Klara

And, look. Yuna has been around hockey culture a long time. She knows why Shane begged her not to drop him off too close to the rink in juniors so his teammates wouldn't catch a glimpse of her. She knows what half the insults tossed around on the ice are about. She's not an idiot. So when this cocky upstart kid starts approaching her at these shindigs, all adolescent swagger, thinking he's soo slick and subtle with whatever kind of mind game he's obviously playing with her son, she has half a mind to cut him off before he can even work up any steam.

“All this talk of Hollander, Hollander, Hollander but I did not know he had big sister" is the kid's opening line.

And she shouldn't laugh – that's obviously the reaction he's aiming for – but he's really selling it, is the thing; his performance deserves at least that much recognition.

“I'm his mother,” she says, playing along.

And oh, he's good – his sharp eyebrows immediately jump into his thick tangle of curls, mouth dropping open in shock that, for all intents and purposes, looks utterly sincere.

“But this cannot be true – you are much too young to have teenager, Miss Hollander.”

And God, this kid. He really is laying it on thick. “I think you'll find I definitely am old enough – and a son your age, no less” that last part she says a little pointedly. She can lay it on thick, too. “And it's Mrs Hollander, actually.”

And Rozanov's eyes are glittering, all mischief when he says, “Ah. Your husband is very lucky man," and no, that is quite enough of that.

And even though she shoos him away, he always comes to circle her skirts at every event they both attend, playing up the simpering flattery, and Yuna, despite herself, is reluctantly charmed. If this is what the kid is like at nineteen, she can't even begin to imagine him when he was younger - he must have gotten away with everything.

Honestly, she finds herself thinking, exasperated, every time she spots him approaching with that impish grin, where is this boy's mother?

And then she finds out. And suddenly, she's asking David if they can invite Rozanov out to lunch because, well, he's going to be in their son's life for a long time, it's good to build rapport with Shane's peers, even if they're competitors.

Yes they needed to switch it up and be more modern, but only singing songs by women is stated to be something core to their artistic integrity. Its sad that they let that go.

If you people are going to constantly invent new end-times events, could you at least make them more interesting.

Well.

The internet finally did.

Enter The Great Raptor, scheduled for March 22, a spiritually significant event in which a morally selective dinosaur may or may not descend upon this cursed nation and remove the most irritating people first.

And honestly?

About time.

Not because I believe it’s literally happening.

I’m still sadly tethered to reality by bureaucracy and lower back pain.

But emotionally? Spiritually? Culturally?

I am fully invested in the Great Raptor.

Because unlike the regular rapture, which mostly sounds like a reward program for people who ruin school boards, the Great Raptor actually has moral clarity.

It has taste.

It has range.

It has a better target demographic.

the great raptor, #march 22, #raptor day, #dinosaur justice, #this is where we are as a society, #american absurdity, #internet folklore, #dark humor, #absurdist humor, #rapture parody, #end times nonsense, #judgment day but make it stupid, #weekend gremlin post, #feral commentary, #meme culture, #cultural commentary, #substack, #articles of unreason, #the prophecy has teeth, #hide weirdos

via Good Good Good News

Oh, and Achilles with his grief bob:

After The Noise

Everything Is Equal

Tuesday 27 January 2026

Taylor Swift – Cardigan (2020)

Ah yes, Ms Swift. She’s an easy target, isn’t she? Musical snobs love a pop star to sneer at.

The inconvenient truth is this: Taylor Swift is fantastic at what she does.

Folklore arrived during COVID, a surprise album. When everything felt strange and suspended, and it quietly did something different. Stripped back. Minimal. No bombast. No arena theatrics. Just songs.

This was the lead single and reached number six in the UK charts. If charts mattered these days like they used to in Victorian times, when I were a nipper.

Cardigan moves along at a gentle, reassuring pace and today, with my head finally clearing, it sounds even better. There’s no fuss here. No overreaching. Just confidence in restraint.

Yes, Swifties can be a bit… intense. But I get it now. I used to be a Swift hater too. An easy posture to adopt when you’re a self-appointed musical purist. But when you decide that everything really is equal, that snobbery collapses.

By running a revolving playlist and adopting the “everything is equal” attitude, my tastes have exploded in a matter of weeks. No longer shackled by desperately trying to be eclectic (and often trying too hard), I just let one piece of music drift into another.

The playlist does the talking.

As a result, my musical palette has improved significantly. So in my world, Taylor Swift sits comfortably alongside readings of W. H. Auden, and nobody in my head bats an eyelid. Just a nod in appreciation.

Here I am on a humdrum Tuesday afternoon, deep in thought, tapping my toes to Taylor. Nodding. Always nodding.

Next week, when I start the 99km walking challenge for The Dogs Trust, I’m switching to full albums. Time matters. An hour a day, every day. Folklore will definitely get a proper run. Evermore too.

I’ll happily go on record saying this: I like this song a lot, I’m looking forward to hearing the album in full, and I genuinely don’t care who that bothers.

Charli XCX – Track 10 (2017)

If there were a medal for the most bonkers opening to a song, this would win it.

Charli XCX is another artist I used to dismiss quickly. I watched her full set at Glastonbury, muttering to myself, not entirely sure why. Secretly liking a lot of the tunes but not daring to admit it. Lots of bum-shaking. Skimpy clothes. Very sexual. A fair bit of miming.

And you know what? I kind of loved it.

She knows exactly what she’s doing.

Every other sentence into the mic was “Let’s have it, fucking Glastonbury” (or similar, as my friend Neil would say), and the crowd loved her for it. She plays with vocals, vocoders, structure. She bends pop into odd shapes and doesn’t apologise.

And yes, that Icona Pop song I love so much? That was her. I Don’t Care. Quite apt, really.

Musical purists get stuck thinking everything has to be Led Zeppelin, The Who, The Stones, The Beatles. Time has moved on. What young people love now is Charli XCX, Taylor Swift, Olivia Rodrigo, Gracie Abrams. There are a lot of them, and sometimes the lines blur, but Charli sounds different. Sharper. Stranger.

This track is chaotic, messy, hypnotic. Lyrics loop, fragment, repeat until meaning dissolves into feeling. Is it “blame it on your love”, “buck it up”, “fuck it up”? It doesn’t really matter. The repetition is the point.

From a mixtape. I knew I recognised the “blame it on your love” line from one of her hits. Loads going on. Utterly bonkers. In a good way.

At the end of the day, this is modern pop music. This is what the kids love. I saw their faces at Glastonbury, pressed against the barrier, waiting all day. She means something to them.

People slag her off for miming, but this isn’t about pure vocal performance. It’s performance art. Always has been, in one form or another.

There are odd moments here too. Harp lines. Sudden shifts. Things you don’t expect. I’ll need to listen to Brat properly, album-style, no skipping.

You can put the old man hat on and say it all sounds the same. Or you can take the snob out of it and admit this is genuinely creative work.

Once you do that, you feel lighter.

The Beatles – Kansas City / Hey-Hey-Hey-Hey (Take 2) (1995)

Stopped at a red light. Someone behind me wanted me to jump it so they could too. Arms flailing. Impatience everywhere. Daft little man.

No.

I know these lights. It’s dangerous. And frankly, it amused me to wait.

Back to the Beatles.

Anthology stuff. I’ve put it all in (and taken it all out since time of writing). Not even sure which volume this is from. Toward the end it starts to feel desperate. Milking fans. That happens with legacies. But when the Beatles come on, it’s still effortless.

Even a throwaway cover sounds better than most people’s best work.

Yes, they’re over-analysed. I gave up engaging with Beatles die-hards years ago. Hard work. Listening to every note, digesting everything.

There’s nothing wrong with critique, but sometimes it goes too far.

Yes, the mythology is noisy. But the solution is simple: stop digging and just listen. And yes, they’ve completely milked it now (as of 2026, Carnival of Light is still unreleased).

Revolution 9 aside. (Just kidding. Even that has a place. Somewhere.)

They’ll never die. The solo stuff might fade, but the band won’t.

Fleetwood Mac – Need Your Love Tonight (1968)

Early Fleetwood Mac. Pure blues.

Yes, blues all sounds the same. So does reggae. So does classical. That’s not the point. My ear isn’t trained enough to notice much difference. When it’s good, who cares?

The early Mac is often forgotten because of what came later. By the time Buckingham and Nicks joined in the mid-70s, they were a completely different band.

This brings a smile to my face. I can picture them nodding, tapping their feet, the crowd doing the same with quiet joy. Weak mild pints of bitter and roll-your-owns with a little extra something “for medicinal purposes”, if you get my drift.

If someone wants to “get into” Fleetwood Mac, don’t send them to the obvious songs. Send them here. This will sort you out.

Fantastic guitar work. Proper heroes.

Listening to this now, in this context, it means something completely different to how it once did. That’s where Everything Is Equal comes from. Appreciating things for what they are, even if they’re not your favourite.

Peter Green. Bloody British legend.

The Jam – Move On Up (1982)

An exciting Jam cover of the Curtis Mayfield original.

This is alive. Full of energy. The sort of thing that lifts your day without asking permission. Late-period Jam with horns. The late, great Rick Buckler thumping away on the drums. Bruce Foxton twanging his bass like it owes him money. A modernised version of the original. Modern for its day, at least.

I don’t think I’d heard this before, which is the whole point. Though I probably had. Originally a B-side to their final single, Beat Surrender.

Thinking outside the box. I stuck Extras on deliberately. With bands I love, I like to wander away from the albums I know. As the playlist evolves, that instinct matters more and more.

Yesterday was awful. Properly awful. Today? Fantastic so far.

Enjoying the music. Enjoying the sounds. Feeling alive, creative, vibrant. Then the unmistakable sound of The Jam comes on and nudges everything up another notch.

I love music that makes me smile. Any music can do that, but this really does. Immensely.

Thank you, Weller, Foxton, Buckler (RIP). You made my day, and it’s not even one of your own songs.

Depeche Mode – John the Revelator (UNKLE Reconstruction) (2006)

A lightbulb moment last night.

There’s no Depeche Mode on this playlist.

That’s ridiculous. Sort it out.

Big fan. From Speak & Spell onwards. Always have been. But instead of chucking in the obvious tracks, it felt more interesting to go sideways. Remixes. Things I don’t usually listen to. Things I should.

After a bad day. A really bad day. Depression. One of those days where your brain doesn’t cooperate. Then the icing on the cake: bad food. Half a packet of biscuits. The kind of thing you think will help and absolutely doesn’t.

Still, I was creative. That matters.

Depeche Mode are one of those bands where you know exactly where you stand. Reassuring. Solid. Good to have in the cupboard.

UNKLE. Capital letters. I’d forgotten about them. Had one of their albums years ago. Loved it. They’ve done a bloody fine job here. This wants to be played loud. Club loud. I don’t listen loud much these days, but this is asking for it.

Depeche Mode never quite get the credit they deserve.

Who was John the Revelator anyway? What did he reveal?

That question’s going to bug me now.

Good music makes the demons come out swinging.

End of Listening Log

Red, White and Royal Blue (2023) + text posts