GDPR. What’s your tally? I’m on my 67th this week. As I write, another ping, another fucking supercilious, sanctimonious email trying like desperate fuck to be my fucking friend, preying on my weakest moment of distraction to keel over and resubscribe.

Privacy has never been so invasive.

Here’s the truth (come closer you can’t hear from over there) WE ARE NOT FRIENDS. NOT THEN. NOT NOW. NOT EVER.

Why have you left it this late to be funny, profound, apologetic, respectful, irreverent? You’ve dumped your ill-thought landfill on me for years, and now, just as we’re about to call it day, you get down on your scabby knees and beg for me to stay. Yes, I’m an idiot. Dense as double-weave-concrete. Should’ve bailed yonks ago and not turned this week into a communication ultimatum that piles on the guilt like a cultural equivalent of tax deadline day.

Somewhere, in between the javelins of small talk, I’ve shimmied left and right, evading the barbed triple hooks that hide beneath your kiss-and-make-up missive. This shedding of mail is akin to a snake shedding its skin. It should be annual thing. A way for us all to live lighter lives. For correspondence to come and go, as we do with our lives. To accept that routine, like marriage, is slow motion murder.

So,,, delete, drop, dump.

If you suffer intolerable withdrawal symptoms, your body will tell you.

Chances are, it’ll tell your something else, something it hasn’t told you in a while, something you need to hear. That it loves you. That it hates mental digital pollution more than you drinking bleach. That your soul can stop holding its breath. That your whole being can stop going AWOL and muster in the same gelatinous body as the human electricity that has been struggling with power cuts.

Thank fuck you don’t subscribe to thisness.


The world has its binary knickers in a two-legged twist. And it hurts. Real bad. Thanks to a spate of double-dumb questions provoking divisive answers that cleaver families in half, we have become yodellers in our own echo craters, closed to the other view, violently disagreeing with anything that strays off our self-affirming, ever-narrowing sliver of what’s right.

Like global warming, gobstoppers and Arsene Wenger, this one side only syndrome can’t go on forever.

Something has to give.

Versus is curses.

Equals has sequels.

Welcome to bothism, small ‘b’ don’t you know. It’s a 2-way law that states that opposing things are at least 51% identical. It goes on to state that these so-called enemies are interdependent, they govern, nourish, develop and give life to each other. It believes totally in compliment and not at all in compromise, which is, in itself, quite a lot to get your preconceived head around.

It is founded on moments of linguistic nirvana, namely this:

“The test of a first rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function.” – yes, you know who said that…no, it wasn’t grandad after a few sherries at Xmas…it was…yes, that’s it. FSF.

And this:

“Wit is the sudden marriage of ideas, which, before their union, were not perceived to have any relation.” And that’s by, yes, don’t tell me, it’s coming, nope…it’s gone. MT. Oh, thanks.

This isn’t intended to ever be a manifesto. It’s more of a bridge. Instead of a wall. Not that all walls are bad. Some are great for climbing and dancing on, or leaping off (as any teenage kid on a quay in Cornwall will testify).

So go wrap your arms around the person you least like the look or views of, knowing deep down you overlap way past half way.

Try being both-ist.

And making the moth-ist.