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…

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!

We don’t talk about the COVID pandemic. Fair enough. It was an immensely turd period of time. Now that we’re back to reality, let’s pretend it never happened - like saying “you too” when a waiter says “enjoy your meal”.

But one element is lacking: the ending.

After all the death, distancing, vaccinating, new-normalling (sorry), lockdowning, clapping, zooming, smug-hobbying… where’s the closure?!

It’s possible to recognise the end of a terrible event without sounding insensitive. We’d be honouring those who lost their lives and recognising the efforts of society.

At the end of wars, there are parades. Guy Fawkes, who tried to mash up Parliament, gets his own annual fireworks display. And because we nailed some bloke called Jesus to a plank of wood and left him out to prune, we eat chocolate eggs and bunk off work.

But absolutely nothing for the pandemic?

Maybe we’re too ashamed because of our cringeworthy antics? The ‘Imagine’ video single-handedly justifies NEVER speaking of those times again.

Fun challenge: try and watch more than 30 seconds…

The only thing that comes close to gripping society before disappearing with a deeply unsatisfying conclusion is Game of Thrones.

It ended so poorly I lost all faith in TV series. I’m in recovery. No new shows until someone else vets the finale. This includes Severance, despite all the hype - I need an ‘all clear’.

But what ending was worse?

I had to find out.

What’s needed: data on audience reactions to both. I’ll calculate both scores out of 10 and wang them on a bar chart.

Game of Thrones’ ending

Here’s the cold-as-a-White-Walker facts from two major sources. I’ve ignored critics’ reviews, I’m focussed on the public’s thoughts - I’m suuuuch a man of the people.

Let’s crunch the numbers…

That gives us 3.99 out of 10 for Game of Thrones. Not too shady.

The pandemic’s ending

Unlike TV shows, there’s minimal data on how people rated the pandemic’s ending. Strange that. So I created and sent out a survey via Pollfish. The audience of 100 was UK based, aged between 35 and 65.

Before anybody gets pedantic — I’m aware the virus is still knocking around. I’m referencing the pandemic. That’s gone. Nobody likes a pandemic-pedant.

The question was simple:

If the COVID pandemic was a TV show, how would you rate the ending out of 100…

Here’s the results:

Cor! Would you look at the standard deviation on her! (i.e. lots of spread)

But the average (the ‘mean’ for all the maths heads) is…

drum roll please…

46.71

The comparison

Here’s the two endings compared side by side (with the pandemic results divided by 10 so they’re on the same scale).

It’s official (kinda).

But what about all the other deeply disappointing TV show endings?

According to their IMDb ratings, here’s how some other infamous letdowns compare to the pandemic.

The pandemic and GoT are in a league of their own.

If you’re wondering how Lost was rated so highly, I believe it’s an example of the angriest voices being the loudest. It appears a silent majority actually enjoyed it but were too scared to speak up through fear of being ostracised. A reminder that online rage doesn’t always equal real-world consensus. What a fun lesson!

Suggestions welcome…

If the end of the pandemic felt lacklustre, what symbolic thing could we do to recognise what we went through? Another bank holiday? NHS statue? Or just keep pretending it never happened?

It’s not ideal. But surviving off your own farts might one day become a necessity. Pick your scenario: nuclear apocalypse, societal meltdown, alien invasion, or good ol’ fashioned morbid curiosity. Whatever the reason, they all require investigation and planning.

I don’t know what the scout’s badge looks like for survival-based fart eating, but I’m about to earn it.

Beer, football, and more beer!!!
(If I meant that, would it be more or less embarrassing than this article?)

Anyway, here’s the crucial stuff:

The basic physiological requirements for human survival include adequate caloric intake to meet energy demands, access to essential micronutrients such as vitamins and minerals, and sufficient water for cellular function.1

For the purpose of this plan, I’m going to assume there’s a water source—like a well, or some Evian - so the farts just need to deliver calories and nutrients somehow.

What is a fart made of?

Dinner is served!

Here are the key ingredients. Do check for allergens:

The major constituents of human flatus are nitrogen, hydrogen, carbon dioxide, methane, and oxygen. The relative concentrations vary with diet, colonic flora, and other factors, but nitrogen is typically the most abundant gas.2

Sadly, all of these are gases. They’re not edible and don’t provide any calories or nutrients.

So we’re faced with a choice: abandon the investigation as it’s clearly impossible

or…

feed the farts to something else, then eat the result. Close enough, right?

Enter: Methanotroph!

(The smelliest X-Men character.)

Methanotrophs are bacteria that consume methane gas, convert it into protein-rich biomass, and film it for their OnlyFans. They come in the form of Methylococcus capsulatus, and they’re used in the pet food industry.

Think of them as fart-powered tofu factories.

Methanotrophs are Gram-negative proteobacteria, noted for their ability to utilize methane as the sole source of carbon and energy. 3

Your Fart-to-Food™ machine

It’s simple. Siphon your guffs into a fermentation jar containing the magical bacteria. Let it stew at 35°C, wangle in some oxygen with an aquarium pump every few hours, and let it ferment for 2–5 days.

The end result? High-protein paste. Smells weird. Feeds fish. Could feed you.

Congratulations: You’re now in a closed-loop fart economy.

Finally, your parents are proud of you.

But wait…

If that’s your diet, will you continue to produce methane?

Sadly not. How embarrassing for you.

Methane production in the human colon is dependent on the availability of fermentable substrates such as dietary fibre.4

If your only food is depraved sludge grown from your own farts, that’s not gonna cut it.

You’ll be fine for perhaps an initial five-course tasting menu, but then your microbiome starves. Methane production drops. The loop fails.

But don’t order a Deliveroo just yet. Save your dignity. The fart feast awaits…

The logical conclusion: stealing farts from schoolchildren

Faced with extinction, you adapt. You innovate. You become resourceful. You hide in a school roof cavity and harvest the farts of unsuspecting kids.

It’s the perfect environment for a harvest.

Children pass gas an average of 10–20 times per day, with volume and odour influenced by diet and gut flora maturity. 5

Each morning, hundreds of children sit in assembly. They listen. They shuffle. They emit. Your air-extractor unit whirs quietly, sucking the stench into your fermentation hovel. Farm to plate.

You dine like a king, whispering into your spoonful of sludge:

“Thank you, Year 6.”

Any questions?

Sources:

It was for a light-hearted YouTube advert for the drinks brand Robinsons (everyone’s second favourite variety of squash - Ribena is first, obvs).

Some lucky families won the chance to be trained by the head coach at Wimbledon, Dan Bloxham. Dan is a real bloke, he’s legit.

But what these unsuspecting families didn’t know was that Tim Henman would also be there - in a cunning disguise as a Robinsons rep.

Tim joined the training session and yes - he was a bit better than people expected. He then slowly peels off his disguise to reveal his true identity… Tim Henman. It’s truly magnificent content.

Feast your eyes:

Can You Guess What’s Wrong?

Something felt off about this video, and naturally - it haunted my dreams.

Give it another watch.

Notice anything weird?

Here’s a clue: it’s NOT that they made his character look like he has three months to live due to a rare skin condition.

It’s a single line of dialogue, or to be precise - just three letters.

Towards the end, participants react to the hilarious prank, and one woman says:

OBE. (the posh title you can get awarded in the UK)
Tim Henman OBE.
She referred to him as Tim Henman OBE
No human has ever casually referred to anybody with an OBE as ‘full name + OBE’.

Just imagine:

“We were in Cafe Nero and guess who walked in… Alan Titchmarsh OBE”

or

“When we were teenagers, my mate Adam had an unhealthy obsession with Keira Knightley OBE”

It’s the most unnatural phrasing I’ve ever witnessed on screen, including all forms of rare porn. ALL forms.

So What Happened?

I had to know.

Did Henman’s management insist on the OBE mention? I checked about 10 other interviews from that time period - he’s just plain old Tim Henman. Barely even a Tiger Tim (which is even more disrespectful).

Maybe the video agency assumed that’s what he wanted. Like an arse-kissing gone wrong (that’s also a rare porn category, don’t watch it).

Was it Robinsons’ evil-doing? After all, there’s something very underhanded about the drink genre of squash. They’re delegating part of the production to us, but we’re still paying the same?! (That observation is crud, but I’m keeping it in to make the other stuff seem more original).

Maybe Robinsons was meddling like a typical client? Always getting involved with the creative. Bloody client!!! Who works in marketing and gets what I’m saying?! Come on!!!

The video was made by ‘Red Consultancy’, and from the off - I don’t trust them. Their logo isn’t even red. They clearly have zero regard for the truth.

Perhaps the woman (let’s call her ‘Lady H’) was part of their team but got fired as she kept calling everyone by their full titles and it was too annoying.

“Yes I had a lovely brunch with David Blacksmith BA (Hons) and Sharon Marks BA (Hons), MA.
How was your weekend Susan Rogers CertEd, DipHE, BEd (Hons), QTLS, FRSA?"

Then I Became Quite Scared

After the 47th viewing of the video, scanning it for clues, a fear started to creep in. It wasn’t caused by what I was uncovering, it was by the possibility that I was wasting a disgusting amount of time investigating a total non-event, and I need to have a serious word with myself. Perhaps I should check my privilege and dedicate my time to more meaningful and less self-indulgent endeavours? Maybe… the mere fact that this is being written when there are organisations that desperately need volunteers is an insult to humanity?

But then on the I spotted something crucial.

The Smoking Gun

I can’t believe it took me so long to notice.

Lady H is never seen playing tennis. She’s in the background, tending to the Robinsons’ stand and talking to crew members:

Whilst there’s a slim chance that Lady H is a genuine parent having a natter and quenching her thirst with some Lemon Barley... why is she walking with a microphone, and passing it to a camera operator?

It's undeniable evidence she’s part of the production team.

Rewatch the video - it’s crystal clear.

I couldn’t believe it. A 90-second branded video for a major corporation has elements that are not 100% authentic.

My perception of reality has been shattered.

Doubt now clouds all my sensory experiences.

This world has been exposed as a Matrix-like simulation.

Nothing is as it seems.

Trust nobody.

Though it doesn’t explain why she said “OBE”?

P.S. That Guy Is Familiar

I presented my findings to my girlfriend. After her standing ovation and proclaiming, “Now THAT is journalism” (that’s how I remember it), she immediately pointed out:

1. Does Tim Henman need a disguise? He already looks like every normal bloke. (Amazing)

2. The other interviewee is ‘Father of Daughters’ on Instagram and has almost 1m followers. He's a bloomin' pro!

Rewatching the video, his line “Robinsons is summertime in England isn’t it?” should’ve been a giveaway.

Con Air isn't just the greatest action film ever made.

Beneath its slow-mo explosions, bunny unboxing and Nicolas Cage’s majestic mullet... is a poignant portrayal of a typical stag weekend.

Forget a prison transport plane - that’s the 6:40am EasyJet to Hamburg with twelve lads who promised they'd behave.

This is educational viewing, aimed at young men approaching ‘the stag-do years’. The film presents the raw, honest truth of who and what to expect, all through the twisted lens of a '90s Jerry Bruckheimer film.

If you can’t remember (or somehow haven't seen) Con Air - I suggest you watch it before reading further, so this makes sense.

Here’s The Lead Charaters:

The Weird Guy Nobody Wants to Share a Room With

This odd chap will arrive late, likely through other means, like the ferry. He’ll go missing for large portions of the trip, and reappear at random moments. He’s totally at ease with his own weirdness, and despite his deadpan demeanour, he still has a lovely time.

The Self-Assured Leader

This guy leads the group through a lethal combo of intelligence and cutting remarks. Most people think he’s a bit of a tosser, but they’d prefer to laugh along and keep things peachy. Back home, his girlfriend claims “he’s such a sweet guy when you get to know him,” which you struggle to comprehend.

The Stag Himself

The stag is constantly on edge about what’s in store. He’s a mere passenger with zero control over the planned events of hijinks and hijacking. However, there’ll be a breaking point when he can’t take any more shots and lashes out at his reprobate pals. He also bangs on about ‘his girl back home’. Get over it mate - you’re out with the lads.

The Dad on the Stag

Within three minutes of landing, it’s obvious who has kids back home. They let loose, breaking free from the confines of their everyday life. It’s one of my favourite things to witness - a true wonder of the natural world. Expect them to don some wacky outfits, dance the night away and bring a positive energy that the others can only dream of. Without doubt - everyone’s MVP.

The One Guy Who Shows a Genuine Interest In You

Most of the guys make a cursory effort to befriend you. But this lad is great. He shows a real interest in your life and even gets further than ‘how do you know the stag?’ Part of you suspects a long-term friendship is blossoming, but then he confesses to loving The Big Bang Theory and you instantly disown him.

The Groom’s Wet Home Friend

Rather than make an effort with the wider group, this one sticks to his only mate - the groom. He’s totally out of his depth amongst the laddishness and sneaks home early during nights out. He’s got some sort of niche medical condition which nobody cares about, yet it makes up the majority of his conversation. Stay clear.

The Responsible One

Often the Best Man, this guy planned everything meticulously, only for the group’s antics to destroy it all. He’s constantly on the phone, rearranging timings, barely enjoying himself. His only reward: a handful of generic "quality weekend lads" texts after the trip, which he’ll treasure forever. Fun fact: his catchphrase is “first taxi’s here!”

The Leader’s Best Mate

Every leader of a stag group needs a loyal disciple to laugh at their crap jokes, protect them during scuffles and most importantly - enforce international drinking rules -“Imbibe!”
Deep down, he’s a sweet guy who dislikes the leader, but lacks the courage to be anything but subservient, even when he’s the butt of the jokes.

The Useful One

Within seconds of arriving at the accommodation, this guy posts the WiFi password in the group chat. He’ll get the air-con working after everyone has tried, and he even manages to get music on the sound system despite its lack of Bluetooth. Yes, he brought the cables.

The Bloke Who Does His Own Thing That Nobody Else Can Afford

This chap only knows the groom through work, and instead of staying in the crowded Airbnb, he pays for his own hotel. Strangely aloof, he meets the gang between other plans he’s made for just himself. Nobody slags him off as he pays for loads of drinks, but his behaviour does become quite off, which makes for some great side chats.

The Rep Nobody Has A Chance With

This poor woman is hired to take the lads from A to B, usually in the form of a beer tour or pub crawl. She strikes a perfect balance between fun ‘n’ flirty and ruthless timekeeping. Naturally, an unsaid game of ‘talk to the rep’ evolves amongst the gang and people you thought were your friend take the piss out of you in a desperate bid to elevate their status. Once everyone is safely inside the club - she heads home (alone) and drops her charade of being mates with any of you.

The Flash Git

This guy wears sunglasses indoors and has various shit tattoos. He’ll be significantly more flash and belligerent than everyone else, and has a photo of his Audi on his phone’s lock screen. His inherited wealth has granted him a confidence that makes him unafraid to challenge the group’s alphas and go his own way - even if nobody follows him as his ideas are rubbish.

The Class Clown

This chap’s social currency is gags. He cracks jokes, dishes out nicknames and even sets people on fire - all somehow in the name of “banter”. Nobody else seems to laugh, but that doesn’t stop him - he’s his own favourite audience. The wider group tolerates him but they certainly don’t respect him. If anything, he’s quite annoying. Tragic stuff.

The ‘Legendary Shagger’ (his term)

This pathetic individual will consistently reminisce about his latest “female conquests” - shoehorning them into most conversations. His reviews of any bars, clubs or restaurants are solely determined by the quality and quantity of girls. He even announces the number of women he’s shagged (600 apparently) to impress randomers (see video). A deeply embarrassing bloke.

The Bride’s Father

Since this guy hasn’t been out on the town for two decades, he’s running on pure adrenaline and lager. He struggles to keep up, but he’s grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. It’s a rare break from his mundane desk job - and he’s making it count. With age comes better resources: he’s booking unnecessary Ubers, ordering posh drinks nobody wants, and staying alone in a hotel he paid for because “I need my own bathroom lads.”

The Absolute Liability

This guy arrives at the airport with an anxious energy. There’s still some gear in his system from the night before, he’s on full tilt. Expect him to prang out mid-flight, mid-paintballing, and mid-lap dance. He’ll lose his passport in the club on the first night, and he’ll take 15 months to pay his Splitwise tab.

The Airbnb Host Who Kills the Vibe by Giving a Needlessly Long Tour of the Apartment

When you arrive at the accommodation, it is imperative that you stay clear of this man. His monologue on lockboxes, aircon units and noise level limitations will sap your lifeforce. Wait nearby until he’s left the building. Only one person needs to listen and nod along - don’t let it be you.

In supermarkets, shops, and service stations across the country, you’ve probably seen these enchanting displays.

They house the world’s only snack that is guaranteed to make you:

• murder-suicide your entire family

• or have a sugar crash, then do it

Despite their tasting notes of sprinkles and kamikaze, I’m intrigued not by their ingredients, but by their bold claim…

‘Made fresh daily’

How the fucking hell is that possible?!

Every, single, day?

By who?
Where?
How?!

‘Donutgate’

(apparently people are calling it that?)

There are three possible explanations:

1. They’re made in-store
Sure, supermarkets have ovens for croissants and baguettes but Krispy Kreme stands are everywhere - from WHSmith to service stations. Are we really to believe Fleet Services in Newport Pagnell has a Breaking Bad-style donut lab?

2. It’s a scam
If they’re lying, not only does that shake the foundations of society, but I’d face a tough choice: approach BBC’s Panorama, Dispatches, or Stacey Dooley (we know the answer).

3. They’re made off-site
This is the most likely. But if so, how the hell are they distributing thousands of donuts every day? That would require a secret network more efficient than Amazon, your gran’s dealer (best believe), or dare I say… even Evri?

That feels strange as (not to brag) I’ve seen my fair share of logistics:

• Lorries of dead animals unloaded at butchers’ markets - nightmare fuel.

• Car transporters that you’re too scared to drive behind in case one rolls loose (just me?).

• Beer barrels lowered into pub cellars with the self-importance of a state funeral. It’s just a barrel of liquid mate, get over yourself.

And yet: in all my years of logistics-spotting, I’ve never seen a Krispy Kreme delivery. Not once.

The Answr? I’m Stumped

At this point, you might be thinking: “Just google it”.

To which I say, go fuck yourself.

Yes, a quick search could solve this gloriously mundane mystery in three seconds. But for two years, I’ve resisted. Not because I’m stubborn (that’s 70% of it), but because googling is boring.

You think Donutgate is somehow uninteresting?

Nothing tops the soul-sucking dullness when you’re pondering a mystery, of “just google it”.

Here’s what happens:

You google it, silently.
You click the top result, dead-eyed.
You land on the Krispy Kreme’s FAQ, ever-stoic.
You're told they're made by… [redacted]
You close the tab, solemnly satisfied.
Your soul dies.

So if you’ll excuse me, I’d prefer to live with a bit of curiosity in my life.

I might not be lying in a meadow, gazing at clouds.
I’m not contemplating the brushstrokes of a Renaissance master.

I’m in Tesco Express, staring at corporate signage.

Now that’s true enchantment.

Your Turn

So, what’s your guess?
No googling.

P.S. A Question For You:

Do you have any alternative explanations?
Comment below…

You’re at the races!

Punters are betting, eating, drinking. Screaming their tits off when they lose, screaming them back on when they win. A horse might even break their leg and get shot in the face. It’s a lovely day out.

Hiding amongst the screaming crowds, I can’t help but wonder:

Is there one person who stands still, entranced and unfussed? For them, the course isn’t just a track with fences - it’s a strip club with poles, and everyone’s favourite majestic creature is the main attraction.

My question is not if this happens, but how often.

So, like any respectable writer, I made it my mission to discover how many people in the UK attend horse racing events due to their lust for horses (and pepper the results with terrible puns)…

Giddy-Up (for statistical analysis)

Let’s start with the data on Zoophilia. That’s an attraction to animals, not to be confused with the film Zootopia (be careful which one you watch with the fam).

Before I reveal the stat, have a guess - what percentage of people fantasise about animals?

[Pause for dramatic effect/thinking time]

.

.

.

Ready?

According to a 2003 study in the Journal of Sex Research:

Yeah, it’s high. Let’s not kink shame - sexualised imagery of leopards, snakes and other animals is embedded in pop culture. People are products of their environments. And these are just thoughts. If anything, kudos to those survey participants for their brutal honesty. No judgement here.

However, the journal also reveals:

Okay, where is the line on kink shaming? As that is disgusting. Come on people (literally - it's less weird).

To be ultra-conservative, we’ll assume 0.5% of the UK population fantasise about animals, that’s 335,000 people. That’s easily enough for a small town and an exploitative Channel 4 documentary that we’ll still watch.

Back in 2002, Hani Miletski asked zoophiles what animals they specifically fancied. This was for a scientific journal, not a laugh, but it’s good to know I’m not the only one curious about this sorta thing.

The results?

77% of them were into horses.

So 257,950 in the UK are partial to a cheeky bit of hoof. One might even be your neighbour.

Getting Off to the Races?

Now, not all of these individuals attend horse races. Limiting factors include social stigma, accessibility and alternative avenues like dressage (their equivalent of Magic Mike).

Anyway, each horse-shagger to their own, let’s assume 0.5% attend races.

That’s 1,290, call it 1300 people who trot off to the races each year.

Betting on a Horse (lover)

The British Horseracing Authority reports that the UK hosts 1,500 races annually, with 5.5 million total attendances.

So the average attendance per race is 3,667.

Now let’s say each of our 1,300 horse-fancying attendees goes to five races a year (a speculative but reasonable assumption for such enthusiasts):

That’s 6,500 HHH (horny-human-to-horse) attendances annually.

Divided over 1,500 races…

That’s an average of 4.33 per race.

But Hold Your Horses…

We all want to know (we’re 100% in this together) the probability of at least one attending any race.

This can be done using a Poisson distribution (used for modelling rare events):

The Answr…

The above calculation gives us the final result of… 98.7%.
A near certainty.
(even with our ultra-conservative assumptions).

To be clear:

Final Thoughts (and some advice)

If you’re gambling at the races, please remember: do not insult the horses. While the betting odds favour the bookies, the only odds in your favour are that you’d be slagging off someone’s secret love.

Curiosity has well and truly killed the cat, or in this case - shagged the horse.

P.S. A Question For You:

Before I revealed that stat, what % would you have said?

Comment below…

Whenever I watch a movie, and there’s a supervillain wanting to “rule the world!” or in more ambitious cases (no shade) - “rule the entire universe!”, I fear they’re grossly underestimating a crucial factor.

Whether they’re a generic Bond villain, Skeletor, Thanos or that absolute rascal Jafar - I’m guessing their quest for power gives them a lot of meaning. It’s one hell of an ambition to wake up for.

But once that’s achieved, I suspect they will feel empty, maybe even lost, retired, and without purpose.

The Underwhelming First Day

The first day after conquering everything, a benevolent dictator is slumped on their throne. Their No. 2 in command, let's call them ‘Shadow Hand’ - weasels in and asks:

“What world shall we triumph over next, sire?!” (Yes, that is weak writing).

But there’s zero triumphing available. Everyone is already under their rule, or very dead.

Worse, global domination means global operations.

Shadow Hand is reclassified as the COO, he announces it on LinkedIn, and the corporatisation of the evil empire ‘kicks off in earnest'.

Phase 1 initiatives include:

• A mandatory 3-hour Zoom session with pre-read materials (cameras on)

• An 18-month procurement roadmap designed by McKinsey

• Monday morning stand-ups with faux-peppiness

• Unconscious bias training that’s spectacularly failed by senior staff

• A social-media campaign of A/B tested Facebook ads, and influencer collabs

• A 12-month hiring initiative of Compliance Officers, Supply Chain Managers and Team Leaders

• An enterprise-wide rebrand, pitched by design firms in Patagonia quarter zip jumpers

• A WFH policy that people inevitably abuse, resulting in a mandatory 4 days in the office, which destroys morale

• A 5-day ‘culture alignment’ offsite at the Ramada Inn

Sure, there’s some fun to be had. Perhaps a few massive statues are built, or they get a table tennis table to fill the void (and foster innovation). But it won’t be long until, even with table tennis, the emperor is stuck reading Yelp reviews about their torture dungeons, nostalgically DMing their old nemesis: ‘u up?’.

What Now?

Whether you’ve completed your evil intergalactic quest to rule the galaxy, or you’ve retired from your law firm with a generous pension, health benefits and a six-figure consultancy retainer, it can still affect people negatively.

Even a life of pickleball and theatre will feel incredibly mundane compared to the sadistic destruction of your enemies as they beg for mercy (and that’s just the lawyers - woay!).

For the supervillains, they’ll be leaving behind laser fights, beheading rival kings, imploding planets, and in Jafar’s case - hooking up with Jasmine. Though presumably, she’s still there as a trophy wife? And I guess he’ll have the monkey?
(To clarify - Abu is NOT wife material, but after just 3 months, Jafar did check, twice.)

To All the Supervillains…

Don’t let the exquisite vapourising of your enemies fade into routine. Savour each note of their screaming chorus. Practice gratitude. Be thankful for all the anonymous henchmen who sacrificed themselves. Maybe take the survivors for a lovely meal at Prezzo? Get to know them for once?

This mentality is perfectly illustrated by one of my favourite ever videos. Yes - big statement, especially as I grew up with YouTube as my only sibling. DON’T PITY ME.

It’s 2 minutes of Zen philosophy animated by the South Park team. Enjoy:

P.S.
a question for you:

What suggestions do you have for a universal overlord so they don’t feel empty?

It's dawned on me that I’ve been unfairly judging attractive people for being rude and ‘too cool for school’, when they might just suffer from crippling shyness.

Sadly, both behaviours look IDENTICAL.

Picture the scene

It’s a local residents' meet-up to discuss noise pollution. Yes, the skateboarders are back, despite the signage (guess my age?).

Someone is hovering at the edge of the group. They’re half-glancing at their phone and not partaking.

You want them to be involved, the noise pollution is getting quite annoying after all, and needs addressing. Plus, it's always nice to meet your neighbours etc.

Now…

If that person looks like they could be a beautiful A-list actor or model according to conventional beauty standards (I am suuuuuch a good person for that phrasing) - then my brain might have gone:

Too good-looking to get involved in the chat are you?
Waiting for more attractive people to talk to?
Oh I see - we're all too butters for you?!
Why don't you stay on your phone, and chat to your fit mates and look stupid whilst we all have a laugh and you make zero new pals.
Because I've got news for you: we have personality. Ever heard of it?!
Doubt it - as you're too busy gliding through life thanks to your immense beauty which I obviously fucking wish I had.
Well, I'm not going to make any fucking effort with you as you clearly can't be arsed for us and your mere presence reminds me of the total lack of interest I had from people when I was younger, so you - along with all the other wannabe models in the world who didn't blink my way - can go fuck yourself.

Additionally, you have waived your right to a say in this neighbourly get-together, and I hope the skateboarders congregate exclusively outside your home and Rodney Mullen1 your driveway to shreds.

Now, picture the same scene

But…

…instead of a movie star lookalike, the person is someone you’d picture during sex to delay climaxing. Ali G's example was Mo Mowlam, but she’s passed away so it feels disrespectful to reference her (again, suuuuch a good person).

I’d probably think:

Aw, they’re a bit shy.
Who are you, kind, mysterious stranger?
Allow me to extend an olive branch of neighbourly friendship.
Your story doth intrigue me. Tell me - from whence do you hail?
Do you require sustenance? Here - you may drink from my teat.

So yeah. Stark (and quite odd) contrast there. One is a hate-spewing incel you'd want on every watch list, the other is a poorly written Dickensian side character.

An apology

My slight suspicion is that baggage from my childhood was causing me to act up, and I need to be less judgmental.

So to all the shy fitties out there:

I’m sorry for my bitter energy. I’m actively working on my personal growth and unlearning toxic behaviours. Going forward, I promise to treat you like the rest of us revolting losers, with empathy and kindness.