#52. Cremation of Care

‘I got you a gift.’

We lay stretched in the December light, my wife and I. The sky was a crisp blue above the cul-de-sac outside, waiting and still.

Jasmine squealed with excitement. She knew I’d put a thousand pounds into an ISA for Sonny, my new year’s gift to him. I’d been searching online for rituals to close out 2023, mish-mashing a chimera of cultural rites from around the world. In China they clean their house from top to bottom and give each other cash. Cash seemed easier.

‘Wait here,’ I said.

When I came back with two clementines, her face sagged a little.

‘It’s a tradition in China,’ I offered. ‘They are Waitrose clementines?’

She made the best of it. ‘Oh thank you! I love oranges! Oh my god – these are the best kind as well, they’re so sweet.’

I already had one thing to be grateful for that year – my wife, always kind and patient, always supportive, even when I’m ditching her with our infant son to go to a cuddle workshop or a life drawing class, and even though she did give me so much grief about wanting to put speed dating on my list of new experiences.

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I cooked us a celebratory dinner – roast lamb in lemon and thyme, rosemary potatoes and homemade gravy – and settled in for the magical evening. I dimmed the lights, lit a candle (that special brand of candle, you know the one, it starts with D I think), and enchanted the speakers to play the do-do-do, do-do-do of meditative spa music over tinkling water.

1. Suckitude

Pen and paper in hand, we each wrote down everything that sucked about the year, all our fears and grievances. I wrote down my anger at what’s happening in the world, my vices, my failures and frustrations at work. For Jasmine, it was Ramesh (the landlord, not the chicken). After a little cajoling, she forgave him, out loud, and felt lighter for it. We shared our disappointments and our anxieties with each other, listening and supporting. Curled up on the sofa there in the flickering glow of the candle, we connected in a way we hadn’t for a long time.

We were shivering next in the garden, midnight approaching, for the cremation of care, a ritual I pinched from Illuminati hangout Bohemian Grove. We weren’t naked and we didn’t burn an effigy in front of a giant owl – a simple click of the lighter and we watched our list of worries disintegrate into ash in the black night sky.

2. Gratitude

Back on the sofa, we penned everything we were grateful for. I was grateful for all I’d experienced this year – for the slaughtered chicken, the life drawing model, even the Satanists at the sex nightclub (not the Marxist-Leninists though) – and I was grateful for Jasmine, my ever-doting wife, and her support with this totally mental project. I was grateful for our beautiful son, perfect in every way and beyond my wildest hopes, and for the comfortable life we all enjoyed together.

And Jasmine was grateful for some stuff too, I guess.

We talked for so long we had to take a break at midnight to welcome the new year. We tuned into to BBC dross just in time to miss Nish Kumar (a new year’s miracle), had a chuckle playing woke bingo over the London fireworks (NHS, gay marriage, Windrush), and toasted a toast with a glass of fizzing nosecco, sweet and dry. It was a time for celebration. We danced around the room to Rick Astley’s NYE performance, some West Side Story clicking and leaping, and kissed, a deep, tender kiss, true and warm.

3. Intentitude

Finally, we put pen to paper one last time – our intentions for the year. I wanted to be more energetic, active and funny. We shared our hopes and dreams, offering encouragement and support.

We captured our intentions into one, simple phrase, and then transformed this into a sigil. Focusing on the sigil, we meditated for ten minutes, allowing it to sink deep inside our minds.

Shivering in the garden, wrapped like secret Santas under scarfs, parkas, and jumpers, we scribbled our sigils onto a Chinese lantern, and spent thirty minutes figuring out how in the name of Christ a Chinese lantern works.

Wax paper lit, we held our breaths. It slowly lifted off the wet earth and into the void of the December night. Holding each other in our parkas, we watched it float away, this, our orange star, flickering up, up, up into the moonlit sky.

Well, that’s the end of the year, but FEAR NOT. I still have fifteen adventures I didn’t get round to posting. Rage Room. Poetry slam. BDSM sex nightclub! In the face of underwhelming demand, I will continue to post them into next year - and then, who knows?

Happy new year etc.

#35. Just Stop Oil

He looked like a cyberpunk bouncer, all five foot six, standing outside the graveyard - bright orange vest, mirrored sunglasses, and sickly green mullet.

He inspected my Eventbrite ticket – a two- hour workshop with Just Stop Oil – and stepped aside. I’d dressed down partly to fit in and partly because I’d just got off a long flight, belching noxious fumes across Europe like some kind of big, flying Frenchman.

I climbed up the long pathway to the church and stepped inside the hall, hushed whispers echoing off the linoleum floor. Bodies were arranged in a circle in the centre. I sidled to an empty chair and sat quietly. The man next to me, early forties, business casual and rosy cheeks, quizzed me on my credentials.

‘Got to be wary of people who’ve come to troll,’ he conspired, eyeing me up and down. I chuckled.

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Clap clap, and the hushes fell silent, faces turning towards the point of noise – horn-rimmed glasses perched upon an entirely bald head and upturned nose that made her look like Nosferatu. She wore a canary t-shirt twittering Quakers for Justice – and here in this church hall, proselytising about the hellfire to come as penance for our consumerist greed, she was quaking indeed.

She explained that she didn’t want to be there, planning to break the law. She was a head girl, she said, and the other women laughed in agreement. I thought about the head girls I knew at school, priggish and officious, humourlessly enforcing the rules on everyone else.

Sentiments rippled around the circle, as each attendee introduced themselves in turn.

‘I’m just looking for hope,’ sighed one woman, middle-aged and middle-classed, with mid-range glasses and Midazolam eyes. Most of them were like this. The only stand-out was Harrie, a lanky man in his sixties, wearing cat ears and a tail.

The group turned to me. Well, of course I do care about the planet. I mean, does anyone want the world to end? I’m just not sure it is. I didn’t say any of that, and instead I explained I’d seen all the press about Just Stop Oil and wanted to hear what they had to say for themselves. I think they read between the lines.

Cyberpunk Bouncer pulled out his laptop and rested it upon his neon patchwork trousers, legs trembling. His clownish attire screamed arrested development. He lamented that he was simply a nursery teacher, he never expected to be involved in an activist group like this.

He started rambling from his laptop, throwing out stat after stat, tears welling in his eyes as he painted images of the apocalypse – ‘tarmac melting’, ‘forests burning’ – without context or detail, and parroted temperatures as arbitrary and intangible as the ‘R number’. His biggest fear, he said, teary-eyed and shaky-legged, was the hysteria that climate change would cause.

‘NO!’

A gargantuan man with a bomber jacket and freshly shaved head lunged up from the comically small chair wedged beneath him, sending it screeching backwards.

‘This is bonkers! You’re all bonkers. Absolute nutters, the lot of ya!’

The group was flustered. They fussed and cooed, urging him to leave. This wasn’t a place for him, they said.

‘It’s not bonkers, it’s the IPC! It’s science! You’re living in a fantasy,’ screamed the man dressed as a cat.

‘Nutters!’ The bald man lurched towards a door and stormed through, slamming it behind him.

‘That’s the wrong door,’ offered Harrie. ‘That’s storage. The exit’s that way’, and after a few seconds the bald man shuffled out, eyes down.

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Cyberpunk Bouncer brought us to quiet. ‘We’ll have no debate about it,’ he admonished. ‘This is not the place for climate sceptics or climate deniers, so if that’s your game,’ looking round, eyes narrowed, ‘you better leave now.’

It was sad: one side yells ‘nutter’, one side ‘denier’, and neither can talk to the other.

He rained more brimstone onto the crowd, wearing us down and revving us up with fear and despair, melting us into emotional soup. Now it was over to his colleague, a shrewish, deafish woman, to give us form, driving our passions through actionable tips for protest and disruption.

Now we’re talking, I thought. I’m not really into all the climate stuff, personally, but messing with the government? The enemy of my enemy is my friend. I sat forward and raised my hand.

‘What about a tax strike?’ I suggested (I’d been reading Thoreau). ‘I mean, if you want to get the government’s attention as you say, that must surely be the best way to do it? It wouldn’t upset the public either.’

After some murmuring, they weren’t feeling it. ‘I just want to march,’ one woman enthused, and the others’ eyes lit up. I realised there was something psychologically gratifying to them about annoying the public, about lying in traffic and receiving vitriol. It fulfilled some sort of self-hatred, perhaps – or, here in this church hall, I wondered whether it was the need for self-sacrifice so lacking in an increasingly Godless and childfree society.

I gave them another nudge. ‘I mean, we all know voting makes no difference, right?’

‘That’s the problem with democracy!’ chuffed my neighbour, sparkling eyes set in an affable face. ‘China lifted billions out of poverty with an iron rod. OK, so a few people got crushed along the way. That’s why we need a figurehead to bring us together, someone with oomph, with charisma.’

A woman, serious: ‘Well, we’ve got Chris Packham.’

Like Chris Packham, they seemed like well-meaning people. Yes, there were a lot of Birkenstocks in the room – there was an element of the fringe, for sure – but there were also a lot of normal people. They were just terrified. The fact that they’re only stopping traffic and throwing paint, I thought, was a testament to how nice they are.

Yes, they were nice enough. But you know who else was ‘nice enough’? The you-know-whos; the ordinary, decent people of you-know-where in you-know-when, driven mad by hysteria, who herded their neighbours into you-know-whats with all the ordinariness of packing groceries.

No, something didn’t quite sit right with me. All evening, the speakers had promoted non-violent action. Non-violent this, non-violent that, over and over again. Why? Everything one does is non-violent, it’s just assumed. When my wife announces she’s going to feed the ducks, I don’t check, ‘Non-violently I hope?’

There is a shadow lurking behind that word, non-violent, something looming at the back of the mind, something that must be insisted against. They might as well be saying, ‘non-violent… for now’. If they have no qualms putting themselves in harm’s way – lying in traffic and goading people – then what’s to stop them from putting other people, my family, in harm’s way too? At what point does the end not justify the means for them?

Evil, as Hannah Arendt put it, is banal.

As I was getting up to leave, an elderly woman pottered over and offered me a cucumber she’d grown in her allotment. It was a lot like the people there: green, earnest, and slightly misshapen.

I left it behind.

#46. Shop at Lidl for a Week

My son doesn’t eat peanut butter. He eats cashew butter. And organic blueberries and avocado on sourdough and Waitrose ‘Essential’ brioche.

What a twerp. I think it’s high-time we brought his diet down to earth a bit, don’t you? And anyway, have you seen grocery prices these days?

And with that, we in the Fagan household (mostly me) committed enthusiastically (mostly me) to spending one whole week doing our food shopping at Lidl and/or Aldi.

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I came along for the inaugural shop. Standing outside Lidl, reusable Waitrose bags in hand, we bumped into our first setback - £1 for the trolleys. I know times are tough but are people really stealing trolleys from Lidl? For what? I went to Cash Converters a lot in my youth but I never saw a crackhead trying to fob off a trolley. Jasmine procured some change and we ventured in.

There was rubbish scattered on the floor beneath my feet, while above, bright, colourful signs loomed over me, giving vibrancy to the term ‘cheap and cheerful’. My darling wife informed me Lidl is famous for its bakery so I should get something. I approached the beige treats and gingerly fished off a crumpled brown paper bag stuck to the top of a Belgian bun and wrapped it up.

Nearby, I saw a brownie with a bite taken out of it.

Next, the chilled produce. I was surprised to see that even Lidl sells poke bowls these days. I was also surprised to see they stocked something called a Sharon fruit, which I had never heard of. Recalling an ex-girlfriend called Sharon, I wondered if the fruit were bitter or tart.

‘Wow, Patrick!’ Jasmine gasped. ‘A pack of Portobello mushrooms is 60p!’

Yes, it was cheap, but they had a Lidl Deluxe range (basically a Tesco normal), copycat brands like knock-off seashell chocolates with Gross on the box, and more expensive options for the connoisseur. But, to Jasmine’s dismay, they did not have the ‘Tiffany blue’ eggshell eggs she likes to buy from Waitrose.

‘Well, eggs is eggs’, I told her. She didn’t laugh.

Next – the famous ‘middle of Lidl’, the aisle centres where you can buy a dog’s Christmas stocking or a 4.5kg scented candle, evaporating any meagre savings you might have made by shopping at Lidl. We bought a whole bunch of crap because it was cheap. A Maisy advent calendar? Just £9.99?

In the end, we spent £81.15.

Shopping successfully procured, we loaded up the car, got nice and warm, and headed to Waitrose. The challenge didn’t start until the morning, after all – time for a nice dinner first.

That evening, I tried the Belgian bun. It was stale and sickly sweet. I chucked it in the bin and enjoyed a Waitrose mince pie, ‘rich and buttery buerre noisette pastry, filled with rich mincemeat made with apricots, glacé Amarena cherries, and almonds, laced with Cognac’.

The next day, the moment of truth. Jasmine made a curry. The chicken was a little gristly and less flavourful, but the sauce was very nice (we did shell out the extra 20p for Lidl Deluxe). The poppadums were perfectly flat and smooth and tasted of nothing but the seed oils they were fried in. All in all, it was basically fine. For afters, I sampled a marzipan chocolate. It tasted like cigarettes.

I wasn’t there for the other shops (my wife and I have a deal – I make the money and she spends it) but assume they all went as per the above. I was there for the other meals, and can confirm the same.

After five days, we called it, and went to Tesco as a compromise. Close enough.

And the result? Normally we spend about £150-£200 a week on groceries. This week, we spent £130.14. So - was it worth it?

No.

#45. Laughter Yoga

There was little joy to be found in Little Ilford Park.

A great electricity pylon strained under the metal November sky. The air was heavy with the sickly smell of Autumnal decay and the rush of a nearby motorway. Under the pylon, kids were playing cricket next to a pavilion furnished with tents and soiled mattresses.

It was an odd setting for laughter yoga – a modern fad where people get together in a group and make themselves laugh out loud. As I half-jogged around the park, I realised the session would be out in public. I felt relieved when I couldn’t find anyone. If they were here, surely, I would have heard them. Maybe I’d missed it – I’d arrived twenty minutes late after all (the North Circular traffic was no laughing matter) – or maybe it had just been cancelled. A different session in Hemel Hempstead had been called off the week before. Not much demand for laughter in modern Britain.

As I headed back to the car, I thought about Ilford and the other new activities I could do here instead. Get stabbed in the guts, for instance.

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‘Patrick? Patrick? Are you Patrick?’ came a voice, quiet at first. I spun to see a stout woman beckoning from a distance. Oh jeez.

We met, and she beamed, introducing herself as Sharon. A quick Google tells me the name means ‘fertile plain’ (she was one out of two). She had a large, pierced nose, and sad, brown eyes. About her neck was a scarf in Palestinian colours, and her phone read ‘Boycott Israel’ in a faded sticker.

‘It’s just the two of us, is it?’

It was. She had waited for me, and me alone, for twenty minutes of her own time, on a Sunday. I’d paid £6. She told me to find a bench.

‘Go to the other one,’ she called, ‘if that one’s covered in tinnies.’

We sat on the cold bench – me, her, and a duffel bag full of colourful balls and scarfs – hunched for comfort under tin clouds. Caw, caw, warned a pair of crows. A hooded man loitered nearby.

She assured me she was legit: she had insurance, a qualification, and a DBS check. Then, she encouraged me to get into teaching it myself. ‘Anyone can do it,’ she said.

From her duffel bag she withdrew a rainbow ball: my warm-up was to bounce it up and down the path.

‘Off you go,’ she cheered. ‘Oh, but don’t bounce it there, there’s broken glass. Health and safety comes first.’

Next, she handed me a small footbag, which I was to launch into the air, clapping five times before catching it. Then six, seven, eight, nine and finally ten claps. With another two balls, she told me to juggle, all the while motivating me with Wii Fit stock phrases and no eye contact.

‘Yes. That’s it. One more. Go on. Yes sir, good sir, very good sir.’

We did some stretches, each climaxing in a ha-ha-ha or a hee-hee-hee. We stretched our left hand from our right hand, to elbow, to shoulder, and away (hee-hee-hee!). I struggled with this one, and Sharon’s analogy was beyond my frame of reference: ‘Imagine you’re shopping for fabric.’

We bounced a ball to one another on the floor; then, we punched it between us, laughing with each wallop.

‘Punch it,’ she gasped, ‘Smash it like you’re angry at someone from work. You can’t say it to their face, even if you want to. You hate their guts. You can’t say it to their face, not after last time, but you can work out your aggression here.’

We played with those little Velcro hands you get on holiday, forcing a ha-ha-ha­ with each pitch and catch. A woman in a formal black jacket jogged out of our way, laughing as she went. Our positivity was contagious. Even the three Slavs drinking vodka on a park bench smiled when Sharon invited them to join, as we paraded past twirling hula hoops. She brought brightness to somewhere that needed it.

We passed them and she leaned in, conspiratorially, ‘I don’t think they’ll come. They’re too busy with their drinks.’

Back at the bench, we did some final stretching and laughing. Sharon punctuated each laugh with a shout.

‘Hee-hee-hee. There’s a cost-of-living crisis! Ha-ha-ha. We’re all suffering financially! Ho-ho-ho. Our politicians are doing nothing!’

And I couldn’t help but laugh.

To end, we sat with our eyes closed as Sharon played a YouTube video from her phone: A Guided Meditation for Letting Go of Anger.

‘Do you know if you’ll come next week,’ she ventured afterwards, as I was thanking her and saying goodbye. ‘Or going to think about it? Going to think about it. OK. Bring your friends.’

It was a strange experience. It had been like taking a whoopee cushion to a funeral, or performing French mime in a prison canteen, I chuckled to myself – as I got into the car, locked the doors, and trundled far, far away from Little Ilford Park.

#44. Communist Meet-Up

What’s up with communists? They seem so meek and mild with their anoraks and RESIST lapel pins, and yet, they’ve killed hundreds of millions of people over the years. Mao and Stalin each killed way more than Hitler, and they didn’t even have the cool uniforms and stuff. Why do they get such a free pass?

It was time to investigate. It was time to attend a meeting of the Marxist-Leninist Communist Party of Britain – which, to be fair, was free to enter. (You’re probably expecting some kind of joke about communists here; well make one up yourself. You’re not entitled to my labour, bourgeoisie pig.)

I made my way to the Bertrand Russel room at a venue in London’s Red Lion Square. A Billy Bragg playlist got me in the mood as I sat on public transport in my unbranded jeans and jumper, trying to fit in.

In reality, as I entered and sheepishly found the last seat at the back of the room, I found myself surprised by the people there. I’d been expecting angry youths and at least one smouldering comrade in a beret pushing for a banana uprising; what I got was about a dozen unremarkable people in the coveted M&S and Barbour marketing demographic of ABC1 55+.

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The speaker was a Cambridge man in his sixties with a tailored suit, Apple Watch, and public-school tie. Inquisitive blue eyes darted around from beneath a sweep of white hair. With a stack of prepared notes, he was droning on and on about nuclear power. It was the theme of the evening.

By which I mean, the theme was droning on and on. They babbled all night about not very much at all. They really loved to recite facts and data and statistics. The speaker prattled about the spherical tokamak (‘I don’t need to tell you what that is’), about the history of horsepower, about megawatts, gigawatts and yottawatts, and the number of football stadia that could be powered by each, churning out useless fact after useless fact like a tour bus operator.

Even the name of the group – the Marxist-Leninist Communist Party of Britain – was wordy and dialectical.

The discussion was about nuclear energy, but they probably could have powered the country just by harnessing all of their useless hot air. They talked a lot but put forward no actual solutions. What could they do, anyway – start their own reactor? The entire debate was pointless. It was like the BBC’s Have Your Say comment section but in real life. It was just a chance for a bunch of impotent people (both kinds) to get together, criticise the status quo and flap their beaks about what they’d do if they held positions of power. Which they didn’t.

Also - they called themselves communists but they gave no consideration to community. There was no connection to real people, only a dehumanised and desolate discussion of abstract ideas; all mind and no heart. During the so-called question and answer session, there was no interactive conversation, just multiple individual monologues in a row. One man, large with a patchy beard and greasy hair, ranted for at least ten minutes straight, his eyes rooting upwards to access thoughts, not once making eye contact with any other member of the group.

This was a boardroom of what Hannah Arendt lamented the ‘scientifically minded brain trusters’. I thought of the bulbous-headed geeks of SAGE (at least one actual Communist); I could now envision their meetings droning on about ‘the R number’ and ‘the rule of six’, oblivious to the real human impact of their abstract ideas.

No wonder, I thought, that communists don’t believe in God. After ninety minutes of this, I was beginning to wonder myself.

There were some things I agreed with. Their magazine had the most measured take on Gaza: ‘It is not anti-Semitic to oppose the obliteration of Gaza, it is not anti-Palestinian to oppose Hamas’ terrorist actions’. You know the political situation is bad when the Marxist-Leninists seem reasonable.

A very elderly man in a white golf visor snored gently in the corner, his lower lip hanging loose and trembling with every outbreath. My own mind started to wander. I was relieved when the meeting drew to a close, a hunchback hobbling round with a collection box. I didn’t have any change – only a £20 note, which I relinquished with a wince. I escaped and went for an American hamburger and a milkshake just to spite them.

In the end, this was probably the most boring thing I’d done all year. A donor kebab was more scintillating. And, so, this write-up is lower quality than even a socialist student’s economics essay.

If you don’t like it, speak to my union.

#36. Past Life Regression

‘What if you’re Hitler?’

‘Excuse me?’ I turned from the television – Hercule Poirot, Death on the Nile - to face my wife, her eyes bright with enthusiasm.

‘Hitler! What if you’re Hitler?’ she asked. ‘At your past life thingy.’

‘Can you not say that? What if you put it in my head?’

‘Ok… You were probably a count.’

‘Not Dracula?’

‘No, no. Not Dracula… Chocula, maybe.’

I turned back to Kenneth Brannagh’s twitching moustache and mulled it over – what would the hypnotherapy uncover? Was I someone important in a past life? Or, perhaps, just perhaps, it’s all just a bunch of hippy woo-woo nonsense?

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The next day, I arrived in leafy suburban Kingston (not Jamaica) 20 minutes late, wishing I could regress to one hour ago so I could leave 20 minutes earlier. It was one of those clinics that was actually just a person’s house – like where you go for acupuncture or reflexology or a Brazilian butt lift.

First up, a question-and-answer thingy. My quote-unquote therapist – soft-spoken and doe-eyed, wiry hair stretching for the ceiling – asked me some quite probing questions about some quite personal issues. It turned out I’m searching for meaning in life and social connection. Who knew!

She asked if I wanted to meet my spirit guides or masters. ‘Guides, please’, I said, not wanting to be my subconscious’ bitch. Then, I lay on a bed, a clinical one with paper tissue on it, like you might find in a massage therapists or somewhere you get a Brazilian butt lift, and she told me to close my eyes and imagine a tiny hoover sucking all the air out from under my eyelids, sealing them shut. Tap, tap, tap went her fingers, on various pressure points around my body. Tapping, she told me, removes conscious thought so my emotions can take over. With each tap, she asked how I was feeling.

‘I’m anxious,’ I said. ‘I’m anxious I might reveal something embarrassing.’

I felt less anxious for saying it.

She had me locate the feeling in my body, as a kind of light, and give it a colour. Yellow. Each of the twenty times she asked me to visualise a light in my body, it was yellow. What other colour would light be, I rationalised. My emotions hadn’t yet taken over.

Drifting into my mind, under her guidance, I went into a garden, visualised a flower. What colour is it? Pink. How does it make you feel? Reassured. She told me to hold the feeling in until I couldn’t take it anymore. How could I possibly feel too reassured, I wondered, and nodded politely.

Next, a childhood memory - a garden. My family were there, with me, as a child. They were chatting and playing and running around, but not with me. Child-me was happy to be around them, but felt left out, unloved. He said that he’s ok, but he’s not. He needs a hug, but he doesn’t get it. I, a grown-up, approach my family and speak to them. I express child-me’s needs for connection and reassurance; I release my hurt. They, in return, tell me what they need from me: to show up and try, to stop being standoffish.

Childhood trauma cured for good, I left the garden and visualised a big tree, the tree of life. There was a door, one of many, magnetically pulling me towards it. Each time I went through a door, I lived through a significant moment from one of my many past lives.

I found myself in a meadow, dark green, Ireland. I was there with my wife. Peaceful. Shift to a courtyard now, with other soldiers – a military drill. A test. I have to go and fight but I don’t want to. I’m feeling coerced by society at large. There’s anger, resentment. Shift to a school playground, where I’m fighting with a friend. I’m proud to stand up for myself, but I don’t want to hurt him. There’s a crowd; I’m embarrassed they might see my weakness. Now I’m in a classroom, giving a presentation. No one applauded; I didn’t change the world. I’m deeply disappointed. A hospital next – I’ve just been born. I’m with my mum. Feeling happy, at peace.

Yet again I’m tumbling through darkness into another life. But it feels weightier this time, like I was someone important. I’m in a playing field, alone, a child. I’m kicking a red ball – bounce, bounce. Then I’m in my early twenties, wearing brown moccasins1 and a trench coat, sitting on the porch of a house, smoking a pipe. I’m not British; it’s mainland Europe, some time ago. Now my feet are cold and wet – I’m in the trenches, with my friends, dirty and haggard. It’s a war. I light a pipe again, and feel my moustache brush against it.

Oh. Oh no. Mainland Europe. Some time ago. A moustache. Surely not? Please, lord no. Then it hits me – I know who I am.

Poirot. I’m Hercule Poirot.

Bam! I’ve been hit by a car. Finitely crushed under its old-timey wheels. Blackness. Cold. Terror. My lives are over.

Thank God – my stomach was beginning to rumble and I’d lost all feeling in my buttocks. I was getting a bit tired of having to think up new scenarios. I’d already seen three green meadows and fought in WWI twice.

And as for my spirit guides? Well, keep working hard, they told me, listen to your instincts, and don’t be put off by challenges. Just keep going - and have faith. Work for something meaningful. Be a present and caring father. Et cetera, et cetera.

It was nice advice. And obviously my past lives were just scenes from my own life, and my subconscious fears and fantasies, dressed up in period clothing. It told me things I already knew deep down, but it brought them to the surface, to be examined in the light. It was emotionally tense. I came out drained, eyes stinging. Through the catharsis, I did feel more at peace. I had a better understanding of myself – that I use anger and resentment as defence mechanisms, that really I’m craving love and connection, as we all are.

And that, most importantly, I was never Hitler.

#32. Bosnia

‘Don’t start a war.’

My colleague’s parting words rang through my head.

Sometimes I just can’t help myself. The call to adventure’s not a whisper for me; it’s an ever-present hurricane, a tinnitus swelling in my chest and pushing me further and further into the darkest corners of the world, desperate for something, anything, in the void beyond to quieten the void within.

I was trekking via Jeep Renegade with my wife from Split, Croatia, a modern tourist destination with big, clean roads fenced in by big, clean road signs, glimmering green under the Dalmatian sun. We pushed past the city limits and snaked up an eerie mountainside towards the Bosnian border. Soon, ours was the only car on the road. It stayed that way for miles, empty horizon stretching both behind and ahead as we rolled up to the sleepy border crossing, where moustachioed men eyed us suspiciously as they flipped through our passports and sanctified our crossing the threshold into the dark woods beyond.

Don’t start a war.

It was deserted on the other side. Our tiny road threaded across the mountainside into the distance. After a few minutes, we had to slow – there were wild horses on the road.

Other than that, no one. No cars at all; not much of anything. Driving for four hours across the entire country, we didn’t see a single McDonald’s, nor a Nando’s – not even a Little Chef. Passing a sporadic petrol station, the odds were even it would be shut down. (Yet, even so, meandering around the steep, winding roads of the Bosnian foothills, at one point we were subject to one global constant – a BMW driving up our arse.)

The drive was stunning.

One long, flat road stretching through golden fields covered our windshield in so many bugs, we couldn’t see through it. It carved through rugged rocks of mountain, clumps of dark green trees sprouting from the sides like broccoli; the occasional building, half-finished, concrete guts spilling into the landscape, a tree bursting through its crumbling roof.

We rolled through a little outpost, all log cabins and flimsy facades like an old west frontier town. Under a faded motel sign, several men lounged on crates drinking from cans. Two ominous figures clad in black shambled alongside the road brandishing what appeared to be a minesweeper (in fact, two elderly Orthodox women with a cane).

The road thundered on through towering trees – so many trees - and then massive slate cliffs, smooth like a giant pebble, the river running alongside us flat and wide like molten silver. Among the steep winding hills, an occasional smudge of rubber smeared over the bend of a cliff edge (hopefully, a BMW). Once, a tractor carrying bales of grass in front of us, the grey head of a dog poking through the green – not a dog, we saw as we passed, but an elderly woman laid supine.

Finally, we arrived at Banja Luka – a charming city of pastel buildings and pale faces - and settled into our Airbnb, a modern apartment with a breakfast bar and wide windows opening on to the verdant hills peppered with red roofs beyond.

Dusk threw its purple cloak over the city, and we fell onto its streets in a trance, making our way to dinner and using the brutalist and futurist monuments as breadcrumbs to find our way home. Banja Luka was an anachronism, a vision from the 1970s of what the future would look like.

Nowhere was open. The one restaurant we’d found glittered at the top of a high-rise, all windows below it deathly black. We pushed through the ground floor door into the darkness, a ghost town of shuttered offices and shops. Another pair of diners walked ahead, ball gown and tux. My wife - jeans and trainers - started to bicker about whose fault it was that she was underdressed (hers). The anomie didn’t last long: ‘Look, look!’ she screamed, pointing at an ice-cream display. There was a brand called Slag.

We ascended past every defunct floor in a creaky old elevator, emerging into the twilight of a restaurant creaking with old furniture and bric-a-brac. Our waiter, six foot seven with a thick brow and gold-buttoned red suit, lurched towards us brandishing menus and boasting their sous-vide technology. From our antique wooden table, looking between the purple satin curtains, we could see a graveyard of desolate concrete. Massive, fluorescent spotlights under a flurry of pinpricks of bugs lit up a city stadium, mounds of earth half-moved by a truck. Golden lights twinkled in the hills beyond the shadows.

The chicken parmigiana with homemade gnocchi was delicious.

We walked home, round the back of a stadium, through deserted streets where scattered halogen lamps discarded light over vintage graffiti, walled in on all sides by concrete.

Jasmine gripped my hand tight. ‘What’s that?!’ she gasped, shrinking back from movement in the shadows. It was a frog.

‘Don’t be silly, Jasmine.’

In the corner of my eye, a white van crept slowly behind us. I quickened my step.

I felt danger in the shadows in Banja Luka. The city felt suspended in time and place, like it had been stuck in a snow globe by an old gypsy’s curse – a land of mountains and meandering rivers, of mischief and monsters hiding under the surface. Was it just my imagination? The people were lovely - but there was the sense of something, some thing, squatting just out of sight, in the in-between, the twilight between light and dark.

With dawn came resolution. We drove home via winding, unmarked roads big enough for one car to Krupa Na Vrbasu, a fairy-tale village next to a babbling brook spilling over lichen-covered rocks into thundering waterfalls, all sapphire and turquoise and silver and brown, under the trees’ deep and light greens. We squeezed through a crevice in the rock, and past local maidens selling homemade cake and heating coffee on a gas burner, old log and stone cabins milling flour, and twinkling pools dancing with fish. Here, in the enchanting morning sun, looking over the hills and valleys below, mysteries twinkling under the glimmering water, we were totally at peace.

In the end, we didn’t start a war. Not even a little one. Maybe the war had been inside us all along? All we found was a frog, some wild horses, and an ice cream called Slag.

In the morning light, it was almost possible to believe we'd imagined it all.

#31. Sex Addicts Anonymous

A rule to live by in 2025: One must stop gooning to omorashi sploshing hentai before it gets weird.

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#29. Help the Homeless

‘I’m nervous. I don’t want to have to make small talk. What do I have in common with a homeless person?’

‘You used to be homeless’, she reminded me.

‘But now. What do I have in common with them now?’

It was a fractious journey, my wife and me, driving into the big city so I could help the homeless. It hadn’t been easy to arrange – in fact it was quite difficult. Every charity had an application process and demanded big commitments. I’d wanted to help the needy, but not that much. Luckily, Refuge International – you might see them handing out sandwiches on the Strand – had accepted me, and I was annoyed to be running late. I’d got held up at home (not that I expected them to know anything about that).

I threw the car into a space and legged it, leaving Jasmine to struggle alone with baby and pram. ‘Got to dash, help the homeless’, I blurted.

‘You’re so selfish’, came the reply.

I made it just in time; they threw me right in at the deep end. They gave me some rubber gloves and stood me at a foldaway table, the only thing separating me from another life entirely, behind a buffet of dishes hot and cold. It was good food, homemade. There was even a dessert stall - with mini marshmallows! Jammy bastards.

It was a kind of assembly line – the chap next to me, spooning out pilau rice, me handing out sandwiches and fruit. Those queuing would point at the food they wanted, and I would pick it up and move it 8cm into their hand. It felt like a job that could be lost to AI. Or, a pair of tongs.

They were nice; dignified. Just normal people, like you or me, from diverse backgrounds.

One, with a heavy Scottish accent, joked, ‘Bananas? Can’t too many or I’ll turn into a moonkeh!’

Another, a young girl who, with respect, looked quite normal, was embarrassed to be there. ‘Is it free? I just lost my wallet. I’ve been to the police station about it. Do you know where I can get the 364? I don’t know because I lost my wallet. It’s free, right?’

Some were surprisingly picky. Two different people said no to sandwiches because they were watching their weight. Others, less so; one, with two chins and a Saddam moustache, helped himself to everything and came round twice.

A tall, older gentleman, quintessentially English in a tweed suit and patchy beard, approached me with wide eyes and an eager smile. ‘It’s like a jumble sale! Remember jumble sales? Everything was all jumbled. At the church. The jumble sale?’

Some people needed the human contact more than the food. (Well maybe not more than the food.)

When the queue had died down, we packed up the remaining snacks and walked around looking for homeless people – not an easy task to work out who is dishevelled and emaciated by choice versus circumstance in Soho. We stopped to give food and conversation to rough sleepers, some of whom looked painfully thin; people I would normally never even notice, just part of the street.

It’s hard to explain, but it felt great to be giving something. I wanted to do it again.

Every time I’ve see a homeless person outside a Tesco, or a Greggs, or a Wenzels (but not a Waitrose), I’ve offered to buy them something to eat. A habit that feels so good, my wife likened it to crack.

I really urge you to try it. Donating, that is (not crack).

If you had to be homeless, which city would you like to be homeless in?

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#28. Write to a Serial Killer

I was sad when the Unabomber died. I thought he was alright, murdering aside, and I’d always intended to write to him at the Florida Supermax where he was interred.

But alas, he corked it in 2023 - so if I was going to send a letter to a deranged psychopath in prison (and I was), I’d have to settle for the Crossbow Cannibal instead.

The Crossbow Cannibal (Stephen Griffiths) sadly killed three sex workers in Bradford between 2009 and 2010. You can probably guess how he killed them and what he did afterwards (crossbow, cannibal).

A horrible person, for sure, but also probably the most interesting British serial killer I could find on Wikipedia. Not that I’d really needed to look – he’d always stuck in my mind. A serial killer documentary had highlighted eerily similar interests to mine – WWII, heavy metal, serial killers. What was it about our circumstances that had made him into a murdering nutcase, and me into simply a regular nutcase? I had to find out; I put pen to paper.

Jasmine, my wife and the mother of my one-year-old son, was apoplectic when I read her the letter. I reassured her that Griffiths would never be getting out of prison, that he’d attempted suicide a few times anyway, and that, if he did ever escape, we could just run away onto a houseboat anyway. This did little to pacify her - nor anyone else actually.

‘This is the worst idea you have ever had,’ said my colleague, whose dad was a barrister and knew of some pretty nasty people in prison and what they could be like. ‘And that’s a very high bar.’

Taking their feedback on board, I toned down the letter slightly, removing a lot of the more sensitive questions and finding a PO box so I could communicate with Griffiths pseudonymously.

I intended to use my old landlord as a pen name, but a friend pointed out that, if I’d wanted Griffiths to empathise and reply, I should use a name more similar to his. Why not the same name, in fact? I wracked my brain for a Stephen I wouldn’t mind being crossbowed or indeed cannibalised, and settled on Stephen Mulhern, the TV husk who’s all television and no personality. There’s a darkness behind those plastic eyes. He looks like a blow-up doll brought to life. In all probability, I thought, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn Mulhern was a serial killer himself. (N.B. In my opinion - not libellous.)

‘Good,’ I murmured, signing his name to the letter. ‘Good. He deserves this.’

Dear Stephen,

How are you? I hope you’re well. I also hope you don’t mind me reaching out to you with this letter. We don’t know each other.

My name is Stephen Mulhern (not that one), I’m a 35-year-old man and a new father who works in marketing and lives in North London. I’m trying to broaden my horizons in life and do one new thing for every week of the year. So far, I have been bungee jumping, had a colonic, and killed and ate a chicken (no crossbows involved!).

One of my activities is to write to a prisoner and I thought immediately of you. I remember when your case was in the news that I felt I had a lot in common with you, including your love of history and true crime. I too own a crossbow, though I am not a cannibal. I wondered how paper-thin might be the veil separating your life from mine. Might I have trodden the same path as you given a light nudge this way or that?

Anyway, that’s all a bit dark and dreary, isn’t it! I thought I’d ask you a few questions to get to know each other better.

• How do you pass the time? Have you read any good books lately?

• What is your biggest hope for the future? And your number one regret in life?

• Why did you kill all those sex workers?

• Would you rather never be able to wear shoes again or never be able to take your shoes off, and why?

I look forward to hopefully hearing your answers.

Yours faithfully,

Stephen Mulhern (not that one)

I never heard back.

Although, come to think of it, I’ve not seen Mulhern on the tele for a while either.

So - who’s your favourite serial killer, and why?

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#27. 24 Hours Screen-Free

The day stretched before me, an infinite void.

I’d vowed to go a whole Saturday without using screens of any kind. I’d had enough of it, all of it - the tweets, the headlines, the serial killer podcasts. I needed a reset: twenty-four hours, no screens. Now the question insisted itself – just what am I going to do all day?

‘What are you going to do all day?’ asked my wife.

‘I have absolutely no idea.’

So we just lay there, me, my wife, my son, playing and talking, staring out the window at this perfect golden summer’s day. The wind whistled through corn husks in the farm outside. We made the bed, tidied up, did some reading.

Half an hour had passed.

When people say, ooh, there’s not enough hours in the day, they’re wrong. There are definitely enough hours in the day – too many, actually. I mean, without screens, time really dragged. But isn’t that a blessing, to have time move more slowly?

We ambled downstairs to the sun-drenched sofa and made our intentions for the day with a pen and paper. My wife jotted down go for lunch; me, write letter to serial killer. Our boy sat on the remote and the TV hummed to life. We scrambled to turn if off, turn it off, quickly.

While my wife hoovered and dusted ancient cobwebs from the ceiling, I built a playpen for our boy. I played with him a lot that day, sitting him on the sofa and shaking the cushion beneath. ‘Eeeeaaaarthquaaake’, I cried.

‘More!’ he squealed. ‘More eggcake!’

We strapped ourselves into the car and headed to Beaconsfield (satnav permitted) for a spot of lunch. But where to eat? Without the luxury of phones, we had to muddle through the old-fashioned way, using our eyes to look at restaurants and evaluate them. After a delicious poulet à la moutarde (Jasmine) and burger (me), we paid (pin pad permitted). We really bonded as a family.

Back at the house, the boy napped and so did I. It felt good to give my brain room to breathe. I’d never been so clear. Half-sleeping, I reminisced about a past holiday in Mexico, all mindfulness and vegan food, where the posh children laughed about the kids in the neighbouring resort. iPad kids, they’d called them, peeing in the pool. I wondered if there were iPad adults too. I thought about the people I know who are chronically online – distracted, reactive, emotional. Always hysterical about one thing or the other. I dreamed of the Mexican holiday. Laying on the white beach facing the crystal waters, birds gently cooing over the lapping waves, I looked around: everyone was staring at their phones.

Frantic rustling woke me from upstairs. It was coming from Sonny’s room. I clambered up and gingerly popped my head round the doorframe.

My wife had thrown the bedsheets asunder, staring at the mattress, millimetres from her face, a crazed look in her eye.

‘Bedbugs!’ she hissed.

Bedbugs? I stepped closer. There were no bedbugs. No spots of blood or microscopic faeces either. I tried to coax her away - to no avail. She was a woman possessed.

We all construct fantasies and distractions for ourselves. We buy the latest kitchen and paint its walls the trendiest colour, all Bakelite countertops and Bosch appliances, to vainly obscure the cockroaches and centipedes scurrying in the dark, dank crawlspaces behind.

Without the narcotic of technology - the stench of mortality, the decay of all things, the inevitable turning to dust of even those we hold most dear. The yellow-toothed rats in the recesses of our minds start to gnaw through.

Exhausted, I climbed to bed. What else was there to do? I was starting to jones myself.

Sunday, I awoke (to 23 emails) and spent the morning catching up on Twitter – on all the crucial breaking headlines I’d missed.

‘Disney guest gropes Gaston and is asked to leave.’

Ah, sweet relief.

Could you make it 24 hours without any screens at all?

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#26. Mothers’ Voice

Part One

It’s arrived.

I run downstairs to the ding-dong, but when I open the door there’s nobody there – just the parcel, proffered to the front step, and a breeze cutting through the stiff summer afternoon.

The package is huge, but when I pick it up it’s as light as air. It feels almost empty. I draw a line along the duct tape with scissors, revealing its polystyrene guts.

Something catches my eye. A flash of silver. It’s a USB stick, tiny and perfect, hidden amongst the white packing peanuts. I excavate it and marvel at its lightness in my hand. Somewhere on this artefact could be my mother’s voice.

She died when I was eleven. I don’t remember much about my life before that crisp morning, one Saturday in March. When I try, all I can grasp is a whirling void where a mother should be. In place of love, comfort, reassurance, simply one endless nothing. If only I can hear her voice, perhaps I could connect with her again; perhaps I could feel something in that space where warmth should be.

My dad had given me three TDK MC60 voicemail cassettes. Like relics from another life, they stirred memories of his office, the answering machine stacked next to a leather-bound Filofax stuffed full of names and addresses in spidery black ink; summer holidays spent playing Pokémon Blue on a chunky grey Gameboy. I’d sent the tapes to a media preservation company for digitisation. ‘Laugh and cry to see and hear old times and old faces brought to life,’ read the website.

One of the tapes is blank, it says. My heart drops: my chances have been cut from three to two.

And when I load up the USB stick, there’s only one audio file on there.

This has to be perfect. It’s sacred. Outside, tinny pop music wafts up from the neighbour’s stereo. Downstairs, Sonny is babbling happily. I sequester myself away in a room on the other side of the house. It’s Sonny’s bedroom, so the blinds are drawn, making it dark and cool. A painting of my mum’s – of my favourite childhood toy, Tigger – watches from the shelf. I place headphones in my ears, inhale deeply, and open the file.

I receive a blast of heavy static from the 20-year-old magnetic tape. I can make out voices, buried under the snow. It’s my father, hesitant.

‘Hi. If you leave a message, I’ll get back to you.’

If it’s just him, my mum is probably not on here. I keep listening.

An unknown male speaks. ‘Thanks for your help. I think it’s been very useful. I’ll raise it with John when I see him. Goodbye.’

More static. A beep. My dad again.

‘We need to find the SFP for it to connect into the IMN.’

‘Yeah that makes perfect sense,’ replies another man’s voice. He sounds posh, and my dad’s mirroring it. He’s probably a client. ‘You’ve got one of the kids sick? Patrick’s not well? It goes around doesn’t it. Particularly when you’re a one-parent family, you’ve got to be there.’

‘Tell me about it.’ My dad sounds sad, deflated. It’s obviously soon after she’s died. He changes the subject without a beat, and they continue discussing the SFP and the IMN.

The conversation is swept away by static. The doot-doots-doots of a mobile signal. A robotic female voice (‘THE TIME ANNOUNCEMENT, IS OFF.’). Static. Click. End.

She’s not there. She’s never been there. I’m trying to claw at a ghost, slipping through my fingers. This was a stupid exercise. I feel even emptier than when I started. At least then I had the hope of hearing her voice. She was so close. In the anticipation, I could almost hear her. Now, there’s nothing.

Well, I think, she’s definitely still dead.

And that’s that.

I wonder if I turn the volume up really loud, I’ll be able to hear her trace, taped over.

And the digitisation company only gave me information about two tapes, even though I sent them three. Maybe they missed one. Or maybe my dad has some more tapes somewhere.

Maybe. Maybe.

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Part Two

I was looking for a scarf when I found it, tucked away amongst the bric-a-brac of a wardrobe’s bottom shelf. Another cassette. The last one my dad had given me, separate to the first clutch of three, discovered by chance himself hiding between some old paper files in his office.

Another £80, another week’s wait, but soon enough…

It’s arrived.

I’m nervous. I get everything perfect again. The room’s too messy. My mind’s too busy. Not yet, not yet. I’m not ready. But I’ll never be ready. I press ‘play’.

There’s a voice. A woman’s voice, unfamiliar at first. It’s formal but working class, nurturing; it has twinges of my sister, but older. It’s her. It’s my mother. My mum! A smile starts to melt across my face. Mum! It’s pure warmth. Pure joy.

‘I’m sorry, we’re not available at the moment, but if you’d like to leave a message after the long tone, then either Peter or Sandra will get back to you. Thank you!’

Tears push their way up into my face. I can’t help it. I miss her so much. I never realised how much! I never thought I cared, but I do, I do. There is no reasoning with the tears; I can’t work out why I’m crying or how to stop them, they just come and come.

I push it deep down, back inside where it belongs, and get back to the stiffness I’m used to, the grey safety of please and excuse me and ‘Fine thanks, how about you?’

But part of me has changed. Within the whirling void, a tiny candle, flickering.

🙏 Please like or comment if you liked this or, alternatively, if you have a comment.

#25. Anti-Racism Workshop

Racism is bad. I think we can all agree?

But all this recent ‘how to decolonise your racist white baby’ stuff is a bit much, no?

I’m a white person - do I really need dismantling? My best friend at primary school was a Japanese kid called Akihiro, and he didn’t speak a lick of English (I think that’s why I liked him). I have an Indian wife and, on average, one Indian child. A DNA test told me I’m 1% Spanish for goodness’ sake.

No, while I know the intentions are good, I can’t say I get all the obsessive anti-racism stuff.

But I really wanted to try to understand it, with empathy; I wanted to see the world from a different perspective. Since my two boys are half-white, I needed to know, how do I half-decolonise them? Do I decolonise one and not the other to balance it out?

So I signed up to an anti-racism workshop to find out.

There were surprisingly few to be found online, and none of them were free. In the end I shelled out £259 for the pleasure. Worse than that, they sent me homework beforehand - one day before the workshop, I was given an onerous activities pack, including listening to a podcast, and scoring my privilege on a set of quiz questions like, ‘The leader of my country is also a person of my racial group.’ (N.B. Rishi Sunak.)

A young woman welcomed us to the course. Her name was Jade and she was nice. She explained how we’d be learning about implicit bias, allyship and the legacy of the barbaric slave trade.

‘Can I just say, “barbaric slave trade” is an interesting choice of words, because the word slave is derived from Slavs, white Eastern Europeans who were kept as slaves, while barbaric comes from the North African Berbers who were not white and who operated a cruel slave trade of their own, suggesting that, while the trans-Atlantic slave trade was unquestionably abhorrent, maybe the whole topic of the race and power could be a bit more complex than one might at first suppose,’ I said quietly, deep inside my own head.

You see, I had decided to keep my opinions to myself. I wanted to be a fly on the wall and get the authentic experience. Also, and more importantly, I’m a coward.

I’ll admit I was terrified going into the session. I was doing it with an open mind, positivity, and the intent to learn others’ perspectives – yet my heart was racing and my hands were sweaty. On Twitter at least, anti-racists do not seem particularly tolerant and open-minded. My only hope was that there would be lots of people attending, so I could blend into the anonymity of the crowd and have minimal interactions.

My first task was to introduce myself to the four other people on the call, so we could prepare for all the group breakout sessions we would be having.

There was Linda, for instance, who’d angled the webcam to stop at her first chin. Linda, like everyone else there, was white. She had a background in EDI and the arts with a specialism in neurodiversity. She was also part of a long Covid support group which was disappointingly full of middle-class white women. ‘Edinburgh is so white,’ she lamented.

There was Stevie too, who also worked in performing arts and was training to be an intimacy coordinator. He complained that ‘puppeteering is very white’.

‘Well, the most famous puppet is Kermit, and he’s green,’ I thought but definitely didn’t say.

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#24. Casino

Monaco at night looked like a 1950s vision of the future, all gold skyscrapers and broken dreams.

A taxi was escorting me there from Cannes – with its tall French girls in Panama hats sauntering past posters of Golden Age stars, chartreuse trees and vintage lampposts jutting into the aqua sky – and towards the stucco façade of the Monte-Carlo Bay & Resort.

Its entrance was perfectly polished, lightly peppered with luxury Lamborghinis, no doubt a calculated ruse on the hotel’s part to say, Hey, you, put on your fancy pants. Even the bellboy had veneers.

The lobby smelled sickly, like a taxi cab’s air freshener. Ironic, given Ubers are entirely banned. You can book one for thirty seconds down the road, outside of city limits, but believe me, your driver won’t be happy about it.

All the hotel furnishings were felt with gold trim. It was very glamorous – or it would have been, in the seventies. The suite was so dated, you could still order porno on the TV. I think I saw Linda Lovelace in one of the promos.

I tip-toed down hot terracotta steps to the bustling pool fringed with palm trees. A sign read, private cabana, €500/day. I found a vacant old sunbed tucked in the corner. The menu read, strawberries, €34/plate. I ordered a tap water.

Kids splashed boisterously alongside languorous glamour models. The lifeguards were relaxed: the last thing the women there needed to worry about was buoyancy. There were more fake tits and plastic boobies than an avian taxidermist’s.

After a day of lounging, I met my wife for dinner. I thought about gambling on my meal, letting the waiter choose for me. Living loose and fast.

I’ll have the beef, I said.

The charming Old Town, the Monaco-Ville, felt like a toy village. Apartments with striped awnings loomed over the sea, piling on top of each other, almost tumbling down the mountain to reach the glistening blue. Old money and new rubbed together. I watched a vintage sports car pass the marble palace gates and trundle through a wooden door, closing automatically behind it, a digital interface reading 0, then -1, then -2. That’s a whole new level of rich, I thought. I was getting insecurities I didn’t even know I had.

Not to worry – we’d soon make our fortune in the Casino de Monte-Carlo, I reasoned. Neon sports cars posed outside a gothic exterior, like Dracula’s castle if he were a premier league footballer.

Inside the palatial entrance, ceiling friezed with gold in beautiful Greco-Roman style, like a cathedral, I guessed that gambling really does pay after all. Past the threshold of granite pillars, slot machines flashed and dinged, enticing me in, calling me to riches beyond my wildest dream.

And just €18 (each) to get in.

I wondered if this gambling establishment might be ripping me off, but then the dour lady behind the till gave us each a €10 ticket for the slots – for free!

I edged over to the machines and picked one – lucky red – feeding my voucher into it. Confused, I mashed the buttons and pulled the arm. I lost. I lost again. But then, on the third spin, slamming my eyes shut and yanking as hard as I could, I also lost.

My wife had been hovering over her chosen machine for minutes, deciding which button to press to maximise her chances. ‘What do you think I should do?’

Screw it, I thought, and slammed max bet. The faces rolled around. Seven. Seven. Another seven. Ding, ding, ding, ding! I won! I’d taken ten Euros and made it into thirty Euros!

‘The house always wins?!’ I hooted at the machine. ‘The house always loses, sucker! Aha!’

I was elated. What a wonderful feeling it was. It’s alright, this gambling stuff, I agreed, to myself. I should do it more often.

And with that thought, we entered the grand hall. No more the childish slot machines with their whizzing and beeping. We were ready for the big time – poker, blackjack, baccarat, craps. Then, I remembered, I don’t know how to play any of those. Roulette would have to do.

It was like walking into a different era, everyone dressed to the nines, the women beautiful, naturally. Yes, it was undeniably glamorous, at first, but the sheen dissipated like the vapours of the alcohol trodden into the art deco carpet. On reflection, it was just a big, wooden hall, like a school assembly, or the Natural History Museum, people murmuring quietly over the exhibits.

I selected a roulette wheel and strutted over, crushed blue suit over white trainers and a crisp white t-shirt, Ray Bans tucked into the v-line. There’s no denying, I was the shit. I cocked my hip against the table and shuffled my chips.

‘Move!’ barked the croupier. ‘You’re blocking the camera.’

Older men hopped from table to table, flipping €1000 chips and walking away without even bothering to watch the wheel spin.

Jasmine placed a bet – €20 on black. She won. Her eyes lit up like a Porsche’s headlights, jaw hanging in ecstatic surprise. A few more spins like these, and we’d doubled our money in just ten minutes, from €100 to €200. Think about the ROI on that (100%). I waste my days eking out pennies for PowerPoints, when I could be doubling my money in minutes.

I dashed to the counter and withdrew €50,000 from our life savings. Red. I put it all on red. A flash of the wheel. Eyes slammed shut. I dared not look. I peeped. Red. It was red! I’d just won €50,000! For nothing! I did it again! On red. And won! And again and again and again and again, riding out this incredible wave of luck a further five times until I had won, no longer €100, but in fact an enormous 1.6 million Euros.

Or this, I assume, is exactly what would have happened, had Jasmine not insisted we quit €100 up. She was overjoyed to have won so much. I was resentful that I hadn’t won more. I wanted to go back and spend the night there, ideally by myself.

Yes, I could definitely do it again. Many, many times in fact. Probably best that I don’t.

It was intoxicating, strutting past the stick-thin models of Monaco-Ville in my Hugo Boss suit, wallet stuffed with hundred Euro note. I had really made moolah in just a few minutes. Accounting for the cost of entry, and the ATM fees, and the taxis, and the hotel and flights, I was only £2,139 down.

Back at the hotel, we celebrated, splashing our winnings on one small plate of strawberries - each.

#23. Slave to AI

‘Tomorrow, I’m going to live my entire day however you suggest. My life will be in your hands. To give you some context I am a 36-year-old married man on holiday in Cannes. So - what time should I wake up tomorrow and what should I do?’

This is what I whispered to Chat-GPT one night as I lay pressed between the crisp white sheets of the Five Seas Hotel in the run-up to a friend’s wedding. Streetlights threw shadows upon the limestone walls of the gothic church outside – the Notre Dame de Bon Voyage. I had that frustrated feeling you get on holiday, like I’d wasted precious time. I’d stayed in bed until noon browsing Twitter, languished by the pool for an afternoon, and now felt bloated from a poorly-chosen pizzeria for dinner.

I was clearly incapable of making good decisions for myself. Perhaps Chat-GPT would do a better job of it. People join cults, totalitarian regimes and even book groups to get away from the burden of having to think for themselves; anything to escape the terror of existence, the heavy burden of responsibility amongst the heady chaos of life. So why not? I put my life into the virtual hands of AI.

That sounds like an interesting adventure! I recommend embarking on a short boat trip from Cannes to Île Sainte-Marguerite. To make the most of your day, I suggest waking up at 7:00 a.m.

‘OK, seven a.m., let’s do this,’ I thought, as I switched off the lamp and settled to sleep.

At 9:26am I sent ChatGPT a message.

I’d overslept, then spent an hour on Twitter again. Two tech behemoths were fighting to make me their bitch, and Twitter was winning. I wished ChatGPT could have had more control over my life. If only it could have set continuous alarms until I’d gotten up. If only it could have blocked Twitter for the day.

I ambled from the hotel to the sun-kissed marina, where luxury yachts bobbed listlessly on the twinkling blue. A pair of teenage girls sold me a ticket to the ferry to Île Sainte-Marguerite, giggling at my French. On the great white boat bustling with tourists, I fell upon a plastic seat and shifted under the heavy sun. I asked ChatGPT what to do.

I recommend taking the opportunity to relax and enjoy the scenic views. Embrace the tranquillity of the journey, appreciate the coastline, and let yourself unwind during the ferry ride.

I exhaled and let my body loosen. The ferry slowly pulled away from the shore. Tiny pink houses sank deeper into the shoreline fringed with palm trees waving gently goodbye. As we approached the island, a helicopter beat its way through the thick midday heat, and landed on a nearby yacht, 50 metres long and chunky, black and gold like a giant Nike Air Max.

Now that you're on Île Sainte-Marguerite, your next task is to explore the natural beauty of the island by taking a walk along the coastal trails. Remember to stay hydrated, wear comfortable shoes, and bring a small backpack with essentials like water and sunscreen.

This was very useful information – or it would have been, one hour ago. With the midday sun pushing down on my shoulders, I trudged uphill towards a cart besieged by other weary tourists. I asked for un eau and the surly man behind the counter tapped a sign: €10 minimum spend. I thought for a second, judged that I would rather die of thirst, and sloped away.

On ChatGPT’s recommendation, I hiked across a wide dirt avenue towards Fort Royal. Enormous palm trees saluted each other from each side of the shaded promenade, their dry leaves crackling in the breeze amongst the cicadas on all sides. Occasionally the line of trees broke to reveal the shoreline below, white rocks jutting into the navy blue. I was grateful to find a water fountain and knelt into the dust to drink from it.

I clambered up a hill towards the old stone fort, passing deserted orange-brick buildings with narrow doorways and chartreuse wooden window shutters, like an old spaghetti western. The fort itself had the ancient cool of a mausoleum, my footsteps ringing off the granite floor. I saw the cell that once housed the famous Man in the Iron Mask (Footnote: Forgot who this was and why he was masked). OK, so he was tortured a little, but he did have an incredible sea view, from which I watched tiny white boats glinting in the distance.

I asked for my next instruction.

Since you've already visited the Fort Royal, let's adjust the plan. From the fort, I recommend making your way to Plage de la Grotte, a beautiful beach located on the southern side of the island. To reach Plage de la Grotte, follow the signs or ask locals for directions. The beach is known for its clear waters and peaceful atmosphere.

After thirty minutes of walking, and Googling, and asking locals for directions, I deduced that, actually, there was no such beach. ChatGPT was blasé.

It seems there was a mistake in my response, and I apologize for any confusion caused. Here's an alternative suggestion: Take a leisurely walk towards the northern part of the island. You'll come across beautiful forested areas and scenic paths that lead to Pointe de la Convention. This is a rocky promontory with breathtaking views of the Mediterranean Sea.

On this point, he/she/xe was right.

I walked along a wooded trail where the salty smell of the sea mingled with pine needles baking in the sun. At one part of the stretch, I passed an enormous French family laughing and quarrelling over picnic tables. Later, youths splashing and flirting in the water amongst a festival of speedboats and thumping dance music. One boat meandered from group to group selling ice creams. I felt lonely and wondered whether I should chat to my AI companion. Probably best not. That would make me a real sad sack, I reasoned, and I suspected I was starting to get on its nerves anyway. It was always me initiating the conversation; it never took a proactive interest in me nor my day. Eventually, I reached a little fire station, where people lolled in hammocks and a neon butterfly, chartreuse again, led me back to the ferry.

I was beat – and starving. Back on the mainland, I asked ChatGPT for a restaurant. This didn’t go well.

‘I’m back on the mainland now,’ I told it, ‘Where shall I go for lunch? … La Tonnelle is on another island, whereas I am at Cannes Harbour. Please suggest another restaurant. … What is the address? … I can’t find any such restaurant. Do you mean Le Bistro de Suquet? … I walked to the Bistro and it’s shut. Now what? … No, Vesuvio a 30 min walk and I’m already quite tired. Is there anything closer? … Well which one of those two do you recommend? … I just looked and it’s closed and it’s a 20 minute walk anyway. What ELSE do you recommend? … There’s no such place. Please try again. … It’s closed and it’s 30 minutes away. Forget it. I will walk to Vesuvio.’

Leaving the winding streets of San Peyre, I spotted a patisserie with little glazed tarts and cookies and multicoloured macarons. It looked delicious – I was already so hungry I would have eaten Scottish food, let alone French – but I had instructions. I marched for thirty minutes in the baking heat along Cannes’ wealthy promenade, passing glamorous hotels with yellow striped awnings and high-performance cars waiting outside.

Arriving, finally, at Vesuvio, I collapsed onto a sofa just off the promenade, in a shaded alcove surrounded by potted trees, and delighted over what ChatGPT might select for me from the menu’s cornucopia of Italian feasts. Pan-fried calf’s liver and crystallised onions, perhaps? Fresh clam linguine in white wine, garlic, parsley, and chili pepper?

I recommend trying their Margherita pizza. The Margherita is a classic pizza that features a thin crust topped with tomato sauce, mozzarella cheese, and fresh basil.

Another pizza. Well, who doesn’t like pizza?

While I waited, I planned the rest of my day (‘Can you tell me to book a massage because I want one but I can only do what you say today’). I kept having to remind it to choose for me; it kept giving me options and caveats and hedges, like it was incapable of making a firm decision for itself.

This was infuriating. If I’d wanted a companion who was unable to choose where and what to eat, I would have gone on the trip with my wife.

I asked it how to pass the time.

While you wait for your Margherita pizza, I recommend taking a moment to relax and unwind. Close your eyes, take a few deep breaths, and practice mindfulness for a few minutes. Once your Margherita pizza is served, you'll be able to fully savor the flavors and enjoy your dining experience at Vesuvio. Wishing you a refreshing and enjoyable wait!

In this urban oasis, I enjoyed a luxurious moment of calm. When the pizza arrived, it was delicious. The bread was thin and crispy, charcoaled air bubbles rising from the crust; the cheese soft and unctuous. It reminded me of an old Italian restaurant I used to love in a wine cellar beneath Covent Garden, back before it closed down. I don’t think ChatGPT knew that. But it did know how to help me eat my food, meditatively -

Now that your Margherita pizza has arrived, here are some suggestions for enjoying it. Take a moment to inhale the enticing aroma of the freshly baked pizza. Allow the fragrant scent to awaken your senses and build anticipation for the flavors to come. Look at the pizza and appreciate its appearance. Notice the melted cheese, vibrant red tomato sauce, and aromatic basil leaves. Take in the colors and textures before taking your first bite. Begin by taking a small bite of the pizza, savoring the combination of flavors. Pay attention to the crispy crust, the tanginess of the tomato sauce, and the creamy, melty cheese. Let the flavors blend together in your mouth. As you continue eating, take your time to enjoy each bite. Appreciate the balance of flavors and the quality of the ingredients. Chew slowly and relish the taste and texture of the pizza.

I stuffed it into my mouth.

Then, I asked it to select dessert and hoped it wouldn’t order a coffee. I hate coffee.

I recommend trying their Tiramisu for dessert.

I ordered it with a sigh – but in the end, it was enjoyable. All my life I had been struggling under the misconception that Tiramisu would taste like coffee. But calling it a coffee-based dessert is like saying that a mojito is a mint-based drink or that easy listening is easy to listen to. It was creamy and rich, fluffy fingers filled with sweet syrup. Yes, it was very nice indeed (except for the slight taste of coffee). I had tried something new and liked it. Thank you, ChatGPT.

Next, it wanted me to walk along the promenade, yet again, so I badgered it until it to let me go to the hotel, have my massage, and read by the pool for the rest of the day. This is what I wanted to do and, if I asked the question the right way, Chat-GPT would suggest I do it. Never did it disagree with me, nor suggest its own ideas proactively. It simply didn’t have a will of its own. It didn’t know me and it couldn’t understand context. It wouldn’t tell me to call home to my family unless I asked it, ‘What shall I do now? P.S. I have a wife.’

I lounged by the cyan rooftop pool until the sky turned orange and my skin prickled in the evening breeze. Jacques Ellul jumped from dogeared pages: ‘The tool enables man to conquer. But, man, dost thou not know there is no more victory which is thy victory? The victory of our days belongs to the tool.’

Still full from my two pizzas, I asked ChatGPT where I should go for dinner.

Considering your desire to have a lighter meal after a big lunch and your preference to eat later, I recommend La Pizza Cresci for dinner.

I found myself queuing outside a tourist trap at the harbour. I shuddered to think how many margherita pizzas I would have eaten in the day if I’d left at 7:30am like it suggested. Even the daytrip it sent me on was to the island of Saint Marguerite. I was sweating before I’d even stepped foot inside the restaurant.

I sat at a red and white checked plastic tablecloth and waited. My guts twisted in anticipation.

Take this opportunity to practice mindfulness and enjoy your own company. Focus on the present moment and fully immerse yourself in the ambiance of the restaurant.

The pizza arrived and I mindfully meditated on the grease pooling on the plate and the insipid mushrooms squashed into cheese. I was getting a migraine just looking at it. It had no seasoning whatsoever. The waiter brought chili oil, but the last thing it needed was more oil. It had so much oil, Tony Blair wanted to invade it. Et cetera.

Having said that, it was still a pizza, so I ate it, and waddled home. ChatGPT suggested I walk along the promenade, again, and I gently encouraged it to fuck off. But I did ask it if I should get a gelato on the way home (I knew exactly what I was doing).

It told me to get pistachio. I’d never had it before – it was bright green, smelt of nuts, and had the fewest scoops taken of all flavours. Yet, I enjoyed it. ChatGPT had inspired me to go out of my comfort zone, and I endeavoured to take this forward, like asking waiters to choose for me.

Tired, happy, and just a little nauseous, I told ChatGPT to tell me to go home and go to bed. Thank God.

Dim the lights, prepare your sleeping area, and allow yourself to gradually drift into a state of relaxation, ready for a peaceful sleep. Wishing you a peaceful and restorative night's sleep at the Five Seas Hotel Cannes!

Extra special joke for members only below the paywall…

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#22. Day Trading

Most people I know who work in finance are rich and stupid.

I’d be worried about offending them if I thought they could read. If they can pull in seven figures a year, why can’t I?

I’d had the Plus 500 trading app on my phone for a while. I’d tinker with it now and then, easily making a profit in their demo app with fake money. Yet it took me a while to put my own real money in (as ‘real’ as fiat currency is, am I right?) – even just £100. How hard could it be? And as they say, no risk, no reward. With my demo practice making me something of an expert, I prepared to get rich.

16th July, 12:31pm.

It turns out the markets close on Sundays.

17th July, 1:48pm

I bought £50 of stocks (or whatever) in a company (or whatever) called Zalando. I have no idea who or what a Zalando is or does, but I closed my position after an hour with a profit of £1.01. I’m annoyed; I wish I’d left it open for longer. I also wish I had put £100k in. I would have made a grand doing nothing. I can’t just put £100k in there, can I? Can I?

17th July, 3:17pm

I made a very easy buck in Alphabet stocks. I think I’ve found a scheme to get rich quick. Why has no one else thought of this?

18th July, 12:01pm

Last night, I invested £500 in a company called Plug Power (something to do with plugs (presumably regular, not butt)?). The value crept down a bit but then soared overnight. I’d met my goal; I’d made £100 in less than 24 hours doing basically nothing.

What a completely mindless and risk-free way to make money. A truly life-changing experience.

18th July, 4:24pm

I invested £500 into Acadia Pharma. My wife enquired, ‘Acadia Pharma? What do they do?’

I Googled, ‘What does Acadia Pharma do?’

It tells me they elevate life through science.

‘They elevate life through science,’ I tell her.

‘Oh,’ she says.

Oh.

Still, I made a few quid.

19th July, 10:31am

I invested £500 into a put (or whatever) on Europe 50. I’m not quite sure what it is, but I think I means betting against Europe, and I feel good about that. Take that, Johhny Frenchman.

19^th July, 10:32am

Immediately, my profit/loss is down by £300. So that means from a £500 purchase I could lose a total of £800. No, that can’t be right, can it? You can’t lose more than you put in, surely? No, no, that can't be true.

It dawned on me that I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. I checked the chart, for the first time, and noticed the price I bought it is the absolute maximum price it’s been all day. It probably won’t get better than that.

I wonder what the fuck I was thinking, and swear never to do this again. I just want my money back.

19^th July, 1:58pm

My position shot up to -£100.

Aha! I could make a profit after all – so I left it. I love this. This is the best thing I’ve ever done. I could do this for a job forever.

19^th July, 3:12pm

I hate myself. It fell so low it got to a margin call (or whatever) – my position would have closed at a staggering loss if that happened. I put another £1k into my account so I don’t lose all that money. I’m sure it will go back up eventually.

19^th July, 4:30pm

It didn’t go back up eventually. My position is currently -£1,600. This does not feel good. I feel despair. What if it never goes back up?

I put more money in to avoid my position being closed. I’m sure it will go back up overnight.

20^th July, 8:00am

It didn’t go back up overnight. I woke up -£2.4k. I did some frantic research and learned that this put (or whatever) has a time limit: it will close automatically today, whatever level it’s at. I cut my massive losses and closed at -£2.4k. £2.4k lost in the space of just two days, for nothing. I mean, I’ve wasted maybe a grand on a night out before, but at least I had some good stories. Today, I have nothing. A complete loss of £2.4k for nothing.

Jasmine pointed out that, since I made £100 earlier, it’s technically a loss of £2.3k, if that helps.

It doesn’t. I want to die.

The dream is dead.

Back to work.

#21. Join a Secret Society

“When the human race learns to read the language of symbolism, a great veil will fall from the eyes of men. They will know the truth.”

Manly P. Hall, 33° Mason

The Ordo Templi Orientis. The Knights Templar. The Salvation Army.

From Apollo 11 to 9/11, secret societies have stretched their invisible tentacles wide, these secret string-pullers, changing the course of history, black hands crafting occult magick, seeding symbols around us – the compass and set-square, the black and white chessboard, the all-seeing eye – in our buildings and our institutions and our pop music videos. They are the secret craftsmen of our times, channelling the great hidden architect in the sky; as above, so below.

And my own quest for these great truths began, as all quests do - with a Zoom call.

It’s a just a social club, they said (yeah right), there’s nothing nefarious about it (sure, buddy), there’s no financial gain involved (uh-huh). They presented a PowerPoint deck – ‘Can anyone become a [REDACTED]? YES!’, read one slide. It was starting to feel less exclusive than I’d hoped. They talked about all their work doing outreach to marginalised communities; ‘we’re so diverse it’s unbelievable’. In 2023, even the lizard overlords have gone woke.

After a few calls like this, I’d seemingly passed their test and was directed to the first sacred initiation rite – an online form. I had to profess my belief in a higher power, promise to obey the law, and promise not to be joining for financial gain. The more they insisted on this point, the more I suspected and hoped there really would be financial gain. I knew, deep down, as I bought a black suit especially for my first meeting, I was about to be ushered into the occult world of ancient, mind-bending truths beyond the veil.

And so arriving there, at the retirement village’s converted bingo hall, felt somewhat deflating. The men were so old they’d probably known Solomon personally. They were a diverse bunch, from older white male doctors to older white male policemen. There was one other applicant my age, softly spoken, strangely accented, there following an ayahuasca epiphany. I never saw him again.

The sacred brothers gathered round, supped their pints, and chatted about the news of the day, complaining at length about the ULEZ emissions charge (you know ULEZ is oppressive when even our lizard overlords are affected by it). Before long, they got to it, bombarding me with occult jargon, affable but inscrutable. They asked me questions I wasn’t really prepared for – ‘What can you bring to [REDCATED]?’ (Ummm), ‘I’m sure you have a million questions’ (Oh, yes, er…). In truth, I just wanted to know the truth. My whole life I had been searching for it. I had been searching so long, I wasn’t sure I’d even know it if I saw it.

They stepped outside to deliberate. I watched them through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the waiting area as they slapped each others backs and laughed. After one minute of murmuring, they stepped back.

I was in.

Weeks later, I had my initiation ceremony. I dusted off my black suit and black shoes for the occasion, and a luminescent pair of new white gloves, like some kind of mourning snooker referee.

The sacred brothers made me remove my jewellery, my belt, and my shoes. The last time I removed all my jewellery was when I joined a masculinity cult in the woods, where I was stripped of my identity and given a new name. The [REDACTED] were doing the same thing to me here. Well, it also happens at the airport. But the airport’s not some kind of occult ritual, is it. Is it?

Reader, what follows is the ancient and secret initiation ceremony, hidden to all by an exclusive band of powerful men throughout history.

I was blindfolded. One of my [REDACTED] was [REDACTED] up to the left [REDACTED]; a [REDACTED] to my right [REDACTED]. My [REDACTED] was [REDACTED] to show my [REDACTED] (fortunately, my right nipple is the weird one). I was shepherded blindly around the room. A pointy [REDACTED] was pushed into my [REDACTED]. I was taught the secret handshake, with the [REDACTED] on the [REDACTED], and told the secret password, [REDACTED]. I already knew about [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] due to all my obsessive 9/11 research on the internet. I didn’t tell them that.

There was a mantra, and at the end – ‘If I tell anyone, I am void of moral character,’ I repeated it then, in much the same way as I am repeating it to you now. I swore not to reveal the secrets I had learned, on pain of having my throat cut. Then they took a picture for Instagram.

The ceremony was over. The gentlemen lined up to greet us, so we could practice our special new handshake. Let me tell you, I’ve never shaken so many hands as I did that night. My fingers were getting sore. Every opportunity – hello, goodbye, just popping to the toilet – was a handshake.

Brotherhood was the theme. It felt nice. It was all very jovial - It’s time for the raffle. The winner gets a bottle of Lambrini. The runner up gets two. – and I enjoyed spending the night talking to them over retirement home chicken pie (chicken soup with a crust). I made a small speech about gratitude and warmly received a card they’d all signed. Some of them had come a long way, and they were all there for my ceremony. It was beautiful.

They didn’t half bang on though. Six hours I was there. There were so many little toasts and gestures and dances and claps to learn. At the end of the evening, I was absolutely exhausted – no wonder it was in a retirement home. I was about ready for retirement myself.

On the way out, a group of pubbed-up Karens and Kevins asked me what was going on in there. I told them it was a meeting of [REDACTED]. They straightened up, stony faced. Their impression was of some shadowy cabal – as had mine been, before – and I liked that. I liked the power, liked how it felt in my hands, and vowed from that day forward to only use it for evil.

But something just wasn’t right. I’d felt awkward, out of place, at the meeting - more so than usual. And between meetings, it just got too intense. I was being texted and called constantly, especially by my sponsor, who seemed, frankly, disappointed with me, when I’d said I wouldn’t be able to go to an all-day event on a Saturday. I was inundated with letters and emails (Only 24 hours left to buy tickets!).

The final straw came when I subtly mentioned everything to my priest. Whereas I had thought being a [REDACTED] was slightly frowned upon in the Catholic church, like taking the Lord’s name in vain, or defrocking an eight-year-old choirboy, it turns out I could be excommunicated – cut off from God entirely.

Worse than that, I didn’t get any benefits. No discounts from repairmen, no big business deals, and barely any masked orgies. Really, what was the point? And what did I learn? Nothing. I didn’t learn about the Twin Towers or the moon landing or the secret Antarctica base where Jeffrey Epstein lives, no matter how many times I asked. The biggest secret of all? There is no secret. There’s nothing there. The truth, in the end, was just this: the suits, the secrets, the symbols - all of it was just another way to pretend we’re not dust in a bingo hall.

I had to leave – but I still use the handshake now and then. Sometimes I feel it in return, but how am I supposed to proceed? ‘Oh, are you a [REDACTED] too? Can you give me some money?’

Although - if you are a [REDACTED] reading this, please, please invite me to the masked orgies. Just not at the retirement home.

Reader - What do you want to know about the fraternity? Ask below.

Please remember to comment, like and smash that subscribe button.

#20. Colon Cleanse

When I stepped into the cosy basement in Belgravia, I was put at ease by the smiley lady who would be subjecting me to the terror of a colonic.

She was a loud American with short, dyed hair, tattooed lipstick, and quirky sunglasses. She looked like Ruby Wax – although she was more like Ruby Wax, Massage and Colonics.

You might be wondering, as I was, what kind of person would do this for a living. She was a perfect example of what Freud would call the ‘anally expulsive’ type. She was overweight and covered in tattoos of cats, and she’d told me she’d got a blood clot during lockdown because she’d been too lazy to move. She was also very talkative. Far too talkative for this kind of job. I hate small talk at the best of times – it was probably the last thing I wanted to do in this position.

I donned a hospital gown – I was grateful for the opportunity to protect my dignity – and presented myself, upon which her strained mmhmm suggested things did not look normal down there. Before I could probe more, she told me to relax and explained several times that, for her, this was just like making a cup of tea. I knew she was American but wondered just how wrong she could get a cup of tea.

Water flowed into my colon. It felt, believe it or not, like I was about to soil myself. I squeaked out the word ‘release’ (from my mouth) and the water flowed through the tube into a bucket. The therapist had graciously angled my head and positioned a mirror so I could see everything.

‘Perfect,’ she said, ‘You have a very healthy system, it’s clean. It’s very rare to see it like this.’

After I dressed, the therapist asked if I felt euphoric and lighter. I certainly didn’t feel euphoric and the only thing that felt lighter was my wallet, one hundred quid later. She gave me aftercare advice – only plain chicken and potatoes, nothing heavy or indulgent, and no fruit or vegetables.

I thanked her, left the clinic, and ate a club sandwich and banana smoothie. What’s the worst that could happen – after that?!

Would you do it, reader?

#20. Colon Cleanse

I’ve always been self-conscious about my butthole. Although who isn’t? But I fretted whether the person administering my colonic irrigation might not like mine. Or what if she spotted something wrong with it?

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#19. Indoor Skydiving

There it was. Assembled between the Hollywood Bowl and a Costa on an industrial estate in Basingstoke – iFly, one of the UK’s premiere indoor skydiving destinations. It had been recommended to me for my one-new-thing-a-week project by a friend who likes Michael McIntyre.

Nevertheless I’d made the pilgrimage with my wife, son and mother-in-law. Entering the plastic foyer, a small child pushed past us in a superman costume and brandishing a birthday balloon.

There were surprisingly few adults. This was skydiving; it deserves a certain level of respect. It involved expert instructors, state of the art-technology, and important pre-flight briefings that required arrival 45 minutes before the ticketed departure time, the website said. Hardly an activity for children. I tutted and glared at their feckless parents.

It took about three minutes of the seven-minute safety video before I started to get resentful with the organisers too. I’m not doing any of that, I decided. I didn’t come here to learn hand signals. My safety is their job, especially at £152.37 for the three of us (for what was, in the cold light of day, a big plastic tube with a fan underneath it).

As we queued around the big plastic tube with a fan underneath it, the instructor explained some more vital safety regulations, I think.

‘WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMP,’ droned the fan, at instructor-smothering decibels.

With each skydiver, the bored teen at the control panel adjusted the strength of the fan to match their body weight. A gentle hum for a child; a titanic rumble for the obese man sluicing out of his XXXL jumpsuit. The fan groaned at maximum power; the rivets trembled in the metal floor.

Judge not lest ye be judged, I remembered, as I stepped up to the entrance of the tube and its reassuringly quiet thrum. The other attendees-cum-spectators – mother-in-law included – gathered around the tube, watching, like a viewing gallery at a zoo where the animals are blown about by a giant fan. I had seen each of them humbled by their cheeks flapping like windsocks, and I knew a similar fate awaited me. The instructors wore face visors to protect themselves from the indignity, but I assessed that the £3 was too much to bear.

I stepped onto the mesh. The door was sealed, the fan amped up, the instructor flipped me horizontally. It blew me around like a ping-pong ball. I laughed with glee and tried not to bounce into the walls or the floor. The instructor made urgent hand signals at me all the while but, of course, I had no idea what they meant and cheerfully ignored them. Yes, the drool was being sucked out of my cheeks but who cares? This is fun!

Then, it was over. Like an attendee at one of Lily Phillips’ parties, the whole experience was about two hours of prep and waiting around with just fifty seconds of horizontal fun.

Our group session was followed by a post-flight debrief, where the instructor meticulously detailed how each of us could improve next time. I reflected internally on my experience.

‘I am literally never going to do this again.’