Everywhere we read, we hear shortages. Not enough money, not enough growth, not enough food to go round, not enough energy in our tanks to make it through the day (even though, at the last count, days have been the same length since day dot). Still, we moan. We love to find the threat and magnify it until it scares us to an early death.

Not sure about you but I’ve had it with the finite argument. Today a scientist told me how we’ve blown our phosphorous budget (which feels like going lala in the fireworks shop). Seriously, because phosphorous is serious, we are using it up as such a rate, it’ll be all gone by next Tuesday. Ok, I lied about the date, but you get his point. By his, I mean Tom Philpott who writes for Mother Jones.

Rather than bury you in a phosphate PHD, here’s a very quick potted history of how we came to fuck up the world’s supply of phosphate.

Phosphorous was the 13th element to be discovered (see, it’s unlucky). Anyway, we eat crops and these plants need phosphorus to grow. No big P, no bumper harvest. Farmers used to make their own with compost, but as the global belly cracked the whip for more food, they bought it cheap from abroad. We’re talking dirty, nasty fertiliser, the kind your nose never forgets. Fast forward to 2013 and we’re running on empty. Help. Someone light a phosphate flare.

According to Tom, there are 2 answers.

1. Morocco. 85% of the world’s phosphate lives in rocks in the chillum-smoking capital of planet Earth. They are our dealers (in hashish as well as phosphate) and they have us where they want us, gagging for more and paying over the odds. Unless some rodent finds an endless supply somewhere else, we’ll see Morocco joining the mega-rich oil sheiks of the middle east. Not that we mind that. At least it’s not in China.

2.  Wee. Our urine is phosphate-tastic. We wee out enough phosphorous to feed more than half the crops we need to get by. So, if there’s anyone out there happy to attach a hose to their underpants (yes, it needs some design finessing) we might yet save the day.



It’s Cherry Blossom week. Actually, if it lasts 5 days, we’ll be lucky. As I write, a breeze yanks several thousand pink petals for a paraglide. This is Mother Nature’s confetti and we are the silent congregation witnessing the marriage of anthers and bees.

Of all the flowers the soil can transfix us with, Cherry Blossom is the supernova. It is so paralysingly beautiful in blossom, it could not last a second longer. Beauty is a fleeting quality to be shared among the visual fanfares at work in the wild. To remain in flower for an entire month, the cherry blossom would have to be one ugly motherfucker, disfigured to the point of turning the onlooker to stone, or possibly sawdust.

Yet there is so much to be learnt. If we lived in short sharp ebullient bursts instead of marathon life sentences, we would shine, fade, wilt and reboot to shine again.

Plants, people, buildings, we’re all deciduous.


He wasn’t just ahead of his time, he was of another time, a time that made every aspect of the present tense feel dated. Social media never quite recovered from his movements. He sent psychometric professors into tailspins playing the Pied Piper to 3.5bn rats who all became ‘mavens’, further distorting any traceable patterns for the adland parasites.

He de-stabilized every major political paradigm as voters delisted their vote, leaving nobody on Earth under the age of 83 as living electorate. Self-government ruled and ruled sensationally well, with authority somehow finding its own boundaries without any insurgency.

Cults tried to attach themselves to him, but he was gone, representing the very thing they railed against before they could react and adapt. They debated his very existence…was he flesh and blood at all, or just the one who we all needed without knowing why?

Who was he?

He is about to be you.