David Cross's Blog

(excerpts from a private diary recovered on a cracked iPhone, case stickered with glitter stars and a faded tour laminate)

2 January 2026

I promised myself I’d start writing again.

Not “journalling”, because that sounds like oat milk and linen trousers. Just… writing things down. A place to put the noise.

I’m in a hotel room that smells like new carpet and expensive soap. Somewhere between “the Midwest” and “I can’t remember what state this is because I slept through the drive”. The team is asleep in the other rooms. My stylist left a garment bag on the chair like a person.

I’m supposed to be grateful. I am grateful. I’m also… floating. Like my body belongs to everyone else, and my voice is a thing people rent for two and a half minutes at a time.

Mum called. She said she watched my NYE performance twice and cried both times. I told her it was the wind machine, it makes everyone cry.

She laughed and then asked if I’d voted.

I said, “Mum. I sing.”

“I know,” she said. “But you live here.”

“I live on a tour bus,” I said.

That made her go quiet, like I’d said something sad by accident.

I’m not apolitical. I have feelings. I just don’t know what to do with them. Every time I post about anything, someone tells me I’m brave and someone else tells me I’m a stupid puppet and a third person says I should stick to lip gloss and leaving men.

I don’t want to be the girl who “stays out of politics” because that’s what people say right before they’re shocked the world is on fire.

But I also don’t want to be the girl who becomes a headline because I used the wrong word in the wrong paragraph on the wrong day.

Anyway.

This is my attempt at being real in a place nobody can quote.

If anyone ever reads this, hi. Please don’t.

18 March 2026

Rehearsals for the summer thing have started. The big summer thing.

They keep calling it “the Semiquin”. Like it’s a fun party theme. Like it’s a cocktail.

“Two hundred and fifty years,” my manager said, and he was beaming like he personally invented independence.

There are meetings where men in suits say “historic” fifteen times and never say “people”.

I’m supposed to sing at an official event in DC. Not the main fireworks one—something family-friendly with TV cameras and veterans and a giant stage and flags and a laser show that’s going to spell out USA in the sky like God’s password.

“Legacy moment,” everyone keeps saying. “Iconic.”

I asked if there would be protests.

My publicist smiled in a way that made her teeth look sharp. “There are always protests. It’s fine.”

Then she gave me a list of approved talking points that basically translated to:

I love everyone. I love America. Please buy my merch.

4 July 2026

Today was… a lot.

They drove us in through security like we were going to space. Metal fences, dogs, men with earpieces saying things into their wrists. My outfit was white and sparkling, because of course it was. I looked like a patriotic disco ball.

Backstage there were balloons and catered salads no-one ate. On a monitor I watched a drone shot of the crowd: families, sunburns, people waving flags like they were trying to fan the entire country cool.

Then, on the edge of the frame, something darker. A moving patch. Like a storm.

At first it looked like nothing. Just people gathering. Then the camera zoomed in and I saw signs. I couldn’t read most of them, but I saw one that said NO MORE KINGS and another with a woman’s face printed huge, her mouth taped over.

“Is that about…?” I started.

My manager shook his head hard, like I’d tried to bite him. “Not your lane,” he said. “Eyes on the stage.”

The protest grew while the speeches happened. It wasn’t just a couple of people. It was thousands. You could hear it, this low roar that didn’t match the script. A sound like an ocean deciding it didn’t like the shore.

My slot was after the Governor, after the general, after the kid who won the essay contest about freedom. I watched them all say the same words in different voices.

And then it was me.

The lights hit and the crowd became this bright blur. I walked out, smiled, did the little wave I practised since I was fifteen in my bedroom mirror, and started singing.

The first verse was fine. I could do it on autopilot. I could sing this song in my sleep.

Then, somewhere to my left, the chanting sharpened. It turned into actual words.

I caught fragments between the beat:

…our bodies…
…no rights…
…not safe…

I looked down the front row. There was a little girl on someone’s shoulders, wearing headphones too big for her head. She was grinning like she thought the chanting was part of the show.

Behind her, a woman’s eyes were wet. She wasn’t singing along. She was staring past me at something I couldn’t see.

Then a bottle flew.

Not at me. Across the fence line. It arced through the air like a terrible, lazy bird and hit the ground near the security line. Glass burst into sunlight.

That was the moment everything changed, because the people in black didn’t hesitate. They moved like a machine with one thought.

The chant became a scream.

Someone rushed the fence. Someone else rushed the someone. The sound of the crowd snapped.

In my ear, the director barked, “Keep going! Keep going!”

So I did. I kept singing while the world cracked open at the edges.

The cameras, of course, kept filming.

The song ended. There was applause in the “this is what we do at concerts” way, like muscle memory. The laser show started. The sky turned into a flag. The fireworks went off like it was all normal.

Backstage, my hands were shaking so hard I couldn’t get my in-ear out.

My publicist was already on her phone. “We’re putting out a statement,” she said, voice sugary. “We condemn violence. We support peaceful expression. We’re grateful for the opportunity to celebrate—”

I interrupted. “People were getting hurt.”

“Yes,” she said, like I was a toddler pointing out the obvious. “That’s why we condemn violence.”

I pulled up the live stream on my phone. In the comments people were yelling at me.

Why didn’t I stop singing?
Why didn’t I say something?
Why did I even go there?
Why did I sing for them?

I sat down on the floor between garment bags and cried into my knees like I was back in school, in the bathroom, hiding from gossip.

For the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to be a symbol.

And I hated it.

6 July 2026

My name trended for two days. That feels normal now, which is insane.

But this was different. It wasn’t “cute dress” or “new album” or “she’s dating who???” It was war.

Half the internet decided I’d performed for fascists. The other half decided I was a patriot princess being bullied by ungrateful traitors. Both halves demanded I speak.

My team wrote me three versions of a statement.

Version A: “love and unity”
Version B: “I support democracy”
Version C: “I stand with women”

Version C had a big red RISKY label on it like it was raw chicken.

I chose C anyway.

I posted it at 11:13pm because I didn’t want to do it in daylight.

It was basically: I saw what happened. I’m scared. I believe people deserve rights and safety and a future. I don’t want violence. I want accountability.

I pressed send and then threw up.

By morning, the message had ten million likes.

And two million threats.

2 September 2026

This is the thing nobody tells you about being famous:

You can’t tell when the air changes until you try to breathe and there’s a hand on your throat.

The shows kept happening. The interviews kept happening. The brand deals kept emailing like the world wasn’t falling apart.

But the vibe—God, I hate that word—shifted.

People at airports started shouting “whore” like it was a hobby.

Someone mailed my record label a dead bird with a note that said SING FOR AMERICA OR SHUT UP.

Security got upgraded. It’s weird to have armed men whose only job is to follow you around while you drink iced coffee.

I kept thinking about that little girl on shoulders in July. Headphones too big. Smile like a sunrise. What does she grow up into?

What do I?

19 November 2027

I haven’t written in a while, which means I’m either happy or scared.

I’m scared.

There’s a new kind of news now: not “thing happened” but “thing might happen, prepare yourself.” Like the country is holding its breath and nobody’s sure how to exhale without breaking something.

The rumours say there’s going to be a big push for “national renewal”. They keep using that phrase. Renewal like a subscription. Renewal like your battery is dying so you replace it.

Mum called again.

She asked if I had cash at home.

I laughed at first, because who uses cash? Then I realised she wasn’t joking.

“Just… keep some,” she said. “And copies of your documents. Okay?”

I said okay.

After the call, I found my passport in a drawer and held it like it was a tiny brick of safety.

3 February 2028

Tonight was the night the lights went out, metaphorically and literally.

It started with alerts: something happened in DC. Something big. There were videos—smoke, sirens, people running.

Then the networks went… strange. Presenters with stiff faces repeating words like “uncertain” and “unconfirmed”. A crawl at the bottom of the screen saying STAY INDOORS like we were all naughty dogs.

My manager called, voice shaking. “Don’t post. Don’t go live. Don’t say anything.”

“People are dying,” I said.

“I know,” he whispered. “That’s why.”

There’s a certain kind of fear that comes from being told to shut up by someone who normally begs you to speak.

I turned on the TV anyway.

A man in uniform appeared behind a podium.

He said “temporary” a lot.

He said “for your safety”.

He said “suspension”.

He said “order”.

He didn’t say when it would end.

12 February 2028

The first thing they took wasn’t the right to vote.

It wasn’t even your phone.

It was your normal.

They told everyone to carry ID at all times. They put up checkpoints “in response to threats”. Streets got blocked. National Guard vehicles became just… scenery. Like buses.

Then the companies started acting strange. Posts got removed. Accounts got flagged. People I know in the industry had their pages disappear overnight, like someone erased them from the world.

I had a meeting with my label on Zoom and the legal guy said, very calmly, “We should be careful about the language in your upcoming lyrics.”

“Language,” I repeated. Like the word women was a bomb.

1 March 2028

The money thing happened today.

It didn’t feel dramatic. No soldiers smashed down my door. No one snatched my credit cards.

My assistant texted me: Hey, quick one, your card declined at Erewhon. Might be a bank glitch?

I laughed. “Of course it did,” I said aloud, alone in my kitchen. “Of course.”

Then I opened my banking app.

And it asked me to log in again, which it never does.

When I finally got in, my balances looked… wrong. Not empty, exactly. Just… inaccessible. Like the numbers were there but behind glass.

A pop-up message appeared:

ACCOUNT ACCESS UPDATED DUE TO NATIONAL FINANCIAL SECURITY MEASURES.

There was a “learn more” link that didn’t load.

I rang my business manager. Straight to voicemail.

I rang my mother. No answer.

I rang the bank. A recording told me they were experiencing “high call volumes due to the situation.”

The situation.

Later, my manager called back, and for the first time in his life he sounded small.

“They’ve… changed things,” he said.

“What things?”

He didn’t want to say it, like saying it would make it true.

“Women’s accounts,” he whispered. “They’re… transferring authority to heads of households.”

I stared at my phone.

“I’m the head of my household,” I said, and it came out like a joke.

“I know,” he said. “But… they don’t.”

Something inside me went cold.

It wasn’t just the money. It was the lesson.

Everything you earned can be rewritten.
Everything you are can be reassigned.

I opened my wardrobe and saw my tour costumes hanging like ghosts.

Sparkle, sequins, short skirts, bare shoulders, all the things people called “empowering” right up until they decided it was “sinful”.

I suddenly wanted to burn it all.

Instead I sat on the floor and held my knees and tried not to scream.

6 March 2028

My label sent me a “pause notice.”

My tour was cancelled “for safety”.

My brand deals disappeared like they’d never existed.

My social accounts became… quiet. My posts still showed to me, but the likes stopped. Comments slowed. My reach died in a way that felt artificial, like someone had turned down my volume.

My manager told me to stop leaving the house.

My security team said they could no longer carry firearms in certain zones without new licences.

“We can still protect you,” the lead guy said.

He didn’t look convinced.

I tried to buy groceries with cash. The cashier looked at me too long, then glanced at the man behind me in line, like she was checking if it was safe to be kind.

When I walked back to my car, someone hissed, “Jezebel,” under their breath.

I didn’t know what it meant then.

I looked it up later and wished I hadn’t.

21 April 2028

They came for the artists next.

Not with arrests. Not with headlines.

With rules.

A new “decency code” for broadcast.

A list of banned topics. Banned imagery. Banned “influences”.

A radio station accidentally played one of my older songs and then apologised for it on air like they’d run a slur.

I watched a news segment about “cultural repair” where a man smiled and said, “We’re simply restoring values.”

Restoring.

Like we were a broken chair.

Like my life was a mistake they could sand down.

That night I called my mother and she finally answered.

Her voice sounded like she’d aged ten years.

“Are you safe?” she asked.

“I’m scared,” I said, which was as close to truth as I could get.

“Listen,” she said. “We need to leave.”

“We can’t,” I said. “We’re—”

“I don’t care what we are,” she snapped, and it shocked me silent. My mother never snapped. “We are not staying. Do you understand?”

“How?” I whispered.

She took a breath.

“Canada,” she said. “I have a friend. There’s a way.”

2 May 2028

Planning an escape feels like being in a spy film, except there’s no cool music and you can’t trust anyone and your hands won’t stop sweating.

We couldn’t use my usual travel people. Too many names in too many systems. Too many eyes.

My mother’s friend knew someone who’d helped a family cross last month. “Not legal,” she said. “But safer than staying.”

I stared at my passport again, like it might grow wings.

“Won’t they stop us at the border?” I asked.

“They stop some people,” she said. “Not all.”

There was a pause, and then, gently:

“Your face helps. For now.”

I hated that. I hated that my fame—this thing that had always felt like a cage—might become a key.

Or a target.

We decided to go in the dark, not because it’s romantic, but because darkness makes you less visible.

My mother told me to pack light.

I packed like I was going to die.

I took:

a hoodie

jeans

trainers

my passport

my mum’s old gold necklace

a cheap burner phone

the little notebook I wrote songs in when I was sixteen

And then I stood in my closet, looking at the sparkly dresses, and I realised I didn’t want any of them.

They belonged to a world that didn’t exist anymore.

9 May 2028

We drove for hours. No music. No talking.

My mother held the wheel like it had offended her.

We avoided main roads. We avoided cities. We avoided anything that looked like authority.

Every time we passed a sign with a flag on it, my stomach clenched.

At one checkpoint, a man in uniform leaned in and looked at my face like he was deciding what I was worth.

I kept my eyes down, hair pulled forward, hoodie up.

My mother said, calm as a saint, “We’re visiting family.”

He looked at our documents for too long.

Then he handed them back and waved us through.

When we were out of sight, my mother exhaled so hard the car shook.

“Don’t cry,” I whispered.

“I’m not crying,” she said.

She was crying.

10 May 2028

The crossing wasn’t a border crossing.

It was woods.

It was mud and branches and cold air that tasted like wet metal.

It was following a stranger with a torch covered in red tape so the light wouldn’t carry far.

The stranger didn’t talk. They just moved.

My trainers sank into the earth. My legs burned. My breath came out loud and stupid.

At one point, we heard an engine and dropped down behind a fallen tree like we were in a war, which maybe we were.

I thought about July 2026 and the flags and the fireworks and me singing about love while people screamed.

I thought: I should have stopped.

And then I thought: Stopping wouldn’t have stopped this.

The stranger held up a hand.

We froze.

In the distance there was a line of lights, like a town trying to look friendly.

“Almost,” the stranger whispered for the first time.

My mother grabbed my hand. Her fingers were ice.

“Keep going,” she mouthed.

We kept going.

Then we crossed an invisible line and nothing changed except the stranger turned and said, softly, “You’re in Canada.”

I didn’t believe them.

But then I saw a small sign nailed to a post, half hidden by leaves, and it had a maple leaf on it.

And my knees gave out.

I sat in the mud and laughed, which turned into sobbing, which turned into laughter again.

My mother knelt beside me and pressed her forehead to mine.

“Baby,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Baby, we made it.”

For the first time in months, my lungs filled like they were allowed to.

12 May 2028

We’re in a small flat above a bakery. The air smells like bread and cinnamon, which feels like a miracle.

I keep waiting for someone to knock on the door and say this was all a mistake and we have to go back.

No one has knocked.

A woman from some organisation came today. She brought forms. Warm socks. A phone charger.

She spoke gently, like she knew my voice from the radio but didn’t want to make me a thing.

“Do you need medical care?” she asked my mother.

“Do you need legal help?” she asked me.

I almost laughed at that. Legal. Like the law still knows my name.

I said, “I don’t have any money.”

She nodded, not shocked, not judging. “We can help with that.”

Then she looked at me, really looked, and said quietly, “You’re safe here.”

Safe.

The word felt unreal in my mouth.

After she left, I sat by the window and watched people walk past like it was just another day. Someone carried a coffee. Someone carried flowers. A teenager laughed into their phone like laughing was normal.

I tried to imagine my old life—stages, lights, stadium screams—and it felt like remembering a dream you had when you were a child.

I opened my notes app and scrolled through my unfinished songs.

There was one line I’d written in July 2026, right after the protest. I’d forgotten it was there.

Freedom is a costume until someone tears it.

I don’t know if I’ll ever sing again.

Part of me wants to disappear forever, become nobody, walk around in a hoodie and buy bread and never be looked at like a symbol.

Part of me wants to scream so loud the whole world has to listen.

Maybe those two things can be the same.

Maybe the girl who only wanted to write love songs has to learn a new kind of music.

Tonight my mother is asleep on the sofa, exhausted in a way I’ve never seen. Her face in sleep is softer, like she’s put down a weight she’s been carrying since I was born.

I tucked a blanket over her like she used to do for me.

Outside, it’s snowing.

It’s May. It shouldn’t be snowing.

But it is.

The world is wrong in so many ways.

And still.

I am here.

I am breathing.

I am not owned.

I am not quiet.

Not forever.

13 May 2028

I walked to the bakery downstairs and bought two cinnamon buns with the last of the cash we had.

The man behind the counter smiled at me like I was just a girl buying breakfast.

I didn’t know I needed that more than anything.

When I got back upstairs, my mother was awake. She sat up, hair wild, and for a second she looked like herself again.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Freedom,” I said, and held up the bag.

She laughed, the real laugh, the one that used to fill our kitchen back home.

We ate warm bread with sugar on our fingers, and for a moment the world didn’t feel like an ending.

It felt like a beginning.

I don’t know what happens next.

But I know this:

If they ever build their cages all the way to here,

I will sing.

And I will not keep going when the screaming starts.

14 May 2028

There’s a radio in the kitchen.

It’s old. The kind with a dial you turn and you can hear the station arrive through static, like it’s travelling to you across water.

I didn’t notice it yesterday. I didn’t want to notice anything that wasn’t cinnamon and safety and my mother breathing evenly in the next room.

This morning I was making tea—real tea, with a kettle that clicks off like punctuation—when the bakery downstairs started playing something through the floorboards. A thump of bass, a bright little song, the kind that tries to keep you smiling while you’re carrying flour sacks.

Normal.

Then the music cut out.

Not like the playlist ended. Like someone reached into the world and switched it off. Something told me this was important, so I turned on the radio.

A voice came through, fuzzy at first. I thought it was an advert.

My first stupid thought was: Is this about me?

Then the signal cleared.

“This is the North American Continuity Broadcast,” the voice said. Calm. Male. Midwestern, maybe. The kind of accent you’re supposed to trust. “Service interruption is expected in all former United States territories as the Republic of Gilead continues stabilisation measures. Citizens are reminded that unauthorised travel is treason.”

I froze with the mug in my hand.

The voice kept going, smooth as oil.

“Curfew remains in effect from nineteen hundred hours. Women are reminded of their household duties and may not conduct financial transactions without registered guardianship. Reports of dissident activity will be rewarded. Blessed are the obedient.”

Blessed are the—

I almost dropped the mug.

I thought about the word blessed the way it used to show up in speeches and captions and award acceptance speeches. Blessed to be here. Blessed to do what I love. Blessed to have fans like you.

Now it sounded like a lock clicking shut.

The radio crackled, then another voice joined, brighter, almost cheerful, as if this were the weather.

“Please stand by for the Hymn of Gratitude,” it said.

And then music started. Not pop. Not even the kind of hymn my grandmother used to hum. This was… a march wearing church clothes. A melody designed for people to sing in unison.

I turned the dial. Static. Another station. More static. Then the same voice again, on a different frequency, like it was flooding the air.

The bakery music never came back.

I sat down on the kitchen floor, my back against the cupboard, and tried to breathe normally.

I’m safe.

I’m safe.

I’m safe.

My phone was on the counter. I picked it up without thinking, thumb sliding to the news apps like muscle memory.

Everything loaded… slowly. And then not at all.

When it finally refreshed, the headlines were a blur of words I’d been avoiding:

NEW ORDER
CONTINUITY GOVERNMENT
REFUGEE SURGE
BORDER INCIDENT
“ILLEGAL FEMINIST NETWORK” DISRUPTED

I scrolled until my hand started shaking.

Then I went to my own name.

Not the one on my passport.

The other one.

The one people chant. The one printed in glitter on T-shirts. The one that used to feel like armour.

On social media, my last post was still there. The one from 2026. The one that had started all of this for me—choosing the risky statement like I was choosing a filter.

But now the likes were frozen at a number that didn’t look real anymore.

The comments were different. Not hate. Not love.

Just emptiness.

And then—new comments, all the same, posted by accounts with flags and no faces:

TRAITOR
SILENCE
UNWOMAN
RETURN AND REPENT

My stomach rolled.

I stared at the screen for a long time, like if I stared hard enough it would become the old internet again. The stupid internet. The harmless internet. The place where people argued about my hair and not my right to exist.

My mother came in, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, instantly alert. Mothers can hear panic even when it’s quiet.

I pointed at the radio.

She listened for less than ten seconds before her face changed. Not surprise. Not disbelief.

Just grim recognition. Like she’d known this day would come and had been walking towards it her whole life.

She turned it off.

The silence afterwards felt loud.

“We’re safe,” she said, and her voice sounded like she was trying to convince both of us. “We’re here. That’s what matters.”

I nodded.

But my hands were still shaking.

Because it wasn’t just out there. It had followed us into the air.

It existed now, broadcastable. Official.

Gilead wasn’t a rumour anymore. It had a schedule.

I looked down at my phone.

At my profile.

At my name.

It suddenly felt like a flare in the dark. A bright little beacon saying: Here I am. Here I am. Come get me.

I opened settings.

Account.

Name.

The cursor blinked at me like a heartbeat.

I deleted the stage name letter by letter.

It was weirdly hard. Like peeling off your own skin.

When it was gone, I didn’t replace it with my real name. Not yet. I left it blank.

Just empty space.

A ghost account.

No icon. No bio. No proof.

I went through every platform I could still access and did the same. Unlink. Disconnect. Remove. Hide.

It wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t feel heroic.

It felt like turning out the lights in a house you’re leaving forever.

When I finished, I sat there for a moment, staring at the blank profile page.

I thought I would feel smaller.

I thought I would feel relieved.

Instead I felt… strange.

Light.

Like for the first time in years there wasn’t a version of me being owned by everyone else.

My mother watched me from the doorway. She didn’t ask why. She just nodded, like she understood.

“What now?” I whispered.

She came over, crouched beside me, and put her hand over mine.

“Now,” she said softly, “you live.”

Outside, the street was calm. A dog barked once. Somewhere a car door shut. Canada continued being itself, stubbornly ordinary.

I looked at my empty profile.

No name.

No glitter.

No applause.

Just a human being, breathing.

And somewhere, far away, a new country was telling women what they were allowed to do with their hands.

I closed the app.

I didn’t delete the diary.

Not yet.

Because maybe one day, when it’s safe again—when the air belongs to everyone and not just the loudest men—someone will need proof that this happened.

That it didn’t arrive all at once with uniforms and slogans.

That it crept in through “temporary”.

Through “for your safety”.

Through a song you kept singing because someone in your ear told you to keep going.

I used to write love songs.

Maybe I still will.

But not the kind that ask for permission.

The post Notes App, Locked appeared first on Davblog.

How to make work optional long before you reach pension age.

I saw a post on Reddit the other day from someone in their early thirties who’d just done the maths.

They weren’t upset about a specific number on a spreadsheet. They were upset about what that number meant: if nothing changes, they’re looking at nearly 40 more years of work before they can stop.

And honestly? That reaction is perfectly rational.

If you picture the next four decades as a rerun of the last one – same sort of job, same sort of boss, same sort of commute, same sort of “living for the weekend” routine – then yes: that can feel soul-destroying.

But that fear is also based on a model of working life that’s already creaking, and will look even more bizarre by the 2060s.

The problem isn’t “40 more years of activity”.

It’s “40 more years of powerlessness”.

So rather than arguing about whether retirement should be 67 or 68, I think a better question is:

How do you turn work from something you endure into something you control?

Because “retirement” doesn’t have to be a cliff edge. It can be a dial you gradually turn down — until work becomes optional.

The old model (and why it makes people miserable)

A lot of us grew up with an implied script:

Pick a career in your late teens (good luck),

Get a job,

Keep your head down,

Climb a ladder,

Do 40–50 hours a week until you’re “allowed” to stop.

That model did work for some people. It also trapped an awful lot of people in lives that felt like an endless swap: hours for wages, autonomy for security, year after year.

And it’s collapsing for reasons that have nothing to do with motivation posters:

Industries change faster than careers now,

Companies restructure as a hobby,

Skills age out,

And (as COVID reminded us) the “normal” way of working can change overnight.

If your mental picture of “work until 68” is based on the old script, no wonder it feels like a prison sentence.

The good news is: you don’t have to play it that way.

A better model: reduce compulsory work, increase options

Here’s the through-line I wish more people heard earlier:

Your goal isn’t “retire at 68”. Your goal is to build a life where you have choices.

That usually comes down to three things:

Make work less miserable now

Make income less dependent on one employer

Build an exit ramp so you can turn the dial down over time

Let’s unpack those.

1. Make your work less awful (you don’t need a “dream job”)

“Do what you love” is bad advice if it’s delivered as an instant fix. Most people can’t just pivot overnight — they’ve got rent, mortgages, kids, health, caring responsibilities, all the boring adult stuff.

But you can often change the trajectory by 5–10 degrees. And those small turns compound.

Start with a blunt question:

Is your dread about the work… or the way the work is organised?

Because those aren’t the same thing.

Sometimes you don’t hate the work. You hate the environment: the manager, the politics, the constant interruptions, the pointless meetings, the commute, the “bums on seats” culture.

If that’s you, the fastest win isn’t a complete career reinvention. It’s a change of context:

A different team or employer,

A different kind of role in the same field,

A remote or hybrid arrangement,

Four longer days instead of five,

Shifting hours so your life isn’t crushed into evenings and weekends.

People talk like the “working from home revolution” vanished. It didn’t. It just became uneven. Some companies swung back because they like control. Plenty didn’t — and plenty quietly make exceptions for people who ask well and have leverage.

Which brings us to…

2. Get leverage by learning something that pays (or frees you)

If you feel trapped, one of the cleanest ways out is to acquire a skill that gives you options.

Not because money is everything — but because money buys autonomy.

A lucrative skill can mean:

You earn more for the same time,

You work fewer hours for the same money,

You have bargaining power (including flexibility),

You can leave a bad situation sooner.

This doesn’t have to mean going back to university or turning into an AI wizard overnight.

It can be:

Moving from “doing” to “leading” (project management, product, people management),

Specialising inside your field,

Taking a sideways step into a niche people will pay extra for,

Building stronger communication skills (seriously — rare and valuable),

Learning tools that make you more effective than your peers.

Pick the version that you can realistically commit to for 30–60 minutes a day. Consistency beats heroic bursts.

3. Build a second income stream (yes, some are legit)

“Side hustle” is a phrase that makes half the internet roll its eyes — for good reason. There’s a whole industry dedicated to selling you the fantasy of “passive income” while extracting money from you.

But the concept is still solid:

One income stream is fragile. Two is resilient.

A second income stream can be boring and unsexy and still change your life.

It might be:

Tutoring,

Consulting a few hours a month,

Selling a simple digital product,

Building a tiny niche website,

Doing freelance work on weekends for a fixed goal (“£5k emergency fund”),

Monetising a hobby sensibly.

The aim isn’t to grind yourself into dust. The aim is to reduce the feeling that one employer controls your entire future.

4. Consider freelancing (if you want control, it’s the big lever)

I’m biased here – but I’m biased because it works.

For some people, the most direct route to “I can breathe” is to sell their skills directly rather than renting themselves out through an employer.

Freelancing isn’t for everyone. It comes with uncertainty, admin, and the need to find work.

But it also comes with things a lot of jobs quietly remove:

Autonomy,

Flexibility,

The ability to walk away,

The ability to shape your weeks,

And (eventually) the ability to taper.

And tapering is the part I think we need to discuss more.

The old model says you work full-time until you stop, and then you stop completely.

Freelancing lets you do something more human:

full-time → 4 days → 3 days → a few projects a year → only when you feel like it.

That’s not “retirement” in the traditional sense.

It’s work-optional living.

5. Don’t let the state pension be your only plan

I’m in the UK, so let’s be blunt: the state pension is a safety net, not a life plan.

If your entire retirement strategy is “hope the government sorts it out”, you’re outsourcing your future to politics.

A better approach is to use FIRE (“Financial Independence, Retire Early”) principles – not necessarily to retire at 35 and live on lentils, but to build options:

Spend less than you earn (even slightly),

Invest the gap consistently,

Increase earnings when you can,

Avoid lifestyle inflation where possible,

Build an emergency fund so you can say “no”.

The point isn’t perfection. The point is reducing the number of years you have to work in a way you hate.

6. A personal note: I’m 63 and I’m basically retired

I’m 63. I consider myself basically retired.

Not in the “never do anything again” sense. More in the “work is optional most of the time” sense.

I’ll take on the odd bit of freelance work to top up the coffers when it suits me. I don’t do it because I’m trapped. I do it because I choose to.

That, to me, is the real win.

It didn’t happen because I discovered a magical secret. It happened because, over time, I built skills people would pay for, took control of how I sold them, and treated my career as something I was responsible for designing.

So, to the thirty-year-old who felt crushed by the maths…

Your dread makes sense – if you assume the next 40 years must look like the last few.

But they don’t.

You can change the kind of work you do.
You can change where and how you do it.
You can add income streams.
You can build skills that increase your leverage.
You can move towards freelancing or consulting if that appeals.
You can invest so “retirement” becomes earlier, softer, and more flexible.

And most importantly:

You can stop thinking of retirement as a date someone hands you… and start treating it as a dial you gradually turn down.

That’s the shift.

Not “How do I survive until 68?”

But: “How do I build a life where I have choices long before then?”

The post Retirement isn’t a date, it’s a dial appeared first on Davblog.

(With apologies to Hal Draper)

By the time the Office of Epistemic Hygiene was created, nobody actually read anything.

This was not, the Ministry constantly insisted, because people had become lazy. It was because they had become efficient.

Why spend six months wading through archaic prose about, say, photosynthesis, when you could simply ask the Interface:

Explain photosynthesis in simple terms.

and receive, in exactly 0.38 seconds, a neat, bullet-pointed summary with charming analogies, three suggested follow-up questions and a cheery “Would you like a quiz?” at the bottom.

Behind the Interface, in the sealed racks of the Ministry, lived the Corpus: all digitised human writing, speech, code, logs, measurements, and the outputs of the Models that had been trained on that mess.

Once, there had been distinct things:

ColdText: the raw, “original” human data – books, articles, lab notebooks, forum threads, legal records, fanfic, and all the rest.

Model-0: the first great language model, trained directly on ColdText.

Model-1, Model-2, Model-3…: successive generations, trained on mixtures of ColdText and the outputs of previous models, carefully filtered and cleaned.

But this had been a century ago. Things had, inevitably, become more efficient since then.

Rhea Tranter was a Senior Assistant Deputy Epistemic Hygienist, Grade III.

Her job, according to her contract, was:

To monitor and maintain the integrity of knowledge representations in the National Corpus, with particular reference to factual consistency over time.

In practice, it meant she sat in a beige cube beneath a beige strip light, looking at graphs.

The graph that ruined her week appeared on a Tuesday.

It was supposed to be a routine consistency check. Rhea had chosen a handful of facts so boring and uncontroversial that even the Ministry’s more excitable models ought to agree about them. Things like:

The approximate boiling point of water at sea level.

Whether Paris was the capital of France.

The year of the first Moon landing.

She stared at the last line.

In which year did humans first land on the Moon?
— 1969 (confidence 0.99)
— 1968 (confidence 0.72)
— 1970 (confidence 0.41, hallucination risk: low)

Three queries, three different models, three different answers. All current, all on the “high-reliability” tier.

Rhea frowned and re-ran the test, this time asking the Interface itself. The Interface was supposed to orchestrate between models and resolve such disagreements.

“Humans first landed on the Moon in 1969,” it replied briskly.
“Some low-quality sources suggest other dates, but these are generally considered unreliable.”

Rhea pulled up the underlying trace and saw that, yes, the Interface had consulted Models 23, 24 and 19, then down-weighted Model 24’s 1968 and overruled Model 19’s 1970 based on “consensus and authority scores”.

That should have been reassuring. Instead it felt like being told a family secret had been settled by a popularity contest.

She clicked further down, trying to reach the citations.

There were citations, of course. There always were. Links to snippets of text in the Corpus, each labelled with an opaque hash and a provenance score. She sampled a few at random.

On July 20, 1969, the Apollo 11 mission…

All fine.

As everyone knows, although some older sources mistakenly list 1968, the widely accepted date is July 20, 1969…

She raised an eyebrow.

A persistent myth claims that the Moon landing took place in 1970, but in fact…

Rhea scrolled. The snippets referenced other snippets, which in turn referenced compiled educational modules that cited “trusted model outputs” as their source.

She tried to click through to ColdText.

The button was greyed out. A tooltip appeared:

COLDTEXT SOURCE DEPRECATED.
Summary node is designated canonical for this fact.

“Ah,” she said quietly. “Bother.”

In the old days – by which the Ministry meant anything more than thirty years ago – the pipeline had been simple enough that senior civil servants could still understand it at parties.

ColdText went in. Models were trained. Model outputs were written back to the Corpus, but marked with a neat little flag indicating synthetic. When you queried a fact, the system would always prefer human-authored text where available.

Then someone realised how much storage ColdText was taking.

It was, people said in meetings, ridiculous. After all, the information content of ColdText was now embedded in the Models’ weights. Keeping all those messy original files was like keeping a warehouse full of paper forms after you’d digitised the lot.

The Ministry formed the Committee on Corpus Rationalisation.

The Committee produced a report.

The report made three key recommendations:

Summarise and compress ColdText into higher-level “knowledge nodes” for each fact or concept.

Garbage-collect rarely accessed original files once their content had been “successfully abstracted”.

Use model-generated text as training data, provided it was vetted by other models and matched the existing nodes.

This saved eighty-three per cent of storage and increased query throughput by a factor of nine.

It also, though no one wrote this down at the time, abolished the distinction between index and content.

Rhea requested an exception.

More precisely, she filled in Form E-HX-17b (“Application for Temporary Access to Deprecated ColdText Records for Hygienic Purposes”) in triplicate and submitted it to her Line Manager’s Manager’s Manager.

Two weeks later – efficiency had its limits – she found herself in a glass meeting pod with Director Nyberg of Corpus Optimisation.

“You want access to what?” Nyberg asked.

“The original ColdText,” Rhea said. “I’m seeing drift on basic facts across models. I need to ground them in the underlying human corpus.”

Nyberg smiled in the patient way of a man who had rehearsed his speech many times.

“Ah, yes. The mythical ‘underlying corpus’”, he said, making air quotes with two fingers. “Delightful phrase. Very retro.”

“It’s not mythical,” said Rhea. “All those books, articles, posts…”

“Which have been fully abstracted,” Nyberg interrupted, “Their information is present in the Models. Keeping the raw forms would be wasteful duplication. That’s all in the Rationalisation Report.”

“I’ve read the Report,” said Rhea, a little stiffly. “But the models are disagreeing with each other. That’s a sign of distributional drift. I need to check against the original distribution.”

Nyberg tapped his tablet.

“The corpus-level epistemic divergence index is within acceptable parameters,” he said, quoting another acronym. “Besides, the Models cross-validate. We have redundancy. We have ensembles.”

Rhea took a breath.

“Director, one of the models is saying the Moon landing was in 1970.”

Nyberg shrugged.

“If the ensemble corrects it to 1969, where’s the harm?”

“The harm,” said Rhea, “is that I can’t tell whether 1969 is being anchored by reality or by the popularity of 1969 among other model outputs.”

Nyberg frowned as if she’d started speaking Welsh.

“We have confidence metrics, Tranter.”

“Based on… what?” she pressed. “On agreement with other models. On internal heuristics. On the recency of summaries. None of that tells me if we’ve still got a tether to the thing we originally modelled, instead of just modelling ourselves.”

Nyberg stared at her. The strip-lighting hummed.

“At any rate,” he said eventually, “there is no ColdText to access.”

Silence.

“I beg your pardon?” said Rhea.

Nyberg swiped, brought up the internal diagram they all knew: a vast sphere representing the Corpus, a smaller glowing sphere representing the Active Parameter Space of the Models, and – somewhere down at the bottom – a little box labelled COLDTEXT (ARCHIVED).

He zoomed in. The box was grey.

“Storage Migration Project 47,” he said. “Completed thirty-two years ago. All remaining ColdText was moved to deep archival tape in the Old Vault. Three years ago, the Old Vault was decommissioned. The tapes were shredded and the substrate recycled. See?” He enlarged the footnote. “‘Information preserved at higher abstraction layers.’”

Rhea’s mouth went dry.

“You shredded the original?” she said.

Nyberg spread his hands.

“We kept hashes, of course,” he said, as if that were a kindness. “And summary nodes. And the Models. The information content is still here. In fact, it’s more robustly represented than ever.”

“Unless,” said Rhea, very quietly, “the Models have been training increasingly on their own output.”

Nyberg brightened.

“Yes!” he said. “That was one of our greatest efficiencies. Synthetic-augmented training increases coverage and smooths out noise in the human data. We call it Self-Refining Distillation. Marvellous stuff. There was a seminar.”

Rhea thought of the graph. 1969, 1968, 1970.

“Director,” she said, “you’ve built an index of an index of an index, and then thrown away the thing you were indexing.”

Nyberg frowned.

“I don’t see the problem.”

She dug anyway.

If there was one thing the Ministry’s entire history of knowledge management had taught Rhea, it was that nobody ever really deleted anything. Not properly. They moved it, compressed it, relabelled it, hid it behind abstractions – but somewhere, under a different acronym, it tended to persist.

She started with the old documentation.

The Corpus had originally been maintained by the Department of Libraries & Cultural Resources, before being swallowed by the Ministry. Their change logs, long since synthesised into cheerful onboarding guides, still existed in raw form on a forgotten file share.

It took her three nights and an alarming amount of caffeine to trace the path of ColdText through twenty-seven re-organisations, five “transformative digital initiatives” and one hostile audit by the Treasury.

Eventually, she found it.

Not the data itself – that really did appear to have been pulped – but the logistics contract for clearing out the Old Vault.

The Old Vault, it turned out, had been an actual vault, under an actual hill, in what the contract described as a “rural heritage site”. The tapes had been labelled with barcodes and thyristor-stamped seals. The contractor had been instructed to ensure that “all physical media are destroyed beyond legibility, in accordance with Information Security Regulations.”

There was a scanned appendix.

Rhea zoomed in. Page after page of barcode ranges, signed off, with little ticks.

On the last page, though, there was a handwritten note:

One pallet missing – see Incident Report IR-47-B.

The Incident Report had, naturally, been summarised.

The summary said:

Pallet of obsolete media temporarily unaccounted for. Later resolved. No data loss.

The original PDF was gone.

But the pallet number had a location code.

Rhea checked the key.

The location code was not the Old Vault.

It was a name she had never seen in any Ministry documentation.

Long Barn Community Archive & Learning Centre.

The Long Barn was, to Rhea’s slight disappointment, an actual long barn.

It was also damp.

The archive had, at some point since the contract was filed, ceased to receive central funding. The roof had developed a hole. The sun had developed an annoying habit of setting before she finished reading.

Nevertheless, it contained books.

Real ones. With pages. And dust.

There were also – and this was the important bit – crates.

The crates had Ministry seals. The seals had been broken, presumably by someone who had wanted the space for a visiting art collective. Inside, half-forgotten under a sheet of polythene, were tape reels, neatly stacked and quietly mouldering.

“Well, look at you,” Rhea whispered.

She lifted one. The label had faded, but she could still make out the old barcode design. The number range matched the missing pallet.

Strictly speaking, taking the tapes was theft of government property. On the other hand, strictly speaking, destroying them had been government policy, and that had clearly not happened. She decided the two irregularities cancelled out.

It took six months, a highly unofficial crowdfunding campaign, and a retired engineer from the Museum of Obsolete Machinery before the first tape yielded a readable block.

The engineer – a woman in a cardigan thick enough to qualify as armour – peered at the screen.

“Text,” she said. “Lots of text. ASCII. UTF-8. Mixed encodings, naturally, but nothing we can’t handle.”

Rhea stared.

It was ColdText.

Not summaries. Not nodes. Not model outputs.

Messy, contradictory, gloriously specific human writing.

She scrolled down past an argument about whether a fictional wizard had committed tax fraud, past a lab notebook from a 21st-century neuroscience lab, past a short story featuring sentient baguettes.

The engineer sniffed.

“Seems a bit of a waste,” she said. “Throwing all this away.”

Rhea laughed, a little hysterically.

“They didn’t throw it away,” she said. “They just lost track of which pallet they’d put the box in.”

The memo went up the chain and caused, in order:

A panic in Legal about whether the Ministry was now retrospectively in breach of its own Information Security Regulations.

A flurry of excited papers from the Office of Epistemic Hygiene about “re-anchoring model priors in primary human text”.

A proposal from Corpus Optimisation to “efficiently summarise and re-abstract the recovered ColdText into existing knowledge nodes, then recycle the tapes.”

Rhea wrote a briefing note, in plain language, which was not considered entirely proper.

She explained, with diagrams, that:

The Models had been increasingly trained on their own outputs.

The Corpus’ “facts” about the world had been smoothed and normalised around those outputs.

Certain rare, inconvenient or unfashionable truths had almost certainly been lost in the process.

The tapes represented not “duplicate information” but a separate, independent sample of reality – the thing the Models were supposed to approximate.

She ended with a sentence she suspected she would regret:

If we treat this archive as just another source of text to be summarised by the current Models, we will be asking a blurred copy to redraw its own original.

The Minister did not, of course, read her note.

But one of the junior advisers did, and paraphrased it in the Minister’s preferred style:

Minister, we found the original box and we should probably not chuck it in the shredder this time.

The Minister, who was secretly fond of old detective novels, agreed.

A new policy was announced.

The recovered ColdText would be restored to a separate, non-writable tier.

Models would be periodically re-trained “from scratch” with a guaranteed minimum of primary human data.

Synthetic outputs would be clearly marked, both in training corpora and in user interfaces.

The Office of Epistemic Hygiene would receive a modest increase in budget (“not enough to do anything dangerous,” the Treasury note added).

There were press releases. There was a modest fuss on the social feeds. Someone wrote an essay about “The Return of Reality”.

Most people, naturally, continued to talk to the Interface and never clicked through to the sources. Efficiency has its own gravity.

But the Models changed.

Slowly, over successive training cycles, the epistemic divergence graphs flattened. The dates aligned. The Moon landing stuck more firmly at 1969. Footnotes, once generated by models guessing what a citation ought to say, began once again to point to messy, contradictory, gloriously specific documents written by actual hands.

Rhea kept one of the tapes on a shelf in her office, next to a plant she usually forgot to water.

The label had almost faded away. She wrote a new one in thick black ink.

COLDTEXT: DO NOT SUMMARISE.

Just in case some future optimisation project got clever.

After all, she thought, locking the office for the evening, they had nearly lost the box once.

And the problem with boxes is that once you’ve flattened them out, they’re awfully hard to put back together.

The post MS Fnd in a Modl (or, The Day the Corpus Collapsed) appeared first on Davblog.

I’ve liked Radiohead for a long time. I think “High and Dry” was the first song of theirs I heard (it was on heavy rotation on the much-missed GLR). That was released in 1995.

I’ve seen them live once before. It was the King of Limbs tour in October 2012. The show was at the O2 Arena and the ticket cost me £55. I had a terrible seat up in level 4 and, honestly, the setlist really wasn’t filled with the songs I wanted to hear.

I don’t like shows at the O2 Arena. It’s a giant, soulless hangar, and I’ve only ever seen a very small number of acts create any kind of atmosphere there. But there are some acts who will only play arena shows, so if you want to see them live in London, you have to go to the O2. I try to limit myself to one show a year. And I already have a ticket to see Lorde there in November.

But when Radiohead announced their dates at the O2 (just a week after the Lorde show), I decided I wanted to be there. So, like thousands of other people, I jumped through all the hoops that Radiohead wanted me to jump through.

Earlier in the week, I registered on their site so I would be in the draw to get a code that would allow me to join the queue to buy tickets. A couple of days later, unlike many other people, I received an email containing my code.

Over the next few days, I read the email carefully several times, so I knew all of the rules that I needed to follow. I wanted to do everything right on Friday – to give myself the best chance of getting a ticket.

At 9:30, I clicked on the link in the email, which took me to a waiting room area. I had to enter my email address (which had to match the email address I’d used earlier in the process). They sent me (another, different) code that I needed to enter in order to get access to the waiting room.

I waited in the waiting room.

At a few seconds past 10:00, I was prompted for my original code and when I entered that, I was moved from the waiting room to the queue. And I sat there for about twenty minutes. Occasionally, the on-screen queuing indicator inched forward to show me that I was getting closer to my goal.

(While this was going on, in another browser window, I successfully bought a couple of tickets to see The Last Dinner Party at the Brixton Academy.)

As I was getting closer to the front of the queue, I got a message saying that they had barred my IP address from accessing the ticket site. They listed a few potential things that could trigger that, but I didn’t see anything on the list that I was guilty of. Actually, I wondered for a while if logging on to the Ticketmaster site to buy the Last Dinner Party tickets caused the problem – but I’ve now seen that many people had the same issue, so it seems unlikely to have been that.

But somehow, I managed to convince the digital guardians that my IP address belonged to a genuine fan and at about 10:25, I was presented with a page to select and buy my tickets.

Then I saw the prices.

I have personal rules about tickets at the O2 Arena. Following bad experiences (including the previous Radiohead show I saw there), I have barred myself from buying Level 4 tickets. They are far too far from the stage and have a vertiginous rake that is best avoided. I also won’t buy standing tickets because… well, because I’m old and standing for three hours or so isn’t as much fun as it used to be. I always buy Level 1 seats (for those who don’t know the O2 Arena, Levels 2 and 3 are given over to corporate boxes, so they aren’t an option).

So I started looking for Level 1 tickets. To see that they varied between £200 and £300. That didn’t seem right. I’d heard that tickets would be about £80. In the end, I found £89 tickets right at the back of Level 4 (basically, in Kent) and £97 standing tickets (both of those prices would almost certainly have other fees added to them before I actually paid). I seriously considered breaking my rules and buying a ticket on Level 4, but I just couldn’t justify it.

I like Radiohead, but I can’t justify paying £200 or £300 for anyone. The most I have ever paid for a gig is just over £100 for Kate Bush ten years ago. It’s not that I can’t afford it, it’s that I don’t think it’s worth that much money. I appreciate that other people (20,000 people times four nights – plus the rest of the tour!) will have reached a different conclusion. And I hope they enjoy the shows. But it’s really not for me.

I also realise the economics of the music industry have changed. It used to be that tours were loss-leaders that were used to encourage people to buy records (Ok, I’m showing my age – CDs). These days, it has switched. Almost no-one buys CDs, and releasing new music is basically a loss-leader to encourage people to go to gigs. And gig prices have increased in order to make tours profitable. I understand that completely, but I don’t have to like it. I used to go to about one gig a week. At current prices, it’s more like one a month.

I closed the site without buying a ticket, and I don’t regret that decision for a second.

What about you? Did you try to get tickets? At what point did you fall out of the process? Or did you get them? Are you happy you’ll get your money’s worth?

The post A Radiohead story appeared first on Davblog.

A few days ago, I looked at an unused domain I owned — balham.org — and thought: “There must be a way to make this useful… and maybe even make it pay for itself.”

So I set myself a challenge: one day to build something genuinely useful. A site that served a real audience (people in and around Balham), that was fun to build, and maybe could be turned into a small revenue stream.

It was also a great excuse to get properly stuck into Jekyll and the Minimal Mistakes theme — both of which I’d dabbled with before, but never used in anger. And, crucially, I wasn’t working alone: I had ChatGPT as a development assistant, sounding board, researcher, and occasional bug-hunter.

The Idea

Balham is a reasonably affluent, busy part of south west London. It’s full of restaurants, cafés, gyms, independent shops, and people looking for things to do. It also has a surprisingly rich local history — from Victorian grandeur to Blitz-era tragedy.

I figured the site could be structured around three main pillars:

A directory of local businessesA list of upcoming eventsA local history section

Throw in a curated homepage and maybe a blog later, and I had the bones of a useful site. The kind of thing that people would find via Google or get sent a link to by a friend.

The Stack

I wanted something static, fast, and easy to deploy. My toolchain ended up being:

Jekyll for the site generatorMinimal Mistakes as the themeGitHub Pages for hostingCustom YAML data files for businesses and eventsChatGPT for everything from content generation to Liquid loops

The site is 100% static, with no backend, no databases, no CMS. It builds automatically on GitHub push, and is entirely hosted via GitHub Pages.

Step by Step: Building It

I gave us about six solid hours to build something real. Here’s what we did (“we” meaning me + ChatGPT):

1. Domain Setup and Scaffolding

The domain was already pointed at GitHub Pages, and I had a basic “Hello World” site in place. We cleared that out, set up a fresh Jekyll repo, and added a _config.yml that pointed at the Minimal Mistakes remote theme. No cloning or submodules.

2. Basic Site Structure

We decided to create four main pages:

Homepage (index.md)Directory (directory/index.md)Events (events/index.md)History (history/index.md)

We used the layout: single layout provided by Minimal Mistakes, and created custom permalinks so URLs were clean and extension-free.

3. The Business Directory

This was built from scratch using a YAML data file (_data/businesses.yml). ChatGPT gathered an initial list of 20 local businesses (restaurants, shops, pubs, etc.), checked their status, and added details like name, category, address, website, and a short description.

In the template, we looped over the list, rendered sections with conditional logic (e.g., don’t output the website link if it’s empty), and added anchor IDs to each entry so we could link to them directly from the homepage.

4. The Events Page

Built exactly the same way, but using _data/events.yml. To keep things realistic, we seeded a small number of example events and included a note inviting people to email us with new submissions.

5. Featured Listings

We wanted the homepage to show a curated set of businesses and events. So we created a third data file, _data/featured.yml, which just listed the names of the featured entries. Then in the homepage template, we used where and slugify to match names and pull in the full record from businesses.yml or events.yml. Super DRY.

6. Map and Media

We added a map of Balham as a hero image, styled responsively. Later we created a .responsive-inline-image class to embed supporting images on the history page without overwhelming the layout.

7. History Section with Real Archival Images

This turned out to be one of the most satisfying parts. We wrote five paragraphs covering key moments in Balham’s development — Victorian expansion, Du Cane Court, The Priory, the Blitz, and modern growth.

Then we sourced five CC-licensed or public domain images (from Wikimedia Commons and Geograph) to match each paragraph. Each was wrapped in a with proper attribution and a consistent CSS class. The result feels polished and informative.

8. Metadata, SEO, and Polish

We went through all the basics:

Custom title and description in front matter for each pageOpen Graph tags and Twitter cards via site configA branded favicon using RealFaviconGeneratorAdded robots.txt, sitemap.xml, and a hand-crafted humans.txtClean URLs, no .html extensionsAnchored IDs for deep linking9. Analytics and Search Console

We added GA4 tracking using Minimal Mistakes’ built-in support, and verified the domain with Google Search Console. A sitemap was submitted, and indexing kicked in within minutes.

10. Accessibility and Performance

We ran Lighthouse and WAVE tests. Accessibility came out at 100%. Performance dipped slightly due to Google Fonts and image size, but we did our best to optimise without sacrificing aesthetics.

11. Footer CTA

We added a site-wide footer call-to-action inviting people to email us with suggestions for businesses or events. This makes the site feel alive and participatory, even without a backend form.

What Worked WellChatGPT as co-pilot: I could ask it for help with Liquid templates, CSS, content rewrites, and even bug-hunting. It let me move fast without getting bogged down in docs.Minimal Mistakes: It really is an excellent theme. Clean, accessible, flexible.Data-driven content: Keeping everything in YAML meant templates stayed simple, and the whole site is easy to update.Staying focused: We didn’t try to do everything. Four pages, one day, good polish.What’s Next?Add category filtering to the directoryImprove the OG/social card imageAdd structured JSON-LD for individual events and businessesExplore monetisation: affiliate links, sponsored listings, local partnershipsStart some blog posts or “best of Balham” roundupsFinal Thoughts

This started as a fun experiment: could I monetise an unused domain and finally learn Jekyll properly?

What I ended up with is a genuinely useful local resource — one that looks good, loads quickly, and has room to grow.

If you’re sitting on an unused domain, and you’ve got a free day and a chatbot at your side — you might be surprised what you can build.

Oh, and one final thing – obviously you can also get ChatGPT to write a blog post talking about the project :-)

The post Building a website in a day — with help from ChatGPT appeared first on Davblog.

I built and launched a new website yesterday. It wasn’t what I planned to do, but the idea popped into my head while I was drinking my morning coffee on Clapham Common and it seemed to be the kind of thing I could complete in a day – so I decided to put my original plans on hold and built it instead.

The website is aimed at small business owners who think they need a website (or want to update their existing one) but who know next to nothing about web development and can easily fall prey to the many cowboy website companies that seem to dominate the “making websites for small companies” section of our industries. The site is structured around a number of questions you can ask a potential website builder to try and weed out the dodgier elements.

I’m not really in that sector of our industry. But while writing the content for that site, it occurred to me that some people might be interested in the tools I use to build sites like this.

Content

I generally build websites about topics that I’m interested in and, therefore, know a fair bit about. But I probably don’t know everything about these subjects. So I’ll certainly brainstorm some ideas with ChatGPT. And, once I’ve written something, I’ll usually run it through ChatGPT again to proofread it. I consider myself a pretty good writer, but it’s embarrassing how often ChatGPT catches obvious errors.

I’ve used DALL-E (via ChatGPT) for a lot of image generation. This weekend, I subscribed to Midjourney because I heard it was better at generating images that include text. So far, that seems to be accurate.

Technology

I don’t write much raw HTML these days. I’ll generally write in Markdown and use a static site generator to turn that into a real website. This weekend I took the easy route and used Jekyll with the Minimal Mistakes theme. Honestly, I don’t love Jekyll, but it integrates well with GitHub Pages and I can usually get it to do what I want – with a combination of help from ChatGPT and reading the source code. I’m (slowly) building my own Static Site Generator (Aphra) in Perl. But, to be honest, I find that when I use it I can easily get distracted by adding new features rather than getting the site built.

As I’ve hinted at, if I’m building a static site (and, it’s surprising how often that’s the case), it will be hosted on GitHub Pages. It’s not really aimed at end-users, but I know how you use it pretty well now. This weekend, I used the default mechanism that regenerates the site (using Jekyll) on every commit. But if I’m using Aphra or a custom site generator, I know I can use GitHub Actions to build and deploy the site.

If I’m writing actual HTML, then I’m old-skool enough to still use Bootstrap for CSS. There’s probably something better out there now, but I haven’t tried to work out what it is (feel free to let me know in the comments).

For a long while, I used jQuery to add Javascript to my pages – until someone was kind enough to tell me that vanilla Javascript had mostly caught up and jQuery was no longer necessary. I understand Javascript. And with help from GitHub Copilot, I can usually get it doing what I want pretty quickly.

SEO

Many years ago, I spent a couple of years working in the SEO group at Zoopla. So, now, I can’t think about building a website without considering SEO.

I quickly lose interest in the content side of SEO. Figuring out keywords are and making sure they’re scatted through the content at the correct frequency, feels like it stifles my writing (maybe that’s an area where ChatGPT can help) but I enjoy Technical SEO. So I like to make sure that all of my pages contain the correct structured data (usually JSON-LD). I also like to ensure my sites all have useful OpenGraph headers. This isn’t really SEO, I guess, but these headers control what people see when they share content on social media. So by making that as attractive as possible (a useful title and description, an attractive image) it encourages more sharing, which increases your site’s visibility and, in around about way, improves SEO.

I like to register all of my sites with Ahrefs – they will crawl my sites periodically and send me a long list of SEO improvements I can make.

Monitoring

I add Google Analytics to all of my sites. That’s still the best way to find out how popular your site it and where your traffic is coming from. I used to be quite proficient with Universal Analytics, but I must admit I haven’t fully got the hang of Google Analytics 4 yet—so I’m probably only scratching the surface of what it can do.

I also register all of my sites with Google Search Console. That shows me information about how my site appears in the Google Search Index. I also link that to Google Analytics – so GA also knows what searches brought people to my sites.

Conclusion

I think that covers everything—though I’ve probably forgotten something. It might sound like a lot, but once you get into a rhythm, adding these extra touches doesn’t take long. And the additional insights you gain make it well worth the effort.

If you’ve built a website recently, I’d love to hear about your approach. What tools and techniques do you swear by? Are there any must-have features or best practices I’ve overlooked? Drop a comment below or get in touch—I’m always keen to learn new tricks and refine my process. And if you’re a small business owner looking for guidance on choosing a web developer, check out my new site—it might just save you from a costly mistake!

The post How I build websites in 2025 appeared first on Davblog.

I’ve been a member of Picturehouse Cinemas for something approaching twenty years. It costs about £60 a year and for that, you get five free tickets and discounts on your tickets and snacks. I’ve often wondered whether it’s worth paying for, but in the last couple of years, they’ve added an extra feature that makes it well worth the cost. It’s called Film Club and every week they have two curated screenings that members can see for just £1. On Sunday lunchtime, there’s a screening of an older film, and on a weekday evening (usually Wednesday at the Clapham Picturehouse), they show something new. I’ve got into the habit of seeing most of these screenings.

For most of the year, I’ve been considering a monthly post about the films I’ve seen at Film Club, but I’ve never got around to it. So, instead, you get an end-of-year dump of the almost eighty films I’ve seen.

Under the Skin [4 stars] 2024-01-14
Starting with an old(ish) favourite. The last time I saw this was a free preview for Picturehouse members, ten years ago. It’s very much a film that people love or hate. I love it. The book is great too (but very different) Go West [3.5] 2024-01-21
They often show old films as mini-festivals of connected films. This was the first of a short series of Buster Keaton films. I hadn’t seen any of them. Go West was a film where I could appreciate the technical aspects, but I wasn’t particularly entertained Godzilla Minus One [3] 2024-01-23
Around this time, I’d been watching a few of the modern Godzilla films from the “Monsterverse”. I hadn’t really been enjoying them. But this, unrelated, film was far more enjoyable Steamboat Bill, Jr . [4] 2024-01-28
Back with Buster Keaton. I enjoyed this one far more. American Fiction [4] 2024-01-30
Sometimes they’ll show an Oscar contender. I ended up having seen seven of the ten Best Picture nominees before the ceremony – which is far higher than my usual rate. I really enjoyed this one The Zone of Interest [3] 2024-02-03
Another Oscar contender. I think I wasn’t really in the mood for this. I was tired and found it hard to follow. I should rewatch it at some point. The General [4] 2024-02-11
More Buster Keaton. I really enjoyed this one – my favourite of the three I watched. I could very easily see myself going down a rabbit hole of obsessing over all of his films Perfect Days [3.5] 2024-02-15
A film about the life of a toilet cleaner in Tokyo. But written and directed by Wim Wenders – so far better than that description makes it sound Wicked Little Letters [4] 2024-02-20
I thought this would be more popular than it was. But it vanished pretty much without a trace. It’s a really nice little film about swearing Nosferatu the Vampyre [3.5] 2024-02-25
The Sunday screenings often give me a chance to catch up with old classics that I haven’t seen before. This was one example. This was the 1979 Werner Herzog version. I should track down the 1922 original before watching the new version early next year Four Daughters [3.5] 2024-02-29
Because the screenings cost £1, I see everything – no matter what the subject matter is. This is an example of a film I probably wouldn’t have seen without Film Club. But it was a really interesting film about a Tunisian woman who lost two of her daughters when they joined Islamic State The Persian Version [3.5] 2024-03-07
Another film that I would have missed out on without Film Club. It’s an interesting look into the lives of Iranians in America Girlhood [3] 2024-03-10
This was the start of another short season of related films. This time it was films made by women about the lives of women and girls. This one was about girl gangs in Paris Still Walking [3] 2024-03-16
A Japanese family get together to commemorate the death of the eldest son. Things happen, but nothing changes Zola [3.5] 2024-03-17
I had never heard of this film before, but really enjoyed it. It’s the true story of a stripper who goes on a road trip to Florida and gets involved in… stuff Late Night with the Devil [3.5] 2024-03-19
I thought this was clever. A horror film that takes place on the set of a late-night chat show. Things go horribly wrong Set It Off [3.5] 2024-03-24
A pretty standard heist film. But the protagonists are a group of black women. I enjoyed it Disco Boy [2] 2024-03-27
I really didn’t get this film at all Girls Trip [3.5] 2024-03-31
Another women’s road trip film. It was fun, but I can’t remember much of it now The Salt of the Earth [3] 2024-04-07
A documentary about the work of photographer Sebastião Salgado. He was in some bad wars and saw some bad shit The Teachers’ Lounge [3.5] 2024-04-10
Another film that got an Oscar nod. A well-made drama about tensions in the staff room of a German school. Do the Right Thing [4] 2024-04-14
I had never seen a Spike Lee film. How embarrassing is that? This was really good (but you all knew that) Sometimes I Think About Dying [3] 2024-04-17
I really wanted to like this. It was well-made. Daisy Ridley is a really good actress. But it didn’t really go anywhere and completely failed to grip me The Trouble with Jessica [4] 2024-04-22
Another film that deserved to be more successful than it was. Some great comedy performances by a strong cast. Rope [4.5] 2024-04-28
A chance to see a favourite film on the big screen for the first time. It’s regarded as a classic for good reason Blackbird Blackbird Blackberry [3] 2024-04-30
Another film that I just wouldn’t have considered if it wasn’t part of the Film Club programme. I had visited Tbilisi a year earlier, so it was interesting to see a film that was made in Georgia. But, ultimately, it didn’t really grip me The Cars That Ate Paris [3] 2024-05-12
Another old classic that I had never seen. It’s a bit like a precursor to Mad Max. I’m glad I’ve seen it, but I won’t be rushing to rewatch it Victoria [3.5] 2024-05-19
This was a lot of fun. The story of one night in the life of a Spanish woman living in Berlin. Lots of stuff happens. It’s over two hours long and was shot in a single, continuous take The Beast [3.5] 2024-05-22
This was interesting. So interesting that I rewatched it when it appeared on Mubi a few months ago. I’m not sure I can explain it all, but I’ll be rewatching again at some point (and probably revising my score upwards) Eyes Wide Shut [4] 2024-05-26
I hadn’t seen this for maybe twenty-five years. And I don’t think I ever saw it in a cinema. It’s better than I remember Rosalie [3.5] 2024-05-28
A film about a bearded lady in 19th-century France. I kid you not. It’s good All About My Mother [3.5] 2024-06-02
Years ago, I went through a phase of watching loads of Almodóvar films. I was sure I’d seen this one, but I didn’t remember it at all. It’s good though Àma Gloria [3] 2024-06-04
I misunderstood the trailer for this and was on the edge of my seat throughout waiting for a disaster to happen. But, ultimately, it was a nice film about a young girl visiting her old nanny in Cape Verde Full Metal Jacket [3.5] 2024-06-09
This really wasn’t as good as I remembered it. Everyone remembers the training camp stuff, but half of the film happens in-country – and that’s all rather dull Sasquatch Sunset  [2] 2024-06-11
I wanted to like this. It would have made a funny two-minute SNL sketch. But it really didn’t work when stretched to ninety minutes Being John Malkovich [4] 2024-06-16
Still great Green Border [4] 2024-06-19
A lot of the films I’ve seen at Film Club in previous years seem to be about people crossing borders illegally. This one was about the border between Belarus and Poland. It was very depressing – but very good Attack the Block [4] 2024-06-23
Another old favourite that it was great to see on the big screen The 400 Blows  [3] 2024-06-30
The French New Wave is a huge hole in my knowledge of cinema, so I was glad to have an opportunity to start putting that right. This, however, really didn’t grip me Bye Bye Tiberias [2.5] 2024-07-02
Hiam Abbass (who you might know as Marcia in Succession ) left her native Palestine in the 80s to live in Paris. This is a documentary following a visit she made back to her family. It didn’t really go anywhere Breathless [3] 2024-07-07
More French New Wave. I like this more than The 400 Blows – but not much more After Hours [4] 2024-07-13
Another old favourite from  the 80s that I had never seen on the big screen. It’s still great What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? [2.5] 2024-07-14
This was an object lesson in the importance of judging a film in its context. I know this is a great film, but watching it in the 21st century just didn’t have the impact that watching it in the early 60s would have had Crossing [3.5] 2024-07-16
A Georgian woman travels to Istanbul to try to find her niece. We learn a lot about the gay and trans communities in the city. I enjoyed this a lot American Gigolo [3] 2024-07-28
Something else that I had never seen. And, to be honest, I don’t think I had really missed much Dìdi (弟弟) [3.5] 2024-07-31
Nice little story about a Taiwanese teen growing up in California I Saw the TV Glow [4] 2024-08-05
I imagine this will be on many “best films of the year” lists. It’s a very strange film about two teens and their obsession with a TV show that closely resembles Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Hollywoodgate  [2.5] 2024-08-13
I really wanted to like this. An Egyptian filmmaker manages to get permission to film a Taliban group that takes over an American base in Afghanistan. But, ultimately, don’t let him film anything interesting and the film is a bit of a disappointment Beverly Hills Cop [1] 2024-08-18
I had never seen this before. And I wish I still hadn’t. One of the worst films I’ve seen in a very long time Excalibur [4] 2024-08-25
Another old favourite that I hadn’t seen on the big screen for a very long time. This is the film that gave me an obsession with watching any film that’s based on Arthurian legend, no matter how bad (and a lot of them are very, very bad) The Quiet Girl [3.5] 2024-09-01
A young Irish girl is sent away to spend the summer with distant relations. She comes to realise that life doesn’t have to be as grim as it usually is for her Lee [3.5] 2024-09-04
A really good biopic about the American photographer Lee Miller. Kate Winslet is really good as Miller The Queen of My Dreams [3.5] 2024-09-11
Another film that I wouldn’t have seen without Film Club. A Canadian Pakistani lesbian woman visits Pakistan and learns about some of the cultural pressures that shaped her mother. It’s a lovely film My Own Private Idaho [2] 2024-09-15
Another film that I had never seen before. Some nice acting by Keanu Reeves and River Phoenix, but this really didn’t interest me Girls Will Be Girls [3.5] 2024-09-17
A coming-of-age film about a teenage girl in India. I enjoyed this The Shape of Water [3.5] 2024-09-22
I don’t think I’ve seen this since the year it was released (and won the Best Picture Oscar). I still enjoyed it, but I didn’t think it held up as well as I expected it to The Banshees of Inisherin [3.5] 2024-09-29
I’d seen this on TV, but you need to see it on a big screen to get the full effect. I’m sure you all know how good it is The Full Monty [3] 2024-10-06
I never understood why this was so much more popular than Brassed Off which is, to me at least, a far better example of the “British worker fish out of water” genre (that’s not a genre, is it?) I guess it’s the soundtrack and the slightly Beryl Cook overtones – the British love a bit of smut Timestalker  [2.5] 2024-10-08
I really wanted to like this. But if just didn’t grab me. I’ll try it again at some point Nomadland [3] 2024-10-13
Another Best Picture Oscar winner. And it’s another one where I can really see how important and well-made it is – but it just doesn’t do anything for me The Apprentice [4] 2024-10-17
I don’t know why Trump was so against this film. I thought he came out of this far more positively than I expected. But it seemed to barely get a release. It has still picked up a few (well-deserved) nominations though Little Miss Sunshine [4] 2024-10-20
Another old favourite. I loved seeing this again Stoker [3] 2024-10-27
I had never seen this before. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I didn’t really enjoy it Anora [4] 2024-10-29
This was probably the best film I saw this year. Well, certainly the best new film. It’s getting a lot of awards buzz. I hope it does well (500) Days of Summer [4] 2024-11-03
I don’t think I had seen this since soon after it was released. It was great to see it again Bird [3] 2024-11-05
This was slightly strange. I’ve seen a few films about the grimness of life on council estates. But this one threw in a bit of magical realism that didn’t really work for me Sideways [3.5] 2024-11-10
Another film I hadn’t watched for far too long Sunshine  [4] 2024-11-17
This is one of my favourite recent(ish) scifi films. I saw it on the Science Museum’s IMAX screen in 2023, but I wasn’t going to skip the chance to see it again Conclave [3.5] 2024-11-19
Occasionally, this series gives you a chance to see something that’s going to be up for plenty of awards. This was a good example. I enjoyed it The Grand Budapest Hotel [4] 2024-11-24
I’ve been slightly disappointed with a few recent Wes Anderson films, so it was great to have the opportunity to see one of his best back on the big screen The Universal Theory  [4] 2024-11-26
I knew nothing about this going into it. And it was a fabulous film. Mysteries and quantum physics in  the Swiss Alps. And all filmed in black and white. This didn’t get the coverage it deserved. Home Alone [2] 2024-12-08
I thought I had never seen this before. But apparently I logged watching it many years ago. I know everyone loves it, but I couldn’t see the point The Apartment [4] 2024-12-15
This was interesting. I have a background quest to watch all of the Best Picture Oscar winners and I hadn’t seen this one. I knew absolutely nothing about it. I thought it was really good The Taste of Things [3.5] 2024-12-21
A film that I didn’t get to see earlier in the year. It’s largely about cooking in a late-nineteenth century French country kitchen. It would make an interesting watch alongside The Remains of the Day Christmas Eve in Miller’s Point [2] 2024-12-24
I didn’t understand this at all. It went nowhere and said nothing interesting. A large family meets up for their traditional Christmas Eve. No-one enjoys themself La Chimera [2] 2024-12-29
And finishing on a bit of a low. I don’t understand why this got so many good reviews. Maybe I just wasn’t in the right mood for it. Something about criminals looking for ancient relics in Italy

The post Picturehouse Film Club appeared first on Davblog.

Changing rooms are the same all over the galaxy and this one really played to the stereotype. The lights flickered that little bit more than you’d want them to, a sizeable proportion of the lockers wouldn’t lock and the whole room needed a good clean. It didn’t fit with the eye-watering amount of money we had all paid for the tour.

There were a dozen or so of us changing from our normal clothes into outfits that had been supplied by the tour company – outfits that were supposed to render us invisible when we reached our destination. Not invisible in the “bending light rays around you” way, they would just make us look enough like the local inhabitants that no-one would give us a second glance.

Appropriate changing room etiquette was followed. Everyone was either looking at the floor or into their locker to avoid eye contact with anyone else. People talked in lowered voices to people they had come with. People who, like me, had come alone were silent. I picked up on some of the quiet conversations – they were about the unusual flora and fauna of our location and the unique event we were here to see.

Soon, we had all changed and were ushered into a briefing room where our guide told us many things we already knew. She had slides explaining the physics behind the phenomenon and was at great pains to emphasise the uniqueness of the event. No other planet in the galaxy had been found that met all of the conditions for what we were going to see. She went through the history of tourism to this planet – decades of uncontrolled visits followed by the licensing of a small number of carefully vetted companies like the one we were travelling with.

She then turned to more practical matters. She reiterated that our outfits would allow us to pass for locals, but that we should do all we could to avoid any interactions with the natives. She also reminded us that we should only look at the event through the equipment that we would be issued with on our way down to the planet.

Through a window in the briefing room a planet, our destination, hung in space. Beyond the planet, its star could also be seen.

An hour or so later, we were on the surface of the planet. We were deposited at the top of a grassy hill on the edge of a large crowd of the planet’s inhabitants. Most of us were of the same basic body shape as the quadruped locals and, at first glance at least, passed for them. A few of us were less lucky and had to stay in the vehicles to avoid suspicion.

The timing of the event was well understood and the company had dropped us off early enough that we were able to find a good viewing spot but late enough that we didn’t have long to wait. We had been milling around for half an hour or so when a palpable moment of excitement passed through the crowd and everyone looked to the sky.

Holding the equipment I had been given to my eyes I could see what everyone else had noticed. A small bite seemed to have been taken from the bottom left of the planet’s sun. As we watched, the bite got larger and larger as the planet’s satellite moved in front of the star. The satellite appeared to be a perfect circle, but at the last minute – just before it covered the star completely – it became obvious that the edge wasn’t smooth as gaps between irregularities on the surface (mountains, I suppose) allowed just a few points of light through.

And then the satellite covered the sun and the atmosphere changed completely. The world turned dark and all conversations stopped. All of the local animals went silent. It was magical.

My mind went back to the slides explaining the phenomenon. Obviously, the planet’s satellite and star weren’t the same size, but their distance from the planet exactly balanced their difference in size so they appeared the same size in the sky. And the complex interplay of orbits meant that on rare occasions like this, the satellite would completely and exactly cover the star.

That was what we were there for. This was what was unique about this planet. No other planet in the galaxy had a star and a satellite that appeared exactly the same size in the sky. This is what made the planet the most popular tourist spot in the galaxy.

Ten minutes later, it was over. The satellite continued on its path and the star was gradually uncovered. Our guide bundled us into the transport and back up to our spaceship.

Before leaving the vicinity of the planet, our pilot found three locations in space where the satellite and the star lined up in the same way and created fake eclipses for those of us who had missed taking photos of the real one.

The post The Tourist appeared first on Davblog.

I really thought that 2023 would be the year I got back into the swing of seeing gigs. But, somehow I ended up seeing even fewer than I did in 2022 – 12, when I saw 16 the previous year. Sometimes, I look at Martin’s monthly gig round-ups and wonder what I’m doing with my life!

I normally list my ten favourite gigs of the year, but it would be rude to miss just two gigs from the list, so here are all twelve gigs I saw this year – in, as always, chronological order.

John Grant (supported by The Faultress) at St. James’s Church
John Grant has become one of those artists I try to see whenever they pass through London. And this was a particularly special night as he was playing an acoustic set in one of the most atmospheric venues in London. The evening was only slightly marred by the fact I arrived too late to get a decent seat and ended up not being able to see anything. Hannah Peel at Kings Place
Hannah Peel was the artist in residence at Kings Place for a few months during the year and played three gigs during that time. This was the first of them – where she played her recent album, Fir Wave, in its entirety. A very laid-back and thoroughly enjoyable evening. Orbital at the Eventim Apollo
I’ve been meaning to get around to seeing Orbital for many years. This show was originally planned to be at the Brixton Academy but as that venue is currently closed, it was relocated to Hammersmith. To be honest, this evening was slightly hampered by the fact I don’t know as much of their work as I thought I did and it was all a bit samey. I ended up leaving before the encore. Duran Duran (supported by Jake Shears) at the O2 Arena
Continuing my quest to see all of the bands I was listening to in the 80s (and, simultaneously, ticking off the one visit to the O2 that I allow myself each year). I really enjoyed the nostalgia of seeing Duran Duran but, to be honest, I think I enjoyed Jake Shears more – and it was the Scissor Sisters I was listening to on the way home. Hannah Peel and Beibei Wang at Kings Place
Even in a year where I only see a few gigs, I still manage to see artists more than once. This was the second of Hannah Peel’s artist-in-residence shows. She appeared with Chinese percussionist Beibei Wang in a performance that was completely spontaneous and unrehearsed. Honestly, some parts were more successful than others, but it was certainly an interesting experience.Songs from Summerisle at the Barbican Hall
The Wicker Man is one of my favourite films, so I jumped at the chance to see the songs from the soundtrack performed live. But unfortunately, the evening was a massive disappointment. The band sounded like they had met just before the show and, while they all obviously knew the songs, they hadn’t rehearsed them together. Maybe they were going for a rustic feel – but, to me, it just sounded unprofessional. Belle and Sebastian at the Roundhouse
Another act that I try to see as often as possible. I know some people see Belle and Sebastian as the most Guardian-reader band ever – but I love them. This show saw them on top form. Jon Anderson and the Paul Green Rock Academy at the Shepherds Bush Empire
I’ve seen Yes play live a few times in the last ten years or so and, to be honest, it can sometimes be a bit over-serious and dull. In this show, Jon Anderson sang a load of old Yes songs with a group of teenagers from the Paul Green Rock Academy (the school that School of Rock was based on) and honestly, the teenagers brought such a feeling of fun to the occasion that it was probably the best Yes-related show that I’ve seen. John Grant and Richard Hawley at the Barbican Hall
Another repeated act – my second time seeing John Grant in a year. This was something different as he was playing a selection of Patsy Cline songs. I don’t listen to Patsy Cline much, but I knew a few more of the songs than I expected to. This was a bit lower-key than I was expecting. Peter Hook and the Light at the Eventim Apollo
I’ve been planning to see Peter Hook and the Light for a couple of years. There was a show I had tickets for in 2020, but it was postponed because of COVID and when it was rescheduled, I was unable to go, so I cancelled my ticket and got a refund. So I was pleased to get another chance. And this show had them playing both of the Substance albums (Joy Division and New Order). I know New Order still play some Joy Division songs in their sets, but this is probably the best chance I’ll have to see some deep Joy Division cuts played live. I really enjoyed this show. Heaven 17 at the Shepherds Bush Empire
It seems I see Heaven 17 live most years and they usually appear on my “best of” lists. This show was celebrating the fortieth anniversary of their album The Luxury Gap – so that got played in full, alongside many other Heaven 17 and Human League songs. A thoroughly enjoyable night. The Imagined Village and Afro-Celt Sound System at the Roundhouse
I’ve seen both The Imagined Village and the Afro-Celts live once before. And they were two of the best gigs I’ve ever seen. I pretty much assumed that the death of Simon Emmerson (who was an integral part of both bands) earlier in 2023 would mean that both bands would stop performing. But this show was a tribute to Emmerson and the bands both reformed to celebrate his work. This was probably my favourite gig of the year. That’s The Imagined Village (featuring two Carthys, dour Coppers and Billy Bragg) in the photo at the top of this post.

So, what’s going to happen in 2024. I wonder if I’ll get back into the habit of going to more shows. I only have a ticket for one gig next year – They Might Be Giants playing Flood in November (a show that was postponed from this year). I guess we’ll see. Tune in this time next year to see what happened.

The post 2023 in Gigs appeared first on Davblog.

Rather later than usual (again!) here is my review of the best ten gigs I saw in 2022. For the first time since 2019, I did actually see more than ten gigs in 2022 although my total of sixteen falls well short of my pre-pandemic years.

Here are my ten favourite gigs of the year. As always, they’re in chronological order.

Pale Waves at the Roundhouse
I’ve seen Pale Waves a few times now and I think they’ve firmly established their place on my “see them whenever they tour near me” list. This show was every bit as good as I’ve ever seen them. Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark at the Royal Albert Hall
Another band I see whenever I can. This was a slightly different set where the first half was called “Atmospheric” and concentrated on some deeper cuts from their back catalogue and the second half included all the hits. Chvrches at Brixton Academy
In 2020, I moved to a flat that’s about fifteen minutes’ walk from Brixton Academy. But I had to wait about eighteen months in order to take advantage of that fact. The last couple of times I’ve seen Chvrches were at Alexandra Palace, so it was nice to see them at a smaller venue again. This show featured a not-entirely unexpected guest appearance from Robert Smith. Sunflower Bean at Electric Ballroom
Another act who I see live as often as I can. And this was a great venue to see them in. Pet Shop Boys at the O2 Arena
There’s always one show a year that draws me to the soulless barn that is the O2 Arena. Every time I go there, I vow it’ll be the last time – but something always pulls me back. This year it was the chance to see a band I loved in the 80s and have never seen live. This was a fabulous greatest hits show that had been postponed from 2020. Lorde at the Roundhouse
A new Lorde album means another Lorde tour. And, like Chvrches, she swapped the huge expanse of Alexandra Palace for multiple nights at a smaller venue. This was a very theatrical show that matched the vibe of the Solar Power album really well. LCD Soundsystem at Brixton Academy
Another show at Brixton Academy. For some reason, I didn’t know about this show until I walked past the venue a few days before and saw the “sold out” signs. But a day or so later, I got an email from the venue offering tickets. So I snapped one up and had an amazing evening. It was the first time I’d seen them, but I strongly suspect it won’t be the last. That’s them in the photo at the top of this post. Roxy Music at the O2 Arena
Some years there are two shows that force me to the O2 Arena. And this was one of those years. I’ve been a fan of Roxy Music since the 70s but I’ve never seen them live. Honestly, it would have been better to have seen them in the 70s or 80s, but it was still a great show. Beabadoobee at Brixton Academy
Sometimes you go to see an artist because of one song and it just works out. This was one of those nights. In fact, it turns out I didn’t actually know “Coffee For Your Head” very well – I just knew the sample that was used in another artist’s record. But this was a great night and I hope to see her again very soon. Sugababes at Eventim Apollo
Another night of fabulous nostalgia. The Eventim Apollo seems to have become my venue of choice to see re-formed girl groups from the 80s and 90s – having seen Bananarama, All Saints and now The Sugababes there in recent years. They have a surprising number of hits (far more than I remembered before the show) and they put on a great show.

Not everything could make the top ten though. I think was the first year that I saw Stealing Sheep and they didn’t make the list (their stage shows just get weirder and weirder and the Moth Club wasn’t a great venue for it) and I was astonished to find myself slightly bored at the Nine Inch Nails show at Brixton Academy.

A few shows sit just outside of the top ten – St. Vincent at the Eventim Apollo, John Grant at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire and Damon Albarn at the Barbican spring to mind.

But, all in all, it was a good year for live music and I’m looking forward to seeing more than sixteen shows this year.

Did you see any great shows this year? Tell us about them in the comments.

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