I was watching a film tonight about ethics, and it posed a powerful question that stuck with me. Imagine you’re walking past a pond, and there, trapped in the middle, is a small child — stranded, alone, with no parents in sight. You look down and see you’re wearing your brand-new Gucci shoes. You hesitate, thinking about ruining them. But the child is sinking fast, slipping below the surface.
Put aside the cold-hearted psychopath — almost everyone would dive in without a second thought, soaking those expensive shoes to save that child.
Now, ask yourself this: if that same child was starving, trapped in poverty instead of water, would you be willing to give £1,000 to a charity fighting that hunger? Would you?
This question lays bare the shallow vanity of consumerism, exposing the gap between instinctive compassion and our everyday choices. It’s a brutal mirror reflecting how we value possessions over people.
2-square-kilometre area of woodland on the south-west side of the Avon Gorge, close to the Clifton Suspension Bridge.
As we age, face the harsh realities of life, lose loved ones, and perhaps start to contemplate our own mortality, we have choices. We can succumb to the darkness of reactionary impulses, which have built up over the years or not.
I leave an evening with John Lydon early with mixed feelings and knowing we have parted ways. Seeking to unpick Lydon today is not a joyful experience. He has long stopped being the once charismatic leader of two charismatic bands that helped shape my personal musical journey.
Lydon’s abandonment of his class politics, which I know winds a few people up, has little importance to me. However, through his physical gesturing, his mocking of Diane Abbot, the U.K. first black female MP, says far more about his current state of thinking than any words leaving his mouth. It’s mocking straight out of the Trump playbook. It’s not funny and simply gives the impression (rightfully or wrongly) of spitefulness. I do feel a sense of unease.
Lydon’s attempts at personality assassinations are predictable, often crude and dull. Refections of his time with the Pistols are old news, regurgitated stories many would have heard countless times before. His contempt for fellow Pistol’s, especially drummer Paul Cook, are delivered like an unconvincing victim who has woken to the news that nobody really cares 40 years later.
Repeating the word cunt. I genuinely believe Lydon is the last person in the room to understand it’s all wearing thin, but he keeps repeating it, time and time again. It’s silly, tedious even. Recollections of butter adverts he made over a decade ago are told as if recent glories.
By far, the best parts of the evening are when he reflects on those he holds close. His parents, brothers and wife Nora. There is a sense of genuine reflection and encouragement for those dealing with loss or faced with the prospect of losing a loved one through the horrors of Alzheimer’s Disease.
Reflections of growing up in working-class neighbourhoods ring hollow now. There is little conviction behind the words. Just an analogue image of dusty memories, fading and recast into the light through a chipped lens of fake nostalgia and patriotism.
Lydon will always have his core fanbase. Tonight it’s an overwhelmingly white, 50+-year-old, male audience. Nothing wrong with this, of course, though one can hardly ignore the reality, like a ripple in a pond, it’s a case of ever-decreasing circles.
In truth, I’m bored; he starts to end the night by instigating an Abba singalong in memory to Sid Vicious. I’m out of here. The pantomime is over.
He stands there, a Pep Guardiola doppelgänger—if Pep had not seen better days. Slightly dishevelled, thinner, with a nervous twitch that whispers of a thousand secret battles fought with the bottle. His fingers fumble through loose change, each coin a silent confession. Around him, the world rushes by, oblivious to the storm inside him. I watch, caught between curiosity and sympathy. He looks broken.
I order a tea. The server pours it fast into a flimsy cardboard cup, the tea bag bobbing on the surface. “Say when,” he says, tipping in the milk. “When,” I reply. Our eyes meet—just for a flash—and in that brief exchange, something like a sigh echoes in the space between us, a shared moment of unspoken understanding.
Stepping away from the trailer, I clutch the cup tight and settle beside an aluminum-framed chair and its matching table. I place my tea down, along with my phone.
It’s been 22 years since I first landed in Bristol. This spot, just outside the Watershed, has always been my unofficial lookout—a small tea and coffee trailer that serves a wicked banana and chocolate crepe if you’re lucky enough to catch it.
Perfect for people-watching. A theatre of life playing out in real time, if only you looked up from your screens.
Groups of kids swarm by, trading insults I barely understand. Behind the bravado, one quiet kid lurks—awkward, shy, desperate for a place to belong. Seagulls swoop, crying out for crumbs. A wasp buzzes, menacing. Nearby, a man in a worn leather biker jacket stretches out, dragging deep on his cigarette, smoke curling around him like a lazy ghost.
The pedestrian crossing beeps, and a wave of new faces washes past. A young woman in her early twenties halts, fingers running through her long hair. She tilts her head just so, puckers her lips like a fish, snaps a selfie, and moves on—already lost in her own digital world.
The Pep Guardiola lookalike edges closer, scavenging discarded cigarette butts like they’re treasure.
My phone buzzes—a prompt to upgrade to the latest iPhone. I take a slow sip of tea, eyes drifting upward to the Weathervane spinning lazily overhead.
And then—just like that—he’s gone.
The largest homemade collection of 8mm celluloid film captures both a time, but also people loving life from the defunct German Democratic Republic. Click on the anti-archive link and just get lost in individual stories. This is the link to the full website
Two elderly men stood outside a grand house in St. David’s, Wales. The street held its breath, inviting onlookers to wonder: who were they? What memories bound them there? The image opened a doorway to countless untold stories—waiting quietly for someone to imagine.
Ideas left to lie dormant dissolve into the ether of well-meaning what-ifs. The pandemic lockdown, with its forced stillness, cracked open time and space to dust off my long list of stalled ideas. Hidden within was the seed of Irregular Patterns—though it had no name back then.
I’m lucky. Very lucky. A life spent immersed in the creative worlds of music and live performance has shaped me. But I’ve also seen the cracks: musicians I know struggling long before lockdowns, drained by the streaming economy’s unfair split. Even seasoned pros tell stories of exploitation—shady managers, exploitative record deals, endless pressure to perform for free. The backbone of one of the world’s greatest cultural exports is fraying fast.
Then came a game-changing conversation with local musician Gavin McClafferty. His focus, vision, and grit turned those scattered ideas into a living, breathing project. Irregular Patterns isn’t just a record label—it’s a creative hub built around the artist.
Less than a year in, we’re on the cusp of our first release, with a growing roster and an ambitious release schedule ahead. The support and encouragement we’ve received so far? Humbling.
I won’t rehash what’s already out there—the IP manifesto is our cornerstone. But here’s the truth: being the change we want in the music industry is our vital first step. The road hasn’t been easy; we’ve had to break down walls. But more than anything, this leap of faith reminds me—we’re in the happy business after all.
This weekend, I had the chance to spin a DJ set at a friend’s 50th birthday party in Hove — and for a few electrifying hours, it felt like a return to normal. The energy was electric, the crowd was alive, and the music brought everyone together. It wasn’t just a party; it was a celebration of connection, laughter, and pure, unfiltered fun. Almost like old times, but better.
If, for some baffling cosmic glitch, you’ve never met Supersonic Man, allow me to be your guide. Released in 1979, this cinematic gem proudly claims the title of “best worst movie ever made”—a bona fide classic of glorious absurdity that you simply can’t miss. Think superhero camp meets cosmic chaos, wrapped up in a package so wonderfully flawed, it’s impossible not to love.
Irregular Frequencies 