Author: BJ Tunstall

  • Finally got stuck into…Heated Rivalry

    When I heard people raving about Heated Rivalry, a TV show about two male sporting rivals having a secret sexual relationship, I immediately heard dialogue in my head along the lines of

    ‘Suck my dick’

    ‘No, you suck my dick’

    ‘No, you suck my dick’

    ‘No, you suck my dick’

    ‘No YOU’

    ‘NO YOU’

    When I heard straight men on TikTok telling me they watched the show and were remotely titillated by the mix of sexual chemistry and sporting rivalry I began to wonder if I should set aside a day and few old t-shirts, to binge Heated Rivalry.

    Life being what it is, I only managed to find some time on a plane from Brisbane to Singapore to watch it. I had to angle the laptop to ensure the Indian family behind me didn’t have to watch two men locking hockey sticks. I tilted my vodka in my drink holder to make room, until it trickled down on to my backspace and I was forced to switch over to my smart phone. The Russian guy Ilya Rozanov plays ice hockey for the Boston Raiders and Shane Hollander plays ice hockey for the Montreal Metros, both are the best goal shooters in the league, perhaps the best in the world. By episode 2 I couldn’t quite believe it when I heard the two cock crossed lovers in the midst of a naked standoff say…

    ‘Suck my dick’

    ‘No, you suck my dick’

    ‘No, you suck my dick’

    ‘No YOU’

    ‘NO YOU’

    If you’re a connoisseur of gay film and TV you will know that while ‘the love that dare not speak its name’ is spoken quite loudly in real life these days, it seems that the only way to wring tension out of a gay male story line in film and TV is to have one or both parties in turmoil about coming out. Heated Rivalry is no exception. Facial expressions in reaction to getting a blow job are a mix of self-loathing and pubescent ecstasy. Maybe it’s all the ice hockey that increases their testosterone but the men in this show seem to really enjoy blow jobs.

    The women characters do all the right things enabling the fragile homosexuals to find their true colours and fuck in peace, finally. Again, if you’re a connoisseur of gay film and TV, you’ll know that women characters are often one-dimensional agony aunts who act as guardians of the fragile homosexual heart. They usually have no needs other than to make sure their boy gets his boy and that their shopping afternoons continue without the downer of a moany gay.   

    The men in Heated Rivalry have chiselled physiques and bowling ball bums. But being sizzling hot doesn’t mean these dudes are shallow, no they want love like the next ice hockey champion. What’s new however about Heated Rivalry is the exploration of the fuck buddy relationship.

    I’ve had a few male friends over the years claim to have had sex with the same person for years without strings. They usually describe it as a very fulfilling mutually beneficial relationship. A win win.

    The term is quite gender specific when you think about it, because only men would emphasise the “fuck” the “buddy” and take all the emotion out of it. But not in an attempt to downplay it or even make it sound less romantic but because fuck buddy is a language code understood by men, not necessarily preferred, but understood.

    But even fuck buddy has lost its relevance. It belongs to a by-gone era, probably 1970s and 1980s when “buddy” was not just your mate but a small bottle of Coke-a-Cola too. It’s hard not to think of a moustache when you say fuck buddy and I can hear Fleetwood Mac on the record player. I think these days they call it “friends with benefits” which sounds down right dull.

    So Heated Rivalry stops short of fully exploring the fuck buddy relationship because Ilya and Shane eventually fall in love and have dinner with the parents. I’m not sure the rules of storytelling allow a full exploration of the fuck buddy relationship because nothing is at stake. There needs to be that question hanging over the protagonists’ heads. Will they or won’t they fall in love? And if it was a thorough exploration of the fuck buddy relationship over a long period of time, the only question hanging over the protagonists’ heads would be “will they or won’t they continue to have sex with each other as their bodies droop and shrivel”. Because is it not the emotion of love that mutes the disgust watching your lover sag in all the crucial places? Or perhaps it’s the fact you never dampened the spark by calling it a relationship or heaven forbid a commitment.

    Is it possible to write a story about a fuck buddy relationship and make people care about the characters? Or is the story doomed to always play out like a porno, even with the most compelling script in the world? And if the second series of Heated Rivalry (being made as we speak) was simply a further deep dive into a sexual relationship between two sport stars would we get bored? Is falling in and falling out of love essential to good story telling?

    And what about that stranger that rides a horse into town? The most told story in human history. What if he fucked the saloon boy behind the bar, up against the cactus and over the trough, but afterwards they had fascinating conversations about the towns folk and married the sheriff’s daughters to cover their tracks? What if that was it? What if no one fell in love but their sexual connection just got more and more intense? Would we care or would we regret buying popcorn?

    Heated Rivalry comes from Canada. It recently won 13 Canadian Screen Awards at the scripted television ceremony, no less. When you think about it, only Canadians could make a sordid fuck fest a really nice experience. Binge it now with your sporting buddy but not on a plane.

    Heated rivalry is available on Sky TV and NOW.

  • Prince the virgin sex album

    Dirty Mind is Prince Nelson Rogers third album. It begins with the title track Dirty Mind, a playful tune with a sinister electronic riff, packed with futile attempts to mute his rumbling desires. He’s a typical late teen loaning his dad’s car, and driving his girl somewhere where he can make whatever is rattling about in his post-pubescent dirty mind, cum true. If she allows. But Prince ain’t rapey, he’d rather dress in all her clothes than take her virginity. Which, one could argue is worse than rape. But it feels harmless and playful cause our little pervert is just so wee, he couldn’t hurt a flea. Although Our Sinead O’Connor claims he beat her up, well beat the bipolar out of her anyway.

    I mean the quality of the tracks on Dirty Mind is unsurpassed as far as I’m concerned. The album cover has Prince pushing the boat out in terms of aesthetic, an outrageous leap up and out from his first two albums. His first album For You has a young black man on the front, his second album has him bare-chested and innocent looking and by Dirty Mind we have a circus ringleader meets trans girl first time in public. He looks cheap and dangerous, and the synth sounds he cracks out are also cheap and dangerous but on the ears they are fucking delicious. I adore this album. God, a DJ dropped it in a gay club once and I turned my skinny body inside out, think I met my friend Pony this night, he loves Prince so much he literally got a boner watching the Gold Experience Tour on VHS. The sound was muffled and the footage blurry but Pony got a boner at the mere thought of it. The Gold Experience is one of my favourite albums because it kicks off with P. Control. This Prince number works as a misogynist and feminist anthem all at once. You either interpret it as letting someone else have control over your pussy or that you have full control over your pussy. I knew this song had legs when my mate Az who liked his bottoms to exercise full control over their holes would play them P. Control as a sort of musical S&M rule book.

    Prince transcends sexuality, gender and musical genre. He knew this too, Prince set out to free himself and us of the shackles that stifle pure creative flow. Only by defying category can true creativity flourish. This was his mantra. If he didn’t think like this we would have never had Kiss, the perfect pop song. Very simple, very catchy, very flirty. The man flirted in his sleep. He loved to make you squirm and shudder with just a riff or a turn of phrase. He flirted with me when he sang Raspberry Beret and acted like he was going to say and ‘she wasn’t too bright but when she kissed me, she knew how to give a kiss RIGHT’ but he didn’t, he just said she knew how to give a kiss and stopped there. This tease used to make me scream. Why didn’t he say RIGHT? It rhymes! Geezus.

    In the film clip Raspberry Beret he wears a blue suit covered in clouds playing his guitar on a podium in a psychedelic dream. This is one of the most ethereal and joyous pop moments, ever. The introduction is a demented mix of finger cymbals, synth pop beats and coughing (yes Prince coughing) and then the song cleans itself up and explodes into the most orgasmic strings. The psychedelic army of kids begin to dance and clap in unison and Prince does his thing. At 13 sitting in front of MTV in my y-fronts I knew this man would change lives and underwear. I never felt so alive when I listened to Raspberry Beret. I even bought a red beret from a Charity store in Brisbane and wore it round for a while until I realised I looked like a dickhead. Anyway back to Dirty Mind.

    Even through the track Sister is about incest and I never once thought about either of my sisters in that way, I still sang it loud at family gatherings to relieve the heteronormativity. Most of all Dirty Mind made me want to be a deviant on the dancefloor and dance like a monkey. I got into Parliament after listening to Dirty Mind. I wanted to listen to the music that inspired this sound…this sexy arse guitar slappin funk. How does one sound like this, I propositioned? I then heard Mothership Connection and Give Up The Funk and added the growl and squeak of a horny teenager on vocals and got Prince, not to diminish his greatness.

    Love Sexy came out in 1988 and surpassed Dirty Mind for me. I couldn’t believe this album was one long 45 minute track, jam packed with more sex sounds than a whore house on pay day. This little fucker made a sexier album than Dirty Mind! He dropped in some squishiness with When 2 R In Love and I Wish U Heaven to make the 45 minutes not just about fluids and holes but I still felt wholly ravished by his sweaty little Svengali hands. For a homosexual with peak pubescent noodle brain the final song on Love Sexy, Positivity is thrilling with “Gregory Looks Just Like a Ghost And Then A Beautiful Girl The Most’ affirming my place in the world desiring boys who look like girls. And finishes with “Wets His Lips To Say” triggering a boner ala Pony gooning out to the Gold Experience.

    But as I grew older Love Sexy lost it’s place as my favourite album and Dirty Mind was (eeeer) back on top. Mainly because funk is timeless compared to all the sample sounds and big production of Love Sexy confined to 1980s. Dirty Mind skids into the 80s just (October 1980) but carries with it the effortless paired back sounds of 70s disco, funk, rock and dashes of the emerging new wave. Prince is the epitome of post modern vehicle, in sound and style. The focus was always keep the orifices as wide as they can go to see what comes out. He showed us and encouraged us to mix it up and side step definition, not to be a smart ass lil punk (although he was) but to keep the possibilities of art realising all it’s possibilities. A shame for Prince would be an office worker dying at her desk with a great song in her head, never heard. He could tease the creativity out of anyone, if only she’d drank “the waters of Lake Minnetonka” and sung it down the phone to him one late night, as he ate cake mix with a spoon. Apollonia drank the waters of Lake Minnetonka in the film Purple Rain and she claims that she co-wrote Manic Monday with him. I believe her. Manic Monday has an unprince-like pop melody feel in places that suggests Apollonia added bits, which also made it perfect for the girl group The Bangles. Apollonia replaced Vanity as lead singer for Vanity 6, a band put together by Prince, and they became known as Apollonia 6. I wish they all took this girl group thing more seriously because their 2 hits were so hot, Nasty Girls and Sex Shooter. Prince wanted to call the other 6 (that never made 6 in band members) The Hookers but it was deemed not a very commercial sounding name, I would argue that’s all it had going for it. Prince’s ladies were often demeaned. I suspect Our Sinead called Prince out on this when they hung out. He had a childish approach to women redeemed somewhat with Sign of the Times, when Cat redressed the power imbalance occupying the stage with a command not even equalled by Shelia E going nuts on drums, Prince’s friend and drummer.

    My theory is Prince was all about female empowerment up until the moment he fell in love with her. Bob George on his Black Album possibly his darkest song, a jealous man kills his girlfriend, some say is about Prince’s abusive dad, others say it’s about him. It’s distortion puts a patch over a violent monologue. I can worship him and also question his character. And I think Prince was probably wracked with demons. But somehow in 1980 when he pushed out Dirty Mind I have a theory he was a virgin fantasising about sex. He was dating Susan Moonie by the 1981 Dirty Mind tour, who was also in Vanity 6 and Apollonia 6 and only she can testify. One day she might. Dirty Mind the track is definitely the big talking of a virgin boy.

    I was naked when I heard the news. I was coming out of a wet sauna at the gym and dropped my towel to pull my undies up and there on the TV in the locker room ‘Prince Found Dead’. I didn’t flinch. I calmly got dressed thinking, ‘if it’s true I’ll need years to deal so I won’t deal now’. I still haven’t. I have a bubble bath every 21 April, the day Prince died, and play Dirty Mind. It’s my favourite Prince album because it was the first time he dedicated an entire album to sex and so unapologetically let us into his dirty mind, something he continued to do right up until his death but not with quite the same slavish devotion as he did with Dirty Mind.

  • Hate scrolling

    You’ve heard of doom scrolling (looking at traumatic content obsessively) but what about the compulsion to scroll through content hating it, but finding yourself unable to stop? What about this then? It’s the new guilty pleasure TV. The same way we watched The Brady Bunch in the 80s, and wished the kids would get cancer.

    Hate scrolling. It’s toxic if expressed, a joy if enjoyed privately. Hate scrolling. It is hate too. Scary raw poorly managed hate.

    It’s about me. Wanting them. Wanting what they have. Wanting to be beautiful. Wanting not to be me. But strangely if I had their shiny faces, eyelashes like feathers, lips like carved liver, I’d put it all to waste. I’m clumsy with beauty. And my own would be a calamity.

    I want confirmation the world has some balance and some justice. If it appears someone is beautiful and also blessed with intellect, I need to know that they are flawed in some way. Otherwise I have to face the most awful truth, that some human beings have everything all at once.

    I remember in my 20s, kissing beautiful strangers and thinking ‘please be dumb’.

    I don’t think you can be beautiful and intelligent.

    I often watch beautiful actors being interviewed and I can see their intellect has been cultivated in a mirror like gaining 20 extra pounds to play a bloated alcoholic, not proper intellect earned through years of rigorous learning. It’s law like physics. You can’t be beautiful and smart. It’s not the beautiful peoples’ fault either. Their beauty does the talking, while their brain lays dormant. In a room full of people they always seem to find a position where onlookers can admire them unobstructed, while the intellectual is always blocked by a head nodding or shoulders leaning in. The intellectual is often found lining up outside the loo too, reminding people of their position in the line up. Beautiful people don’t wait for the loo because they can always see when it’s free from the position they hold, up there. We allow them to perch in this position almost knowing subconsciously that the view should remain unobstructed, because everyone deserves a look.

    Popular opinion states that beautiful people are intimidating so the crowd naturally parts when they float in, leaving them to perch in the ideal position for admiration. But this is not true. Crowds usher in beauty and hang it like art. It’s good for all of us to share and facilitate each other’s appreciation of beauty because it makes us feel good. Unlike the intellectual who will inevitably remind you (in the line up for the loo or in the kitchen scooping up hummus with a crisp, or leaning over a balcony flicking a cigarette) of something ugly, at some point. They can’t help themselves. When the beauty and the intellectual meet in a room, it can go either way. Mutual appreciation or long devastating silences where each thinks the other is playing some sort of game. Paranoia sets in. The beauty decides to go shopping in the morning and the intellectual decides to take drugs. Like physics, this is law.

    In my life I’ve had the pleasure of loving a few beautiful men paid and unpaid, and after a while noticed a fascinating phenomena. As each beauty lost their hair or acquired a beer belly, they each picked up a book or enrolled in a course. As their beauty faded, their intellect flickered. Beauty and brains can never find a home together. The human body simply cannot contain both simultaneously.

    An old man said to me once “when that square jaw of yours disappears into your neck, you might find time to read the classics”.

  • The Spanish poet

    “Where’s my a thousand kisses?” he said

    “Like you gave the Spanish poet?”

    Urgently recalling the story

    I must have told carelessly over a pillow

    I said

    “Maybe I was simply showing him how to count in English?”

    “1,2,3 etcetera”

    “Rather than showing the depth of my affection”

    “Where’s my a thousand kisses?” he said “that you gave the Spanish poet in Ealing Green?”

    I said “darling please know that you are loved but I’m 999 kisses short of loving with that ferocity and grandness,​ ever again”

    “Sometimes a human being can be done with crazy love”

    “Where’s my thousand kisses that you gave the Spanish poet in Ealing Green, beside the duck pond?

    “It’s not a numbers game sweetness I must protest”

    “Maybe I was just feeling guilty about not loving him the way he wanted me to”

    “So I kissed him over and over like a hammer”

    “Where is my a thousand kisses you gave the Spanish poet in Ealing Green, beside the duck pond, under the shade of a cedar tree?”

    “Darling stop”

    “Fancy passion is a folly so silly and eventually decrepit, merely a mention as a car whizzes by on route to the the big house”

    “One kiss, curious and meant, is worth a thousand in Ealing Green, beside the duck pond, under the shade of a cedar tree”

    “Why not wait for the one kiss that is meant?”

    “Where is my a thousand kisses that you gave the Spanish poet in Ealing Green, beside the duck pond, under the shade of a cedar tree, that perfect summer’s day?”

    “He was Spanish dear, love is a dance”

    “And you gentle man are English”

    “A thousand kisses in Ealing Green, beside the duck pond, under the shade of a cedar tree, one perfect summer’s day…would be akin to murder!”

    “Now lay your bugged head down and sleep and forget the Spanish poet”

    “He is probably writing a poem right now about the notorious Australian love bomber”

  • No more bombs

    And now look.

    At the end of a song about an abusive relationship, the singer Liza Minnelli whispers ‘no more bombs’ in a soft desperate voice. I whisper that same way now as I watch the war escalate in the Middle East, from my King size memory foam bed made using the finest petroleum. The battle for land and resources is as old as humanity and the ape. The British took Aboriginal Australia by force but wrote about it in polite terms as if it was gradually acquired. Turns out it was just a lot of murder like any land grab. Does 70,000 years of land occupation, like the Australian Aboriginals, give you ownership rights? The answer is yes, but not if someone with a greater arsenal decide they want it.

    Around the middle of the 20th century, the Jews went back to their Holy land after thousands of years of expulsion, exodos and genocides and established a home state called Israel. Some believed that they had an authority over the land with a historical and biblical mandate. Many believed without a place to call home, Jews would continue to be “othered”, expelled and slaughtered, whenever times got tough.

    As expressed in Der Judenstaat, a book written by Theodor Herzl in 1896, the best way to avoid antisemitism in Europe was to create an independent Jewish state. Herzl proposed two possible regions for settlement – Argentina and Palestine – but recognised in the book that colonisation in either would be difficult: “In both countries important experiments in colonisation have been made, though on the mistaken principle of a gradual infiltration of Jews. An infiltration is bound to end badly. It continues till the inevitable moment when the native population feels itself threatened, and forces the government to stop a further influx of Jews. Immigration is consequently futile unless we have the sovereign right to continue such immigration.”

    For that reason, Herzl, both in Der Judenstaat and in his political activity concentrated his efforts on securing official legal sanction from, as he put it, “the present masters of the land, putting itself under the protectorate of the European Powers, if they prove friendly to the plan.” Attempts to negotiate with the Ottoman authorities failed, but with the collapse of the Ottoman Empire at the end of World War I and the subsequent creation of Mandatory Palestine under the control of Britain, the Herzl’s idea gained traction: Britain issued the Balfour Declaration that supported the creation of a Jewish homeland in Palestine.

    And now look.

    In the last few years, Hamas the leaders of Palestine attacked Israel. Israel retaliated by completely destroying Gaza and most of it’s inhabitants. Iran jumped in and attacked Israel and Israel struck back. It’s a hot August in 2025. Things are going backwards fast. The only way Israel will survive in it’s current form is to attack and annihilate. Or is there another way?

    The colonisation of Palestine then, even with the protectorate of the ‘present masters of the land’ is very much in it’s infancy and witnessed by a world that understands colonisation as primitive and barbaric. The fall of Trump, which is inevitable will be a precarious moment for Israel.

  • Been there, London that

    Heaven forbid, don’t be new to London and miss that huge sign that says the left lane on the escalator is for people in a hurry. 

    London is a cuntish town, unless you’re filthy rich or living in social housing. I see them laughing in Primrose Hill, head back mouth open, gulping in the pure blended air of Hampstead Heath and Regent’s Park. I see them dancing in Brixton, head back mouth open, gulping in the jerk chicken air. The poor and the rich love London. But don’t be slightly richer than poor or slightly poorer than rich. At some point you will tumble into ​unmanageable debt and have to live off lettuce. Iceberg, not rocket. Because you’re rich enough to qualify for a bank loan but too poor to pay off the monthly installments. You’re a Londoner now. Mind the gap.

    The amount of buses that sail right by because your arm is not outstretched to full capacity, I’ve lost count. The tube that guarantees ​an authentic buried alive experience, sprinkled liberally with ​unbearable heat, no air and ​polite reminders the long delays are your fault. Feel free to kick someone down the escalator if they stray into the express lane. When they tumble head first they will soon realise that they deserve it and will never do it again. Heaven forbid, don’t be new to London and miss that huge sign that says the left lane on the escalator is for people in a hurry. 

    London, the city of villages is really just a city of village idiots on mobility scooters having a fag outside of Wetherspoons. That’s a pub chain with carpet, where you can still get a beer for under 5 quid.

    London is a pigsty. Fly tipping is otherwise known as ‘moving house’ in London. And no one uses a bin when they’re drunk which is most of London most of the time. 

    The overpriced dinners ​complete with ​a slice of ​meat and ​a​ broccol​i stalk ​and a waiter one bread roll away from quitting. ​Still or sparkling water for the table, almost the same price as the wine. And the London Sunday Roast, a shambles of food groups with a puff pastry in the middle for no apparent reason.

    Oh and the shows, the glittering West End. The most awarded show in the West End is Phantom of the Opera, some drivel about a disfigured obsessive who hides in a basement, much like a London one night stand. The West End was dying until Phantom of the Opera creator Andrew Lloyd Webber used methods like reality TV to cast a musical in order to get suburban bums back on seats. Where are the high kicks here? Sounds terribly pedestrian. And don’t sit outside a bar or a cafe on Old Crompton St in Soho and wait for a parade of colorful gays to make you smile because London gays now look like everyone else, fading into a backdrop of mediocrity and equality.

    Perhaps I’m just yearning for the countryside like all white middle-class people over a certain age.

    The quality of life in London compared to the Cotswolds’ for instance is like comparing the first world to the third. And yet it’s a mere 5 hour drive away, 4 hours 50 minutes getting out of London…and 10 minutes (roughly) to say Bourton-on-the-Water, aka the “Venice of the Cotswolds”. Everything changes dramatically. Your heart lifts, your spirit elevates. I get it, I’m simply idealising what I can’t have, but it’s worth pointing out that the difference between the city and the country in England is gobsmacking. Not because the country is that beautiful, it’s just that London is that difficult, if you’re average and middlesome. The man who tires of London is of course tired of life, but guess what? That’s ok. Everything that once was taut now slacks. Being tired of life…in the country….sounds ideal. 

    London shan’t even blink in my hissy fit wake. The trillions that have blamed you for their failures cancel out the trillions that thank you for their success. Mind the gap.

  • What’s that low hum dear?

    When you reach your mid 50s, the list of things you don’t want to do gets longer. Because you’ve done it a million times already or you figure your time is limited so you chose to only do what you really want to do, which is usually stay in and growl disapprovingly at the tele. On this tele, I watch people getting excited by live performance and I wonder why. I was one of them once, I loved going to see live music. Now whenever I’m in front of band, it feels contrived, like I’m pretending to enjoy it. Tapping my foot, nodding like I’m experiencing the music on a profound level, when in reality I can’t wait for them to stop, so I can fuck off home. I find crowds not claustrophobic but an unnecessary cluster of human flesh. I hate seeing young people enjoying themselves.

    “Perhaps your depressed”, my partner says. Of course I’m depressed. Everyone is, depression is the new black. I’m convinced the serotonin I so liberally destroyed in the 1990s has now depleted permanently. The testosterone that made it impossible to go without daily self pleasuring has faded except if I happen to brush passed it while adjusting my hernia. Sure I still get the brain horn but not the full body compulsion to have it. And the truth is, sex without love is like avocado without salt. Most of you will know what I mean. Okay shut up.

    I remember the moment I snuck into my first nightclub at 16. I felt something change. I moved from child to teenager. I remember choosing to drink my coffee black. I moved from suburban to urban. These moments marked a change. So too having zero interest in sex, it signified moving from youngish to older, and the end of self-inflicted sexual slavery.

    The unexpected side effect of diminishing sex drive was the draining of joy from my body. As spermatogenesis fizzled like fireworks in the rain so did the brains ability to produce serotonin. I still feel joy but not JOY. My 62 year old friend describes his excitement these days as “a low hum not high pitched”. I love this. It’s true, you’re not as easily impressed after 50. Your appreciation is set at a lower frequency. But one must not let this slide into cynicism, bitterness and contempt, as compatible as these vices are when you’re old.

    I had tickets to the coolest gig in town recently, I walked in and asked the bar attendant what time the gig started, the bar attendant said 9pm. It was 6pm. I said ‘fuck that’ and walked out. A beer cost nearly 10 pounds, say I drink 1 beer every 10 minutes, I was looking at 120 pounds to wait around with a bunch of desperate wankers silently justifying the expense to themselves. As I walked out the bouncer said ‘do you want a stamp so you can come back?’ I said ‘no’ and shook his hand, to make sure he didn’t take my early exit to heart. ‘Sorry’ he said. I said ‘don’t be sorry’. 30 years ago they were clutching my testicles to throw me out and now they are apologising for not keeping me in. I didn’t want my pitiful inertia reflect on him so I said ‘it’s my back’. I thought if he responds with ‘I can get you a chair’ I’m gonna have to pretend to pass out.

    I mean, have you ever heard a bouncer say sorry to anyone about anything?

    I must not, I must not, I must not let this slide into cynicism, bitterness and contempt.

    I must accept my new role as an excitement voyeur and smile my way through the crowd or leave early or don’t go at all.

    Say no, without explanation.

    “Do you want to go…?”

    “No”.

    Hear that low hum? That’s the resounding satisfaction of saying no without the explanation. Feels good doesn’t it, old person?

  • Balancing human rights and victim rights

    Our only achievement in the last 100 years is convincing more people that the brain is like a car…

    There is little we can do to prevent someone with a chronic mental health condition killing people. The slaughter of three little girls at a dance class in Southport in northern England. The random slaying of three people on the streets of Nottingham. The mass killing of people in a shopping mall in Sydney. They happened because mental illness unmedicated can in some cases result in violence and murder. We are better at learning from our mistakes in terms of mapping the system failings but are no better putting measures in place to safeguard against these. Sometimes it’s an email missed from police to mental health teams like in Sydney. Sometimes it’s someone not taking an episode of mental distress seriously enough. Often it’s about understaffing and under-resourcing. We are better at understanding mental illness and it’s consequences but seemingly no better at doing something about it.

    I don’t want to use the names of the men responsible for killing the little girls obsessed with Taylor Swift, a couple of university friends meandering home after a night out, a delivery driver doing his deliveries, a young mother who had to throw her baby into the arms of a bystander while she was being stabbed. Quite frankly I want them to disappear into hell. The killers don’t deserve our compassion but they do deserve the forensic analysis that tells us what we can do next time to medicate a potential killer before they kill. I support the use of reasonable force when detaining someone with the capacity to hurt themselves and others and compassionate tactics to stop a fit escalating into violence but I trust a jab of sedative before a foot on the neck.

    A friend told me once that we should provide wrap around social and therapeutic support for people mental illness rather than medicate. I adore idealists and encourage their view of the world but we all know there is not enough human resource in the world to adequately provide mental health services. Our only achievement in the last 100 years is convincing more people that the brain is like a car, it needs regular MOTs and that there is no shame in being mentally unwell. 50 years ago the Southport, Nottingham and Sydney stabbings would have been understood as ‘bad people doing bad things’ and we have to either hang them or lock them up. But now there’s a reason. Even Osama Bin Laden who masterminded killing 3000 people in New York in 2001, was often explained away as revenge for US crimes in the middle east. If he pulled off that same mass killing 100 years earlier, he would have been seen as a psychotic lunatic, born to be bad, motivation was not even considered. We are better at understanding context, we are better at seeing both sides of story. The information super highway, remember that? It means we receive information faster and have to weigh up the reasons. The social media algorithm threatens to remove context but it remains hungry for reason, true or not.

    Enlightenment is marvelous but it’s not reducing the wide spread harm associated with mental ill health. The world around us, it seems is making us even more mentally unwell and the resource we need to make us better and reduce the harm associated, is not within our grasps.

    To stop people with schizophrenia killing other people we need to do one thing, forcefully medicate. Mental health support services will never be robust enough to stop violence without this draconian backwards step.

  • Tanned and tariffic

    Capitalism is a powerful force but it’s blind followers are vulnerable to subjugation because at the heart of capitalism is the need to assert individualism and what goes with this is a slowness to mobilise.

    Tariffs on countries to pressure them into introducing tighter controls on borders and drug trafficking is a good idea. But drugs and migrants will continue to find new routes into countries where opportunities exist to make money. This is the basic Capitalist rule of supply and demand. A wall might help but Mexico will find new ways to smuggle Fentanyl into the US while there is demand, for instance. Cutting off supply will work only momentarily.

    Trump wants to enter deal negotiations where the US holds all the cards. Makes sense. He wants to win. He is prepared to push the US into recession in order to flatten the playing field and then rebuild it with the US holding all the cards.

    The problem is Russia and China also like to win. Trump and Musk will find themselves at the negotiation table under the illusion that they hold all the cards, only to discover Russia and China slapping down a royal flush (to drag out the analogy). This is because Russia and China are smarter. Both have risen from the ashes of communist ruin and opium wars and learnt valuable lessons on how to resist and gazump the West. Trump and Musk are new to this and have no idea what their doing except making sure they both become a whole lot wealthier. The West is not prepared to die for their country’s global advancement no matter how many US patriots tell you they are. It’s not woven into their DNA. Capitalism is a powerful force but it’s blind followers are vulnerable to subjugation because at the heart of capitalism is the need to assert individualism and what goes with this is a slowness to mobilise.

    When push comes to shove, the US won’t hold many cards at all. The Trump administration is a former superpower’s last gasp and last grasp on global dominance. The silence of Putin tells you all you need to know. He will allow Trump and Musk to juice all the profit they can out of their dying empire as long as they share the spoils and he will wait till the time is right to bring America to it’s knees once and for all.

    The only saving grace for Trump is he will conceal his humiliation with that bilious orange tan.

  • Knickers

    It’s still the quickest way to the top, in 3 easy steps – demonise minorities, amplify their threat and convince the mainstream they are losing grip on power.

    What happens when Donald Trump realises the extent of America’s powers? When all the might is flexed? And the true position of the USAs geopolitical power is laid bare? What does he turn to? How does he flex? What happens when no amount of fake news and posturing can convince the American people he is making them great again? The answer is not quit. Because we know that there is one thing that Donald Trump will never do…quit. Donald Trump will keep going, he will never relinquish power. The desk in the oval office is his until his heart stops beating. The White House is Orange until a bullet takes him out.

    Donald Trump has played us all for fools. Fear mongering always works. He knows that, in fact we all know that and yet once again the left has been made to look like the oppressor by right-wing fear mongering. They do it to us every time. And we let it happen. Careless with economy, wooly on the big issues, overly permissive, giving the crazy fringe special privilege, idealistic, out of touch with the hard working majority who are just trying to make and honest living and put food on the table for their families.

    We always assume the most articulate and most qualified make the best leaders but every few decades the charismatic snake charmer rises up and leads the pack into the abyss. A politician doesn’t win elections. Celebrity wins elections. The old reliable statesman in a grey suit who we assume knows better than us, is not very TikTok. The celebrity with an arsenal of sound bites and catch phrases, whose the embodiment of god, country and flag with a flare for gladiatorial theatrics, is. God, country and flag are terms so often weaponised against the left. So too “family values”. Jesus fuck the amount of times I’ve heard people use “family values” to justify some extreme far-right idea. The breakdown of the family is a consequence of the breakdown of society. Not the other way round. DICKS. Suggesting that anything outside of social norms is worthy of a voice can easily be blown out of proportion by the far-right and rebranded as an attack on the pillars of a civilised society.

    Transgender rights becomes a devious disguise for rapists and the end of women’s sport. Actually, in time, transgender women in sport will be regulated. If men are dressing as women to win, common sense tells us that some sort of regulation will be introduced. Can you really imagine a world where transgender women dominate professional women’s sport and cis-gendered women are the meek and defeated minority? And the vast majority of rapes will still be committed by a bloke in trousers not a bloke in a dress.

    Grown children of undocumented Mexican migrants becomes the biggest threat to American jobs. Grown children of undocumented migrants are blameless. Surely? What about the decline of manufacturing in the USA, surely that has something to do with it?

    Chinese e-commerce marketplace like Temu destroying the American economy. Not really. The big American companies still play a significant role in driving innovation, economic growth, and global trends.

    Lazy bureaucrats wasting tax payers money. It’s hard to measure government efficiency in a world that uses profit margin as its only gauge. A review of government efficiency is a great idea and I would say a necessary process. Most hard working folk are unwilling tax payers so holding these ‘dead at the desk’ civil servants accountable feels good. But it’s impossible to know what efficiency looks like in government agencies because they are not geared up to declare efficiency savings because that would make them vulnerable to budget cuts. It’s much safer to pretend your super stressed and over-worked and struggling to deliver on a shoe string budget in the public sector. I’ve been watching this facade play out throughout my entire career in the public sector. The private sector is about the art of what is possible and celebrating riches. The public sector is about regulating, safety-netting and crying poor.

    None of this reasoning and rational thinking will prevail while there is boundless money and power attached to fear mongering. It’s still the quickest way to the top, in 3 easy steps – demonise minorities, amplify their threat and convince the mainstream they are losing grip on power.

    The English have an expression ‘all fur coat and no knickers’ and that my friends is America today. What’s left of that fur jacket in 4 years time is anyone’s guess. And how many seals will need to die to make a new one is also anyone’s guess.