She held his hand at every turn until the day he lost it to a bull terrier bite. From then on, she pinched his bum through baggy jeans until the day that too disappeared, lost to deep winter frostbite. When she joked it was a case of ‘twice bitten, once shy’, he left her.


Sunday is a bum day for mothers across the world to be applauded and lauded. Monday morning is hell getting kids to school, notorious as a duff day in the workplace and a triple whammy of woe if you happen to be a guilt-ridden catholic. It smacks of a patriarchal society when we give women the one day off that most people take off.

So, I motion Friday.

Let’s grant them a day off worth having and roll it into a mothering 72 hour weekend, not just a day. And it could happen twice a year around the clocks going forward and back as if to acknowledge the unseen crap they have to deal with every minute of every relentless day. As a double daughter dad, I may be biased or simply OD’d on oestrogen in a busy home. Either way, I’m grateful.

There will always be those out there wanting a ‘MOTHERFUCKERING SUNDAY’ and yes, you’re welcome to your contrarian view but let’s face it, it’s a feeble psedo-schock one-liner without the blood in its heart to revive a baby on a life support machine.

You can back or block this motion. No human has ever been born into this world without a mother, so we all have one to be thankful for, be she alive or dead. They may embarrass you to the bare bone or harass you for your wasted life. They may flirt with your friends or feed you food that makes you wretch. They may remarry a twat or squander every cent you give them. But one way or the other, they do make the world a better place.

One day in this lifetime, we’ll all twig and say, ‘Thank Mum it’s Friday.’


There’s a whole of ness-ness going on in the world right now, as long-standing readers of thisness will know. No doubt thatness and thereness will one day compete for the title of The Royal Thenness. Until then, we’ll make do with Nowness, a new publication that calls itself a digital leader in luxury storytelling. I’m not really one for all-out luxury, but maybe you are.

Nowness has a love/don’t love button to trump/trash the content.

With all my love, please start here with Dana Lixenberg’s show at FOAM in Amsterdam:



The future looks long, slow and sweaty in more ways than one. If you happen to find your latter days in West Somerset, you can expect to hang in until the age of 104.

One hundred and fucking four you say.

Yes. The medium age in this county of centurions is 52. So, rolling with this, we might as well work until we’re 80+. During these years we will amass body mass and pile on the cholesterol to keep us warm in winter as the heating bills will be unpayable. Throw in the declining IQ and we might well be writing the manifesto for Euthanasists the world over.

Pass me the toaster, I’m just about to have a bath.


Warren Buffett is an extra-extraordinary man. His £42bn gift to the Bill Gates Foundation said as much about his ego as it did about his wealth. He has stated on record that he will give away 99% of his wealth. Maybe if we all adopted this spirit of generosity, we’d all be billionaires, if only until we passed our fortune on.

Earth Tax, Gift Aid and other well-named philanthropic gestures are 1% there. It’s just the remaining 98% they need to work on.


As Japan steels itself for 3hr daily power cuts to cope with the tsunami, I propose it as an initiative to stem the avalanche of online garbage.

Think of it as a vow of silence on twitter, a short term vasectomy on facebook, a self-imposed fatwa on blogs, a black out on content creation to allow quality and thought to catch up and slap some sense into quantity.

www.blackout.orb is a new counter-content real life activity that simply edits what the world needs. It lets the planet breathe by siphoning off the dross before it has a chance to air or happen, thus leaving only the most insightful comment and thinking to further the human race. Whether he meant it or not, this is the Dalai Lama’s parting gift to us all.

If you’d like to join www.blackout.orb do absolutely nothing for as long as you possibly can and rest easy that you’ve done more to save this planet from fatal self-harm than any action ever will.


Apologies for the quality of this communication.

We now receive messages that often end with: Sent from my i-phone/blackberry/android (delete as necessary).

This is not just an ad for the mobile. It’s an excuse for the laziness of the words. It cuts the sender some slack while vaguely insulting the person at the other end with the following subtext: ‘This was written in haste because you’re not that important to me and I’m really busy, don’t you know.’

Assuming it’ll become the norm and we’ll dictate our written messages before too long, we will see how rude/polite the machine will interpret our voice and tone. Will it edit us? Will it stop typing and say to us, “hang on you mean motherfucker, go easy on her, she’s your granny”.  Will it self-correct our idle grammar? Will it contextualise our message and explain our distractions? Will it add its own PS to sweeten up the recipient?

Apple, HTC, Nokia, Sony Ericcson & Co, I take it you’re working on this right now. If not, why not. You got us into these habits. There better be a way out because sooner or later a smartphone will start a dumb war.


Since when did a tailor go on tour?

Well today, as it happens.

Mr Daswani (and his Raja Fashions label from Kowloon, Hong Kong) is no ordinary tailor. He’s a showman. He makes Oswald Boateng look like Mr Buyright when it comes to front. Mr Raja M Daswani advertises with the balls of a brontosaurus. His full page epics in the sports pages of the broad sheets read like a Christopher Guest screenplay. These cocksure jabs at the not-so-Great British suit take the whole industry of fashion and ram its head through a mangle. When he starts a sentence with ‘I love seeing customers walk in a really bad suit that cost a fortune’ he makes you want to head for the Hilton Newcastle Gateshead just to see if a) he actually exists, and b) how fabulous his insults are face to face.

Before you storm his tour, read the big print: By Appointment Only.

Bagsy first.


The ShelterBox Hotel lived for all of a night.

It went up in 9 hours and came down in 3.

In between we toasted the brilliant work of ShelterBox, the brilliant build of the crew and the brilliant verve of our guests who trusted us to create a hotel from scratch from scrap.

Here we are, an hour in.

Eight hours later, the doors open and guests rock up.

To those who came, who saw and who concussed after many too many drinks, we toast you.


By this time tomorrow night, I hope to be asleep with 24 others in a hotel we’ve built inside the Eden Project Mediterrranean biome from waste material in 10 hours to last for one night only.

When we say waste, we mean thousands of disused tent poles, scraps of sheepskin offcuts, torn parachute silks and some kids hand-me-down jumpers doubling up as water bottle jackets.

If you find yourself at Eden tomorrow, please come and help to thread a pole into our structure.

If it all works, joy to the world.

If it all fails, joy to the world.

The point is not to make a thing of everlasting beauty but to see what we can make as a temporary home for a small community for a short period of time, as this is the way ShetlerBox works.

We hope to raise money in doing this hard-to-do thing.

If you’d like to help the cause, please help here:


Thank you and sleep well.