all the good stuff that could pass as natural causes.

I keep blaming others for good measure, spreading rumours like a pedigree weasel. Accusations start flying and tribes form. Scuffles break out and turn deadly. Retaliation one way, then back another. Our cricket pitch of camaraderie is now a bloodlust battlefield.

The final battle lasts days. Only four men survive, including me - I hid under a pile of corpses.

Despite being from opposite sides, exhaustion and injury prevent the men from fighting. I tend to their wounds, bandaging them up using the clothes of the dead.

With only time for contemplation, the small group start to see their fellow men not as enemies, but again as comrades. It starts with the sharing of food and water, then to slow, teary recollections of yesteryear. It soon becomes clear how tribalism ruined our perfect society and drove us apart.

“How about a relay race for old time’s sake?” jokes one of the survivors.

They laugh. It makes their bruised ribs hurt, but they chuckle through the pain. It’s the most they’ve laughed in weeks.

I then bludgeon them all to death using a dead guy’s collarbone.

I win!

But there’s more. So much more.

Introducing… the tropes (aka: the stuff that will almost certainly happen).

Prep the Bod

If you’re hitting up sunny shores like Majorca or Cancún, be aware that some attendees will be undergoing a secret five-month fitness regime. The sole purpose: flexing their bodies at any opportunity. Mid-activity, dancefloor, airport tarmac. Nothing is off-limits. Cameron Poe (Nicolas Cage’s character) saw it coming a mile off and smashed out a variety of prison-style workouts. His reward: wearing a sleeveless vest literally every second of the trip. Well played.

Airport Introductions

6am, Luton Airport. Each attendee trundles through security to the meeting point: Wetherspoons. As a word of advice, don’t decline a pint - nobody actually wants one, it’s a test. After months of covert WhatsApp comms, your new temporary buddies arrive, accompanied only by the whispered folklore of their past misdemeanours - arson, murder, and of course - banter.

What Happens on Stag, Stays on Stag

This ancient brotherly pact allows lads to be lads without fear of consequence. Communication to the outside world about the unfolding crazy antics (normally just a stripper) is totally outlawed - no talking, no photos. At the wedding, you’ll see the gang again and can briefly reminisce. You’ll also get a chance to meet their partners, which is always mind-boggling given you’ve only seen the lads at their most feral. But until then, no squealing.

Learning New Chants

It’s literally impossible to know pre-stag what chants will be initiated. They’re often impromptu, or from people you’ve not met. Under any circumstance, don’t ask people for the lyrics - just bellow a few ‘woays’ and clap until you pick it up. Singing breeds camaraderie, it bonds people together and ensures any locals know you’re having an absolutely wicked time at the expense of their peace and quiet.

Fancy Dress

Forcing the stag to wear an outfit as soon as they get to an airport brings me unrivalled joy. One trend is to give them the same outfit as airline staff - something the naughty men on Con Air pay a touching tribute to by impersonating the police, and shooting one in the head.

The Airbnb Host Arrives… Unannounced

This one terrifies me. On rare occasions, due to the behaviour of the lads the night before or over-sensitive neighbours, the Airbnb host turns up the next morning with little to no warning. A frantic surface-level clear-up normally ensues. After that, my advice is to hide in bed and listen intently as ‘the responsible one’ (see part 1) takes all the flak and apologises profusely. Sometimes, an idiotic member of the group will decide to make things 100x worse by barging in mid-apology. They’ll argue with the host, using their beer breath as a skunk-like defence before being asked by their mate to put on some clothes.

Group Activity: Paintballing

With only a few scrapped vehicles as cover from the hellfire, paintballing highlights those who are natural-born killers, and those who are scared shitless but too shy to say so. The latter will form a top-secret ‘clique of safety’, like conscientious objectors. There’s also normally a time when the stag is forced to run solo through a firing line - a memory that becomes a highlight of the whole weekend. It’s a true bonding experience, and the bruises make for great (if a tad repetitive) conversation topics.

Someone Falls Foul of the Main Lads

Ok, this is sadly going to happen - most likely to ‘the wet home friend’. They’ll eventually become so annoying, that the alphas turn on him, savagely. This can be triggered during times of high stress, like being refused entry to the club. My advice: let it happen - there’s nothing you can do. The next morning, the bigger guys will apologise for two seconds (if that) and not think about it ever again, while the home friend will be traumatised for life, and become even more reclusive.

Covert Apologies to Locals on Behalf of the Group

Stag groups have the uncanny ability to ruin restaurant meals for everyone else. The natural loudness that occurs after legendary amounts of lager is uncontainable. As the group start to filter out and resume chanting, a few apologies might be sneakily offered to the owner and other patrons. It’s a respectful, yet highly Judas move.

New Friendships?

By the end of the stag, new wonderful memories of vomiting and zorbing will have formed, but what new friendships? Despite all the character warnings I’ve given, keep an open mind and see who you gel with. Then, when you get home - mute the WhatsApp group indefinitely.

The Stag Gets a Second Wind

After a predictably bigger-than-planned first night, the second night is a slog. The swagger has somewhat deflated, even with guestlist entry to the club (as long as you’re in before 9pm when there’s no queue anyway). With death, destruction and hangovers all around, only the bravest of stags can give themselves the pep-talk they need to stand up from the group’s reserved and deeply unimpressive area and hit the dancefloor.

Losing the Accommodation Deposit

Whether it’s Vegas or Magaluf, acknowledge that lads make a mess, and when you’re dividing all costs by 20, the care levels are minimal. Don’t be perturbed, or even dare try and clean up (not cool). Just take the fine from the Airbnb host, and let ‘the responsible one’ handle all comms post-stag. If you’re lucky, they’ll argue against the fine, despite the evidence of drink stains and broken speakers.

Somebody Gets Lost / Stays Behind

This is classic behaviour - likely from the weird bloke nobody wants to share a room with (see part 1). Whilst everyone else is travelling home slightly worse for wear, there’s one person who is flying somewhere else for more fun - albeit often lower key. This can range from a chilled one with the gf to holidaying with different pals, or recharging with their parents somewhere swanky. You’ll know exactly where they’re going as they slip it into multiple conversations. Meanwhile, you have to return back to your twisted reality, where the default drink is not a Jägerbomb. Lame.