-an OD of Toughts-

Paris has a problem. It is one of the most beautiful cities on Earth, packed with magnificent buildings, extraordinary art and enough restaurants to feed the population of a small country. And yet finding somewhere to eat without selling a kidney can sometimes feel like a competitive sport. Particularly in the 16th arrondissement. This is the sort of Paris where the buildings are elegant, the streets are immaculate and the price of a sandwich can make you briefly consider eating the pavement instead. Then along comes Bistro Blandine. It is on Avenue Kléber, just a short distance from the Arc de Triomphe, which means you can spend the afternoon looking at one of the world's most famous monuments before discovering that the best thing you've seen all day might actually be a plate of beef. This is not a restaurant trying to reinvent French cuisine. Thank God. There are no foams. No mysterious gels. No chef explaining that the three peas on your plate represent "the emotional ...

There are two types of restaurant in Venice. There are the ones designed for tourists, where the menu has been translated into six languages, the waiter has the emotional warmth of an airport security officer, and somewhere in the kitchen a frozen pizza is being quietly defrosted. And then there are places where actual Venetians still eat. These are considerably harder to find. Venice has become so spectacularly overwhelmed by visitors that finding a restaurant genuinely used by locals can feel like finding a functioning parking space in central London. You know it must exist. You just don't know where. But a short walk from Piazza San Marco, hidden beneath a bridge, is Trattoria La Rivetta. And this is not some newly invented "authentic Venetian experience" created last Tuesday by a marketing consultant. It has been here since 1973. More importantly, it has been serving gondoliers for generations. Now, if a gondolier chooses to eat somewhere, I tend to take notice. These...

Drug-driving is becoming a bigger problem. But perhaps the answer isn’t another police press conference. There is some worrying news coming from Malta’s roads. And when I say worrying , I don't mean the usual Maltese sort of worrying, where someone has parked his BMW diagonally across a pavement, and everyone spends twenty minutes discussing it on Facebook. This is rather more serious. Drug use among young people is becoming an increasingly worrying problem, and there is growing concern about people getting behind the wheel after taking drugs. Naturally, the first response is predictable. More police. More roadside checks. More testing. More penalties. More powers. And, presumably, another government press conference in which six people stand behind a table while one of them explains that "the authorities are taking this matter very seriously". Which is reassuring. Although I'm not entirely sure what the person who has just taken cocaine at 2am in Paceville is going t...

I Think I'm Having a Reverse Midlife Crisis People joke about the midlife crisis. Apparently, at some point you're supposed to wake up, buy a bright red sports car you can't get out of without making noises like an old Labrador, start wearing clothes designed for someone half your age, and convince yourself that "finding yourself" involves spending €18 on artisan coffee while posting inspirational quotes on Instagram. I went in the opposite direction. I think I'm having a reverse midlife crisis. And strangely enough... I'm happier than I've ever been. Time Has a Funny Way of Humbling You When you're twenty, time feels like a warehouse full of spare tyres. You burn through it without thinking because there's always another one. Then one day you realise you've somehow become the bloke who says things like, "Twenty years ago..." and it wasn't referring to the 1980s. That hits differently. It's not vanity that gets you. It...

Hi-Fi in 2076: AI Will Pick Your Music... and Probably Judge Your Taste Too For the last 50 years, the hi-fi industry has been obsessed with one thing: making music sound more real. Bigger amplifiers. Better DACs. Gold-plated cables that cost more than a second-hand Ford Fiesta. Speakers so large they require planning permission. Now, according to a panel of audio engineers, the next 50 years will be very different. Apparently, by 2076, artificial intelligence will know exactly how you like your music. It'll understand your room, your hearing, your mood, your age, your heart rate and, quite possibly, whether you've had an argument with your spouse. Your hi-fi won't simply play Pink Floyd. It'll decide which Pink Floyd you need. Comfortably Numb because you've had a bad day. Money because your electricity bill just arrived. Or Another Brick in the Wall because the neighbour has started drilling again. It's clever. It's futuristic. And it's also slightly ...

 It is getting worse. Spend five minutes in any large Facebook group, and you'll witness what can only be described as a national therapy session, except nobody's getting therapy. Somewhere along the way, we collectively sold our souls. Not for eternal glory. Not even for a Ferrari. For another rental apartment and the hope of squeezing one more tenant into what used to be someone's spare bedroom. The new national dream isn't to build a life. It's to knock down your grandparents' house, replace it with twelve identical grey boxes, and call it "investment." PL didn't invent greed, but he certainly turned it into Malta's favourite spectator sport. Everyone suddenly became a property developer. If you owned a patch of land bigger than a bath towel, congratulations—you were now a tycoon. For a while, it looked brilliant. Money was flowing, cranes were multiplying faster than rabbits, and GDP graphs pointed heroically upwards. But here's the pro...

My name is Michele. I'm 39 years old. It was a rainy Tuesday in November, six years ago. At 3:30 in the afternoon, I was called into the owner's office. I worked as a sales representative for a hotel supplies company. They didn't even offer me a coffee. My boss gave me the usual slimy speech, full of corporate buzzwords like "downsizing", "necessary cuts", and "difficult decision". In plain English, it meant, "You're fired, effective immediately. You have half an hour to clear your desk." By exactly 4:00 p.m., I was standing on the pavement in the pouring rain, holding a cardboard box that was slowly falling apart. Inside it were my Star Wars mug, two diaries, and a stapler. I was 33 years old, had just taken out a mortgage, and had no idea what I was going to do next. I couldn't bring myself to go home. I felt like a complete failure. So I walked into the first open place, a small neighbourhood bar. One of those depressing pl...