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.
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.
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.
Irregular Frequencies 