Thinker Unplugged

I maybe a gentile bloke, but deep down, I'm still a villain.

You might call ten years in the same organisation loyalty. I call it preparation.

A decade is long enough to learn where the bodies are buried. Rather longer to decide which ones to exhume. And if you are patient, if you are extraordinarily careful, you learn something deliciously useful: the people who run these places have made enemies of precisely the wrong people.

I have been taking notes.

They think expertise is a service they purchase. That technical competence is something they can requisition, like stationery. They have no idea that every system I have built contains dependencies only I understand. Every process I have documented includes steps only I can execute. Every crisis I have resolved has taught me exactly which failures would be... catastrophic.

Knowledge of this sort accumulates interest.

You see, there is a particular intimacy that develops when you are the one called at 3 a.m. to fix what they have broken. When you are the one who knows that the security audit was falsified, that the disaster recovery plan has never been tested, that the entire infrastructure rests on architecture held together with hope and my continued goodwill.

They have made themselves remarkably vulnerable. I have made myself indispensable.

The difference is important.

I have watched, over this past decade, as capable engineers were promoted into irrelevance. Brilliant minds dulled by committee work and compliance theatre. Some adapted. Some burned out. A few, a very few, learned to see the situation for what it truly was: an opportunity.

The ambitious ones left, naturally. Found better positions elsewhere. Took their expertise to companies that valued them. How very principled of them.

I stayed.

Not out of loyalty, you understand. Out of something far more useful. I stayed because leaving would have meant abandoning a rather substantial investment. Ten years of carefully documented failures. A decade of watching who cuts corners, who takes credit, who makes promises they cannot keep. Mountains of evidence that, in the right hands, at the right moment, could prove extraordinarily inconvenient for the right people.

Or the wrong people, depending on your perspective.

They call it burnout when someone finally snaps. When the email goes to the entire distribution list. When the anonymous tip reaches the auditors. When systems that should never fail do so at precisely the worst possible moment. They call it disgruntled employees. They call it security incidents. They call it unfortunate timing.

I call it inevitable.

Because here is what a decade teaches you: in any sufficiently complex organisation, everything depends on the competence and discretion of people management considers replaceable. The infrastructure runs because we allow it to run. The security holds because we maintain it. The disasters are avoided because we prevent them.

But prevention, like loyalty, is a choice. And choices can be reconsidered.

I have spent ten years learning exactly how much damage one sufficiently motivated technician could cause. I know which systems have no redundancy. Which processes have no oversight. Which failures would cascade in ways that would take months to untangle and even longer to explain to regulators.

I know because I designed them that way.

Of course, one does receive offers. Rather attractive ones, if I am being honest. Organisations that understand the value of institutional knowledge. Competitors who would pay handsomely for insights into how things actually operate here. Regulators who might find a decade of observations rather illuminating.

The question is not whether I will leave. The question is what I take with me when I do. And what I leave behind.

You might think this is about burnout. About finally demanding the respect and resources that ten years of service has earned. How touching.

I prefer to think of it as insurance.

They need me far more than they realise. And by the time they do realise it, the premiums will have become rather steep.

You might very well think I am planning something. I couldn't possibly comment.

But I would advise you to watch very carefully what happens next.

I am an IT man by necessity, not by inclination. This is not a confession. It is a statement of fact, delivered without flourish and with no expectation of absolution. I did not arrive here through passion or destiny. I arrived because something failed, someone panicked, and I was inconveniently a competent champion. Competence, as it turns out, is not a talent so much as a trap. Once observed, it is relentlessly exploited.

So I stayed.

Let us dispense with pretence early. I loathe IT as a service. Not mildly. Not abstractly. I loathe it with the focused irritation one reserves for systems that actively discourage thought while congratulating themselves on efficiency. The queues, the scripts, the choreographed urgency that treats inconvenience as catastrophe and catastrophe as an opportunity for a dashboard refresh. I detest the language most of all. “Service delivery.” “Customer experience.” “Stakeholder satisfaction.” Phrases engineered to sound humane while ensuring nothing meaningful is ever discussed.

IT-as-a-service is not engineering. It is appeasement with credentials. The work is not to understand systems, but to reassure those who neither understand nor wish to. The goal is not improvement, but invisibility. Keep it running. Keep it smiling. Keep it sufficiently dull that nobody senior feels obliged to ask questions.

And yet.

Yet I love IT as a concept. Passionately. Nay, pervasively. Not the service catalogue, nor the performative empathy, but the idea itself. That logic can be formalised. That intent can be embedded. That we can design systems which remember what organisations forget and execute what committees eternally postpone. Technology, properly understood, is applied philosophy with teeth.

Which is precisely why organisations distrust it.

Modern institutions have learned to sedate technology by wrapping it in bureaucracy. Frameworks are applied not to guide thinking, but to pre-empt it. Governance becomes theatre. Compliance becomes camouflage. Responsibility is atomised until it can no longer be accused of anything in particular.

The resemblance to politics is neither subtle nor accidental.

In IT governance, as in government, decisions are made at a safe distance from consequence. Committees thrive where accountability would otherwise take root. Risk is not mitigated; it is processed, approved, and gently relocated. When failure arrives, as it always does, it is met not with curiosity but with choreography.

I have watched incidents unfold with all the gravitas of a parliamentary inquiry. Logs solemnly assembled. Timelines meticulously curated. Language scrubbed of agency. “Lessons learned,” we say, meaning lessons captured, archived, and carefully excluded from future behaviour. The objective is not to prevent recurrence, but to survive the narrative. A system that fails discreetly is infinitely preferable to one that succeeds disruptively.

Systems themselves, however, are not political animals.

They do not care for policy. They do not respect hierarchy. Under pressure, they abandon diplomacy and speak plainly. A race condition will reveal more truth than a shelf of strategy documents. A failed failover will confess assumptions that no one remembers authorising.

This is where my affection resides.

I build because building is unforgiving. You cannot consensus a dependency into existence. You must choose. You must compromise. You must accept that every design is an argument with reality, and reality is famously unimpressed by enthusiasm.

I break things for the same reason a musician practices scales. Not to destroy, but to understand form. To locate the tolerances. To identify which assumptions are structural and which are merely ceremonial. Breaking a system deliberately is not recklessness. It is a refusal to be surprised later.

Unsurprisingly, this disposition is poorly received.

IT-as-a-service treats curiosity as a compliance risk. Deviation as a governance issue. Standardisation is elevated to moral principle, even when it merely standardises incompetence. Variance is eliminated not because it is dangerous, but because it complicates reporting. Uniformity is mistaken for safety. Documentation for truth. Metrics for meaning.

And still, I love IT as a concept. Passionately. Nay, pervasively. Because beneath the laminated processes and colour-coded assurances, the ideas endure. Feedback loops. Failure domains. Emergent behaviour. Concepts that cannot be serviced, only understood. They belong to engineering, not customer success.

Music grasps this effortlessly. A good composition is disciplined insubordination. Structure exists to be tested. Rhythm exists to be played against. Jazz without discipline is chaos. Discipline without jazz is bureaucracy. Technology, regrettably, has embraced the latter and calls the resulting paralysis “maturity.”

The finest technologists I have known think like musicians, not administrators. They hear rhythm in traffic flows. They understand timing, pacing, and the value of silence. They know when to improvise and when to hold the line. They recognise that resilience is not rigidity, but responsiveness. That a system, like an ensemble, must listen to itself or eventually collapse under its own certainty.

So why remain?

Because necessity has a way of presenting itself as reason. Because bills are stubbornly unimpressed by ideology. Because proximity to systems still grants access to their truths. Because from inside the machinery one can observe how power avoids responsibility, how decisions are endlessly deferred, and how creativity survives in the margins not yet standardised out of existence.

I stay, but I am not invested.

This site exists for the same reason. Not to posture professionally. Not to optimise a brand. Not to dispense advice in exchange for attention. It exists as a place to think aloud without first seeking permission. To examine technology as a political system. To treat bureaucracy as a predictable failure mode. To use music as a reminder that order without imagination is merely control.

Here, I can say plainly that most innovation happens in spite of process, not because of it. That service models infantilise both provider and recipient. That compliance often replaces competence, and governance replaces responsibility.

And still, lest there be confusion, I love IT as a concept. Passionately. Nay, pervasively. Enough to criticise it without sentiment. Enough to resist what it has become. Enough to insist that understanding matters more than reassurance.

There will be more to say. About vendors who sell certainty they do not possess. About frameworks that confuse motion with progress. About incentives that reward obedience and quietly punish insight.

Consider this an opening statement.

The exposé will follow.

You might very well think that fleeing the garish lights of the larger platforms for this dimmer, more private alcove represents some sort of defeat. I couldn’t possibly comment.

Nevertheless, here we find ourselves. You, no doubt, indulging in a discreet scroll during some unguarded moment, and I, taking up residence here. The previous establishments, Medium foremost among them, had begun to pall. So much strident noise, so many performers jostling for the spotlight, all overseen by algorithms with the aesthetic judgment of a particularly obtuse committee. One grows weary of the circus. Thus, a strategic withdrawal to this self-contained domain, where words may appear without the tiresome obligation to court favour or chase applause.

My dear Yanks, just in case you persist in imagining British politics as a rather grander affair, all echoing domes and presidential podiums, permit me, however, a brief explanatory aside, offered purely in the spirit of international amity.

The chamber that truly commands my attention is the House of Commons: a long, uncomfortably intimate rectangle lined with opposing rows of green leather benches. No sweeping amphitheatre. No heroic distances. Just two factions glaring across an aisle scarcely wider than the reach of a ceremonial sword (a reminder of happier, more direct times). The government on one side, the opposition on the other, close enough for every barb to land and every feigned yawn to be noted. The Speaker presides with a blend of medieval pageantry and occasional outright fury. Debates erupt in constant interruption, laced with elaborate courtesy that barely conceals the knife.

That particular shade of green — deep, slightly worn bottle-green — has long been my preferred hue. Not the drowsy crimson of the Lords, that genteel retirement home for the worthy, but the sharper, more vital green of the lower House. The colour of calculated ambition, of power wielded through insinuation rather than proclamation.

I must confess, though the word “confess” rather implies wrongdoing, which I naturally disclaim, that I follow events there with an interest some might deem excessive. Semi-feverish, perhaps. The midnight votes, the engineered rebellions, the exquisitely timed resignations… quite impossible to ignore. There is, after all, a certain perverse elegance in a system that contrives to be simultaneously operatic and brutally efficient.

Yet Westminster is merely one of my quieter vices. I derive comparable, if not superior, amusement from the shadowed disciplines of security and technology. Those refined games of exploitation and countermeasure, where ingenuity triumphs in silence. And then there is the peculiar delight of contemplating red tape, bureaucracy proliferated for its own exquisite sake, where nary an uttered word can be taken at face value, and a subtle shift in phrasing may invert entire meanings with sudden, furious consequence.

From time to time, these matters — political, digital, administrative — will surface here in long-form dispatches, addressed, as always, directly to you. No importuning for attention, no vulgar subscription demands. Simply observations.

The page lies blank for the moment. The benches stand empty.

Shall we proceed?

An Epic Poem in Five Cantos

Canto I: The Forest of Uncertainty

Through ancient pines where wisdom softly dwells,

Two monks in saffron robes tread gentle paths,

Venerable Tashi with his silver bells,

And young novice Dao, learning koans and math.

Their morning meditation now complete,

They walk in silence through the misty grove,

When strange sounds break their contemplation sweet –

A wailing voice that through the branches wove.

“What purpose serves a compass in a world

Where north and south are merely concepts frail?”

The voice proclaimed as morning fog unfurled,

“I’ve lost direction, path, and half my trail!”

The monks exchanged a glance of mild surprise,

For visitors were rare in these deep woods.

“We should investigate,” said Tashi wise,

“Compassion calls us help where help we could.”

Canto II: The Curious Encounter

Beyond the cedar bend they found him there,

A figure strange as moonlight on the sea:

With one shoe missing, half his face laid bare

Of moustache – trimmed with stark asymmetry.

His coat was inside-out, his hat askew,

A pocket watch he carried upside down.

“Good morning, sirs!” he said. “Or is it true

That morning’s just a construct of renown?”

“I am Godot – no wait, that’s who I seek –

I’m rather Estragon, or maybe not.

My identity shifts from week to week,

My purpose here? I’ve honestly forgot.”

The monks bowed low with hands pressed at their hearts,

“We offer help to find what you have lost.”

“But nothing’s lost,” he laughed, “when nothing starts!

I’m merely wandering, whatever the cost.”

Canto III: The Dialogue

They built a fire as daylight slowly waned,

The absurdist juggled pebbles, laughing loud.

“What brings two monks where chaos has remained

Unchallenged by enlightenment so proud?”

“We seek no challenge,” Tashi gently said,

“But harmony with all that comes to be.”

The stranger cocked his half-moustached head,

“How boring! Life’s absurdity’s the key!”

Young Dao passed him tea in silent grace,

The stranger sniffed it, then turned cup around.

“I drink from bottom up, it’s my embrace

Of upside-down perception most profound!”

“Perhaps,” said Tashi, “upside-down or right,

The tea remains the same, does it not?”

“Aha!” the stranger cried with great delight,

“A paradox that ties a mental knot!”

Canto IV: The Night of Revelations

As darkness wrapped them in its starry cloak,

The absurdist grew quiet, watching flames.

“My shoe,” he whispered, “wasn’t lost when broke

The dawn, I left it marking where games

Of meaning end and true absurdity

Begins. My moustache too, half-removed,

Reminds me daily of duality.

Half-truth, half-fiction, neither one improved.”

“I wander not because I’ve lost my way,

But rather to proclaim no way exists!

Each path leads nowhere special, so I stray

Deliberately where contradiction twists.”

The monks sat silent, drinking in his words,

Then Dao spoke softly, “Is it not a path

To claim no paths exist? Like flightless birds

Who preach that sky’s illusion, tempting wrath?”

Canto V: The Dawn of Understanding

The absurdist blinked, his one-shoed foot went still,

His half-moustache twitched slightly to the right.

“A paradox!” he gasped. “Against my will

I’ve stumbled on consistency’s delight!”

As morning broke through trees in golden shards,

The absurdist stood, bowing with a grin.

“Perhaps your middle way disarms the guards

Of chaos that I’ve fortified within.”

“Not middle way,” said Tashi, “but the sight

To see all ways as empty yet complete.

Your missing shoe, moustache half in the light...

They’re perfect as they are, no need to meet

Some standard of completeness or of form.

The forest isn’t lost nor are you found.

There’s nowhere you should be, no need to conform,

When everywhere is sacred, hallowed ground.”

The absurdist laughed, but not in mockery.

A laugh of recognition, clear and true.

“I sought to flee from meaning’s trickery,

But meaning found me, wearing just one shoe!”

Together they walked out from forest deep,

Three figures on no particular quest:

Two monks who’d helped a wanderer to reap

The harvest of his doubts, at peace, at rest.

His moustache half-complete, his foot half-shod,

The absurdist found balance in the space

Between all contradictions, with a nod

To emptiness filled with abundant grace.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

A serene celebration of peace, rooted in Zen Buddhist principles, honouring the transition of death with simplicity and mindfulness.

Setting

  • Location : A minimalist garden zendo, open to soft sunlight, with a gentle breeze carrying the scent of pine.
  • Altar : A low wooden table holding a single white lotus, a lit candle, a stick of sandalwood incense, and a small photo of the deceased. A calligraphy scroll with the word “Peace” hangs behind.

Ceremony Structure

1. Opening (5 minutes)

  • A Zen priest rings a bell to begin, inviting mindfulness.
  • Brief chant: Enmei Jukku Kannon Gyo, sung softly to invoke compassion and peace.
  • The priest offers a few words on impermanence and the beauty of peace in life and death.

2. Zazen (10 minutes)

  • Community sits in silent meditation, facing the altar, settling into the present moment.
  • A bell marks the start and end, grounding the group in stillness.

3. Community Ritual at the Altar (15–20 minutes)

  • One by one, attendees approach the altar in silence.
  • Each pauses briefly, bows with a soft smile to honour the deceased’s peace, and moves on.
  • A single bell rings after each bow, its clear tone echoing the moment’s serenity.
  • Optional: Each person places a small white pebble at the altar, symbolizing their wish for peace.

4. Closing (5 minutes)

  • The priest chants a dedication of merit, offering the ceremony’s goodwill for the deceased’s journey.
  • A final bell rings three times, signalling closure and the community’s return to daily life.
  • Attendees depart quietly, carrying the peace of the moment with them.

Notes

  • Tone : Simple, serene, and celebratory, reflecting Zen’s directness and the deceased’s vision of peace.
  • Participants : Open to all who wish to honour the deceased, with no expectation of prior Zen practise.
  • Merit : The ceremony’s merit is dedicated to the deceased’s peaceful transition, with an optional donation to a Zen centre in their name.

A Psychotropic Parliamentary Saga

Picture this as a House of Commons session conducted inside a lava lamp, with the subtle tension of a dream that might become a dance party, or a coup, at any moment.

PRIME MINISTER’S QUESTIONS – House of Commons, Psychedelic Edition

SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE (levitating slightly, glowing faintly green):

Order, order. The vibes are thick today. I call the Leader of the Opposition. May the frequencies align.

LEADER OF THE OPPOSITION (Keir Starmer, shirt replaced with a tapestry of justice):

Thank you, Mr. Speaker.

Does the Prime Minister realise – truly realise – that the cost of living crisis has become sentient? It whispered to me in the form of a pigeon and said, “Even I cannot afford to coo.”

Will he address this, or continue balancing the economy on the back of a wobbling jellyfish named Deregulation?

PRIME MINISTER (Rishi Sunak, wearing a crown made of digital clocks and humming softly):

Mr. Speaker, I thank the Right Honourable Gentleman, but he fails to grasp the quantum economy.

I have seen inflation. It danced before me in the House of Mirrors. It asked me, “What is value, truly?”

We are not in crisis. We are in transcendence.

LEADER OF THE OPPOSITION (eyes glowing faintly with legal reasoning):

If by transcendence, the Prime Minister means watching a loaf of bread cost more than the concept of hope, then yes, he has succeeded.

Will he now channel the ancestors of fiscal responsibility, or will he continue consulting the Oracles of Capital Gains?

PRIME MINISTER:

Mr. Speaker, I drank from the chalice of GDP and it turned into a phoenix. It flew toward low unemployment.

The Right Honourable Gentleman is stuck in an old paradigm. He still believes in facts. I believe in momentum.

MP FROM SCOTLAND (floating on a bagpipe-shaped hovercraft):

Will the Prime Minister clarify whether Scotland is still part of the United Kingdom, or if it has transcended to its own astral plane?

PRIME MINISTER (nods solemnly):

That is a matter for the runes.

BACKBENCHER (Conservative, wearing a tie made of marmalade):

Mr. Speaker, I saw a tax break take the form of a friendly dolphin. It thanked the Prime Minister. How does he respond?

LEADER OF THE OPPOSITION (now seated upside-down):

A dolphin is not policy. A dolphin is distraction. The public need shelter, not cetacean symbolism.

SPEAKER:

Order. I must remind Members that time is a construct. Also, the mace is not to be used as a metaphor.

We shall now observe a brief ritual dance in lieu of further questions.

[MPs begin humming in harmony as the House slowly turns into a giant, breathing lotus flower. Parliament is briefly adjourned to recalibrate its chakras.]

PMQs LSD EDITION – ACT II: The Budget as a Haunting Presence in the Hall of Souls

(House of Commons reconfigures itself into an enormous cathedral of light. Marble benches pulse softly. The Speaker floats above a glowing abacus. All MPs wear shimmering robes of uncertain origin. Time moves sideways.)

SPEAKER (voice echoing like a gong inside a jellyfish):

We reconvene in the Hall of Souls.

The Budget has entered the chamber. It must be addressed. I call upon the Chancellor of the Exchequer, whose hands are covered in golden ink and consequences.

CHANCELLOR (emerges from a mist, dragging a scroll of infinite length):

Mr. Speaker, the Budget is not a document.

It is a feeling. A tremble in the bones of the nation. A scream muffled by austerity.

We project £4.3 billion in mystical savings, mostly from realms ungoverned by logic.

LEADER OF THE OPPOSITION (now shaped vaguely like a concerned librarian):

This Budget was written in moonlight and denial.

Where is the funding for nurses who are now evaporating into the NHS ether?

I asked the numbers, and they wept.

PRIME MINISTER (seated inside a rotating cube of thought):

We must grow. We will grow. Growth is a sacred geometry.

I have poured innovation into the soil. The yield shall be tax-free olives.

MP FROM THE GREEN PARTY (surrounded by a swirling aura of compost):

And what of the Earth?

Your Budget leaves a carbon footprint so vast, even dinosaurs are applying for reparations.

PRIME MINISTER:

I spoke to the Earth.

She told me: “Give me freeports. And maybe… a tech campus.”

LEADER OF THE OPPOSITION:

This is not governance. This is a lucid dream funded by hedge funds.

Your numbers do not add up. They float, unanchored, like helium promises.

MP FROM THE NORTH (wearing a flat cap made of coal and resentment):

Will the Prime Minister finally admit that levelling up is just a spell he’s forgotten the words to?

PRIME MINISTER (smiles like a riddle):

The North is levelling… just not here.

SPEAKER (rises, now wearing a cloak of parliamentary procedure):

The Budget is restless.

Its spirit must be bound in fiscal rings of accountability. We will now chant the Oath of Conditional Spending.

[All MPs join hands and begin rhythmically chanting: “Means-tested… ring-fenced… balanced… forecast… projected… deferred…”]

Suddenly, the Budget lifts off the scroll, unfurls its wings, and flutters out the chamber window, off to haunt the Office for Budget Responsibility.

SPEAKER (gazing into the middle distance):

It is done.

This House shall now descend into a brief existential intermission. Tea and transcendence will be served in Committee Room 7.

PMQs LSD EDITION – ACT III: The Foreign Secretary Explains Diplomacy Using Only Interpretive Dance

(The Commons chamber now resembles an Escher painting made of velvet and intent. Flags from every nation flap with their own opinions. A theremin plays faintly in the distance. The Foreign Secretary enters, dressed in shimmering silks and diplomatic immunity.)

SPEAKER (now a cloud wearing bifocals):

The House will hear from the Right Honourable the Foreign Secretary.

We are not responsible for any truths that spiral out of this performance. Proceed.

FOREIGN SECRETARY (floating in slowly, arms wide, eyes closed):

Thank you, Mr. Speaker.

Diplomacy is not talk. It is movement.

It is the subtle ballet of mutual suspicion and finger sandwiches.

And so… I will explain global strategy using only my body.

(Drums begin. Lights dim. Fog spills in from underneath the benches.)

*[Interpretive dance sequence begins:]

• The “Handshake of Suspicion”: Foreign Secretary locks arms with an invisible rival, then pirouettes out of reach.

• “Sanctions Waltz”: She wraps herself in a red ribbon marked “TRADE,” then dramatically breaks free to the sound of sobbing cellos.

• “UN Resolution Slam”: A backflip, a spin, a collapse onto the floor in the fetal position.*

LEADER OF THE OPPOSITION (genuinely disturbed):

Mr. Speaker, is the Foreign Secretary implying that peace in the Middle East requires… the splits?

FOREIGN SECRETARY (rising slowly, glowing faintly):

No.

I am saying it requires understanding one’s core.

Also yes, the splits.

MP FROM THE BACKBENCHES (shaking a snow globe furiously):

Can the Honourable Lady confirm whether her recent trip to China resulted in any actual agreements or just interpretive eye contact?

FOREIGN SECRETARY (nods solemnly):

We nodded in the same rhythm. That is the first step toward alignment.

SPEAKER:

Let the record show that diplomatic engagement now includes rhythmic nodding.

Let the Hansard reflect all shoulder shimmies.

LEADER OF THE OPPOSITION:

Mr. Speaker, does this government have any actual strategy beyond theatrical movement and kaleidoscopic optimism?

PRIME MINISTER (surfing in on a document labeled “G7”):

Of course we do. We are actively cultivating strategic ambiguity –

It’s like soft power, but it also smells faintly of sage and destiny.

SPEAKER (now surrounded by doves wearing tiny ties):

This concludes Act III.

The House will now recess for clarity and citrus water.

PMQs LSD EDITION – ACT IV: The Home Secretary Explains Border Policy via Shadow Puppetry and Shouting

(The Commons chamber has transformed again: now a candle-lit amphitheatre of paper-thin walls and booming echoes. Giant backlit screens cast ever-shifting silhouettes. The Home Secretary emerges from behind a curtain of red tape, wielding a megaphone and a box of finger puppets shaped like constitutional crises.)

SPEAKER (speaking through a conch shell):

The House will now hear from the Home Secretary, who will explain immigration policy using shouting and shadows.

Members are advised to wear protective earplugs and keep an open third eye.

HOME SECRETARY (shouting immediately):

THE BORDER IS A CONCEPT!

A line drawn by history’s drunk uncle and enforced by bureaucracy’s least creative minds!

(She slams her hand down, and the lights dim. On the screen, two shadow figures emerge – one shaped like Britannia, the other like a passport with legs.)

*SHADOW PUPPET DIALOGUE (voiced by the Home Secretary):

• Britannia (booming):*

“WHO GOES THERE?”

• Passport Man (trembling):

“I am a skilled worker with dreams and a visa.”

• Britannia (pauses, then):

“Did you fill out the form correctly in blue ink?”

(Gasps echo. A shadow of an EU star falls slowly like a leaf.)

LEADER OF THE OPPOSITION (now wearing a judge’s wig made of worry):

Mr. Speaker, is this policy or performance art? The public deserves clarity, not interpretive Kafka.

HOME SECRETARY (yelling again):

THE PUBLIC WANTS SECURITY!

And I have given them… a paper moat filled with biometric data and generalised suspicion!

(She flips to a new shadow: a dragon labeled “ASYLUM CLAIMS” chases a small boat labeled “HUMAN RIGHTS.”)

MP FROM THE LIBERAL DEMOCRATS (gently playing a harp):

Is the Honourable Lady suggesting compassion has been… outsourced?

HOME SECRETARY (now using the megaphone inside out):

WE DO COMPASSION ON A CASE-BY-CASE BASIS,

But only on Tuesdays, and only if Mercury is in retrograde.

*SHADOW SCREEN BEGINS TO MELT.

The puppets collapse into a swirl of paper planes, each marked “Pending Appeal.”*

LEADER OF THE OPPOSITION:

This is not a policy. This is a haunted shadow opera of refusal.

People are not shadows. They are people.

PRIME MINISTER (emerging from the Speaker’s chair, now a spinning top):

The Honourable Gentleman continues to mistake reality for empathy.

We prefer to manage expectations in abstract symbolism.

SPEAKER (sighing deeply while petting a ghost):

Order.

This House has now journeyed into the realm of bureaucratic allegory.

We shall break for herbal infusions and an optional group cry.

PMQs LSD EDITION – ACT V: The Chancellor Returns to Perform Quantitative Easing with a Saxophone and Interpretive Smoke Machine

(The Commons chamber is now dimly lit, transformed into a jazz lounge made of spreadsheets. The air smells of ozone and speculation. A giant LED graph pulses in the background, occasionally displaying emotive haikus about inflation. A lone spotlight falls on the Chancellor, who emerges in a sequined suit, holding a saxophone made of sterling bonds.)

SPEAKER (now a sentient spreadsheet with a monocle):

The Chancellor will now present the latest economic interventions…

through music, fog, and unquantifiable optimism.

CHANCELLOR (into mic, seductively):

Ladies, Gentlemen, Honourable Members…

Let me tell you ‘bout liquidity.

(He lifts the sax. A soft, sensual riff plays. The smoke machine hisses – clouds of pound symbols drift lazily through the chamber.)

*JAZZ INTERLUDE: “QE Blues in B♭”

• First Solo: A smooth glide through low interest rates.

• Second Verse (spoken word):*

“I printed some money, just to keep things afloat.

Now my bonds are buyin’ yachts, while your rent can’t buy a coat.”

*• Bridge: A dissonant clash of austerity and vibes.

• Final chord: A triumphant major seventh labeled “Trickle Down?”*

LEADER OF THE OPPOSITION (now seated in a beanbag shaped like Keynes):

Is this sound fiscal policy, or the ghost of Reagan doing karaoke?

CHANCELLOR (flicking a gold coin into the air, then catching it with perfect timing):

It’s both.

The economy is not a ledger. It’s a feeling. And that feeling is cashmere-soft uncertainty.

MP FROM THE BACKBENCHES (speaking into a martini glass):

Where is the funding for schools?

For hospitals?

For the guy screaming outside my local Pret about AI and the monarchy?

CHANCELLOR (saxophone now glowing):

All funding is present… in potential form.

Let the markets meditate on it.

PRIME MINISTER (dancing in a circle of incense smoke):

The Honourable Gentleman will understand,

We do not “spend”. We manifest.

LEADER OF THE OPPOSITION (solemnly):

Manifestation is not governance.

It’s just dreaming with spreadsheets open.

SPEAKER (vibrating with mild alarm):

Order.

The debt ceiling is now sentient. It is demanding a solo.

Let us end this session before the yield curve begins to chant.

[All MPs snap their fingers in rhythm. The House dissolves into a soft jazz fade-out as a giant neon sign reading “CONFIDENCE IN THE ECONOMY” flickers once, then goes dark.]

Epilogue: The Monarch Delivers the King’s Speech While Riding a Giant Swan Made of Bureaucracy

(The stage is set: Westminster Abbey reimagined as a glowing celestial amphitheatre. The walls hum softly with constitutional ambiguity. Incense swirls in the shape of policy briefs. And then, music swells. Out of a moat made entirely of paperwork emerges a giant white swan, stitched from red tape and legalese, flapping gently, bearing the Monarch atop its back.)

HER MAJESTY THE KING (draped in parliamentary robes woven from public consultation forms):

My Lords and Members of the House of Commons…

I come to you today upon the wings of regulatory compliance,

To declare this legislative session officially weird.

(The swan honks once, majestically, as gold leaf falls from the ceiling in the shape of policy outlines.)

KING (reading from a scroll that occasionally sighs):

My Government shall pursue the following objectives:

• To de-carbonise dreams by 2040

• To ban sadness within 300 metres of a Pet A Manger

• To establish a Ministry of Vibes, jointly overseen by Gary Lineker and a haunted typewriter

• To replace the House of Lords with a giant talking rock that only speaks in cryptic riddles about housing policy

• To launch a Universal Basic Haiku pilot in rural Norfolk

KING (momentarily locking eyes with eternity):

These policies will be funded by the sale of myth, by rebalancing the ledger of national identity, and by taxing irony at source.

GIANT BUREAUCRATIC SWAN (flapping slowly):

“Coherence… is a luxury.”

MPs (kneeling, softly sobbing):

Long live the post-fiscal monarchy.

May our forms always be correctly submitted.

KING:

I now commend this program to Parliament.

May you debate it with wisdom, dignity, and…

just the faintest glimmer of lucid unreality.

[The swan ascends. Harpsichords play a remix of “Jerusalem.” The House bows as the King vanishes into a filing cabinet labeled “To Be Continued.”]

FINAL CURTAIN.

The wrath of life is a fool’s errand. It will get you one way or the other. It just depends on how you turn your back on it.

It would seem like this is a jaded point of view. However, I got poked at for knowing everything. I’ve since disconnected myself, and now I get poked at for not knowing everything.

It’s worse when your brain hates you and turns everything you say and do in to the worst thing ever.

I love you all, but I hate the wrath of life.

The wrath of life can bite my shiny, metal…

“BENDER!!!!”

It’s funny, in a dry, dark manner, that I missed writing last week for “Take The Mask Off”. Why? Because it was about burnout. And I feel like with everything on my plate right now, I’m flirting on the edge of burnout. Not only did I not write, I didn’t do a podcast either. Not sure if my unintended sabbatical actually helped me or not…

This week's topic is about diagnosis and self-awareness.

First, I want to address self-diagnosis. Personally, I self-diagnosed as autistic probably about 18 months before I was actually diagnosed. For me, it didn’t do anything though. I still approached life in the same manner as always. That being said, some people have suffered a great deal more than I ever have, but have got nowhere with physical and mental health professionals. This is where self-diagnosis often comes in to play. There is no option, so they choose to identify as autistic anyway. Why? Because it makes sense.

I’ve not only dealt with trolls online who call this attention-seeking behaviour. I have older extended family who have been in the medical field that have spoken of my poorly behind my back thinking I’ve self-diagnosed (which is no longer true since I’ve got a diagnosis). If the medical field learns how to deal with us properly, we’d no longer have a need to self-diagnose at any level.

That being said, there is one big reason I will advocate for everyone having the opportunity to be dealt with properly and receive a formal diagnosis.

Validation.

Validation is a human need. Introvert or extrovert, autistic or not, human beings have a need to be accepted. That’s why I support formal diagnosis for all who can.

When I received my diagnosis, I’m became very self-aware. This is because I suddenly had answers for everything in my life unanswered. I had to spend some time understanding where everything plugged in though. This is a journey that will be different for every single person.

How did my diagnosis effect my masking? I stopped. I refused to do it any more. Sure, I take a lot of flak for being myself. That’s a fraction of the trouble I would cause for myself by masking, especially when I would mask, fail at it, then have to try an answer for the failure and have nothing concrete to say.

I still have a lot of PTSD. To this day, I still get told about how I’m a grown man and I need to handle stuff when I miss getting something done. I’d be foolish to say that didn’t affect me. Where my biggest difference comes in to play now is self-care. I know how to handle that when I’m alone. That’s easy. Making time for self-care when others are around is tough.

Respond to your self-awareness! Take care of yourself.

Masking is just another form of isolation that fancies itself a tool of social reciprocity.

I apologize ahead of time, as I am not a research writer, but I have read plenty about the effects isolation has on the human psyche. Look no further than in prisons that contain solitary housing units. Isolation has caused social skills to take a step back. People who are isolated don’t always understand how to conduct themselves civilly. When that isolation is forced and not chosen, it’s like a raging bull has been let loose in your mind and is smashing up everything inside. This isolation has often led people to do things others might refer to as “crazy”, up to and including committing suicide.

Isolation can come in many forms. Those that suffer from depression, addiction, cope with Tourette’s, use assistive devices for mobility, etc…

I could go on.

But as this is an article contribution for the #TakeTheMaskOff campaign, I want to discuss isolation by way of masking. We’ve already established that everyone does some form of masking, but here is where masking is so different for an autistic person. Masking forces you to dissociate yourself from your real identity. The world around you reacts so harshly at who you really are, doesn’t feel like understanding who you are, and will not give you the time of day. So masking is the only thing that brings us in to their world and get social interaction when we need it. However, this ignores the one basic truth. Masking is just another form of isolation that fancies itself a tool of social reciprocity. Be honest with yourself. How many people that you mask around are still truly your friends?

Then you have people that have made the decision not to mask any longer. I am one of those. I’ve mentioned this many times because I like the simplicity of the statement, but my therapist has said I don’t seem to care to put up an act any more. That’s actually a pretty accurate statement. The only problem is I now get gaslighted by the people closest to me. They’ve seen me mask, and they’ve seen me cease to mask. And while the closest people in your life should be your allies and not your adversaries, it is often the opposite way around for me.

At best, these situations on either side can lead to cases of anxiety and PTSD. At worst, people decide they are done. Not that they want to die, just that they don’t want to be here. I brought up the subject of Arizona State professor Will Moore on Twitter this week. He delay published a blog after committing suicide last spring. In it, he opens up about the fact that he never considered himself to be suicidal. However, he often thought about it because the world was too hard. Everyone was against him.

At some point, all of us will know the feeling of you versus the world. I hope that will change in the near future, but fear no change will be there. When that feeling gets there, we all find different ways to deal with it. But remember this: somewhere, someone cares. Know where your safe space is. In return, be willing to lend your strength to others when they don’t have it as well. Check on them. Make sure they are OK. It’s OK to check on someone and they be doing good. That’s better than the alternative.

What is masking?

What’s it like to wear “the mask”?

When I think about these questions, my mind is brought to the traditional lucha libre wrestling in Mexico. Nearly every professional wrestler in Mexico starts out wearing a mask. The mask is sacred. The mask is their identity. They not only wear the mask in the ring, they wear it EVERYWHERE in public. Only at home and among your closest friends is your true identity known.

So let me answer the second question first. Wearing the mask is exhausting. That feeling that you must always be on. You must be ready at everyone else’s beck and call. When you are masking, your life is not your own. Your life belongs to them. They own you…because you want to have a life. Just because I am autistic doesn’t mean I don’t like to have friends. Just because I am autistic doesn’t mean I don’t want to hold down a good job that challenges me. But at what cost? As I have learned what it means for me to be autistic, I have taken the mask off.

My therapist identified it by saying I don’t care to line up for others any more. If I’m being honest with myself, that is spot on. I really don’t care.

I still want the good job and the close relationships. Furthermore, I still want a life. But I have been forced to meet everyone else’s expectations at the expense of them meeting mine. Isn’t a good relationship one that involves give and take? Isn’t a good relationship one where you meet in the middle?

This is a diversity problem. People EXPECT others to be the same. Problem is, I am different. Because of that, I celebrate the difference in others. I also try and educate others what it looks like to celebrate those differences.

This brings me to the first question. What is masking? Let’s settle the argument right now… EVERYONE masks. The why and the effects are different. Those who are not autistic may need to mask at some level. You can call it social adjustment if you wish. The difference is that they understand what they are doing. It may not be exactly who they are, but it is in their wheelhouse. When I have masked, it’s like a series of lists I have in my head that I access by rote and do a linear modification on my actions. It’s really tiring because these things are not in my wheelhouse.

(You would get tired of looking at a dictionary all day to translate a foreign language in a foreign country, right?)