Paul Weller has been the soundtrack to my adult life—through all his musical reinventions and evolutions. Now, it’s not that every release hits the mark for me, but what sets him apart is his unwavering commitment to authenticity. His artistic integrity and continuous growth have made him a true standout, especially among artists emerging from the late ’70s scene.
Watching the fan bash tonight, it’s clear there’s a deep nostalgia for the glory days of The Jam and The Style Council—and I get it, those classics are timeless. But Weller often shines brightest when he and his band cut loose on his later work, revealing a raw, loose energy that feels fresh and vital.
For me, Paul Weller is simply the Ray Davies of our generation—a storyteller and musical craftsman who continues to evolve while staying true to himself.
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.
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.
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 