-an OD of Love-

Look. Ozzy Osbourne died. And no, we didn’t know him personally. He didn’t send us Christmas cards or pop round for tea. But the moment that headline hit, something inside twisted. And not in a “oh, sad news” kind of way. No. In a deep, throat-lumping, soul-punching kind of way. Because Ozzy wasn’t just some ageing rocker. He was ours . The Soundtrack to the Chaos If you grew up anytime between cassette tapes and dodgy MP3 players, chances are Ozzy was in your ears. Loud. And often. Through heartbreaks, grief, anxiety, panic attacks, teenage sulking, and those moments where everything felt completely and utterly pointless. He was there. Belting it out while we stared at the ceiling, wondering if we were losing the plot. Sometimes it felt like he got it, like he was screaming what we couldn’t say out loud. Other artists came and went. Nirvana exploded, burned out, and became a logo on t-shirts. Trends changed, scenes shifted, and our lives did that thing where everything gets me...

Look around you: Two people were shot dead. A woman was run over and killed by a drunk, unlicensed soldier, and the guy walks free. Another man beats a woman inside a car, and someone else gets seven separate bailouts for all kinds of charges. A man was crushed by a bus and died. And the daily dose of accidents we’ve become numb to. Then, when someone dies by suicide, everyone suddenly acts shocked. But the most we manage is a post about "mental health awareness", a podcast or two, and once a year, we light up Mater Dei and Mount Carmel in green as if that fixes anything. Everyone becomes an expert on depression for a week, and then it’s back to silence, especially from the institutions, which wouldn’t dare upset anyone. But this is the reality. This is what life has become here. It’s anger, it’s pressure, it’s helplessness from the top down. People are mentally and emotionally exhausted. The whole system is toxic, and it’s showing. Everywhere. You open...

 Let’s not pretend. What’s happening in Malta isn’t a mistake. It’s not a bug in the system. It is the system. Our institutions—those sturdy bricks that are supposed to keep power in check—have been hollowed out like a chocolate Easter egg. Nice to look at. Shiny, even. But bite into it and you find there’s nothing there. No substance. No spine. No resistance.  And here’s the sick twist: it’s all happening legally . Quietly. Efficiently. And with a smile. We didn’t wake up to tanks in the streets. No strongmen banging fists on podiums. What we got was a carefully choreographed series of “reforms” and “updates”—each one just technical enough to bore the public, just ambiguous enough to avoid outrage, and just effective enough to neuter any serious oversight. The judiciary? Once a pillar of justice, now more of a suggestion. Appointments based on merit? Don’t be naïve. For years, judges were chosen by whoever held the keys to Castille. Loyalty, not law, was the ladder up. E...

Let’s be honest. Breaking up with your phone is a bit like breaking up with a clingy ex who lives in your pocket, listens to everything you say, and reminds you to drink water but forgets to mention it’s been spying on you since 2016. Every time I try to reduce my screen time, my phone throws a tantrum. Pinging, buzzing, lighting up like it’s hosting the Eurovision Song Contest in my jeans. But here we are, and here are 10 ways I’ve found to gently divorce my phone… without ending up curled in a corner screaming, “Just one more reel!” 1. Set Specific Time Limits – Like a Responsible Adult, Apparently You know it’s bad when you pick up your phone to check the weather and four hours later you’re watching a raccoon make pancakes. Now I set a timer—15 minutes to do the thing, then out. If I ignore it, my phone goes into Time Out, which means I throw it onto the nearest sofa cushion and walk off like I’ve won an argument. I haven’t, but it feels good. 2. Create Phone-Free Zones – Bec...

There are times in life when you’re bombarded by so much misery, you think the world has officially become one giant Twitter thread about why everyone hates everyone else. And just when you’re about to go full Unabomber , along comes a film like Deep Cover,  and it does something extraordinary. It makes you feel again. Now, I know what you’re thinking: "Another action comedy? Isn’t that just more bullets, bad puns, and explosions filmed in Bulgaria with a budget that wouldn’t cover a decent lunch?" But hold on. Because this… this is something else. First off, we need to talk about the chemistry . Not chemistry as in test tubes and the kind of people who wear lab coats and smell of Dettol. No. I’m talking about Nick, Orlando, and Bryce.  A trio so good together on screen, you’d think they were genetically engineered in a lab run by Tarantino and Shane Black. Nick is that rare breed: the man who can make awkwardness look like an Olympic sport. Every eyebrow raise, every side...

I bought a bike… not because I needed transport. No. I bought it because somewhere, deep in the part of my soul where reason goes to die, I had a dream. One day, when I’m old and I mean really old,  the kind of old where your knees sound like a gravel driveway… I’ll roll into my garage, unable to walk, but there she’ll be. My bike. Not just metal and petrol. But a trophy. A monument to the chaos, the freedom, the madness of youth... ...and the fact that I still somehow have both kidneys. I’ve met people along the way. Some of them became lifelong mates, bonded by the sacred ritual of shouting over engines and complaining about tyre prices. Others… Well, let’s just say I’m thrilled to have the memory of a goldfish. I’ve been soaked through to the underpants, I’ve frozen to the point where my eyebrows developed frostbite, And I’ve also been warmer than a pie in a glovebox on a summer’s day. I’ve been terrified. I’ve crashed. I’ve fallen over, sometimes with great...

Today... Everyone walks alone. A crowded world with hearts left hollow. Friends— they're myths now, and if they still exist, you cradle them carefully, like fire in a storm. We crave a corner of nature, a quiet patch to lay our noise down. Somewhere the world doesn’t scream at us. But peace is a vanishing species. We became our own chains, running, chasing the ticking hands of clocks as if salvation lies somewhere between deadline and burnout. People... want everything. Now. No time for patience, no room for grace. Privacy? Gone. Respect? Evaporated. This world spins on coins and credit. Life’s sacred values— buried beneath the weight of wallets. But remember... wasn’t it more beautiful when we had nothing? Back then poverty had a soul. It wasn’t about the lack of things, it was about the presence of people. There was struggle, yes, but there was unity. Today, we walk solo, heads down, hearts guarded. But how long can you keep walking alone? How long can you act strong, when inside...

Right. So imagine, if you will, living most of your life on a sun-drenched Mediterranean rock, where the worst weather you’ll face is the occasional lukewarm breeze that might gently rearrange your hair. Now, take that life, and drop it violently into a place where boiling water turns into snow mid-air, and stepping outside without gloves is the human equivalent of microwaving a chicken from the inside out . Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Arctic. Or more specifically, to Netflix’s North of North  a show that, against all odds, makes the -30°C North look like a trendy Airbnb destination for emotional breakdowns. And yet… somehow, it works. Meet Siaja. She’s Inuk. She’s 26. She’s got cheekbones sharp enough to cut through seal blubber and the kind of determined optimism that would make Paddington Bear look like a depressive. Played with actual sparkle by Anna Lambe, Siaja has left her husband, Ting, who is essentially Top Gun if Maverick had a God complex and flew a plane th...

Imagine this: the world is careening toward chaos. Wars, climate disasters, politicians who can’t tell their arse from their elbow. And what are we all losing our minds over? Tiny plastic goblins called Labubu. Yes, you heard that right. Goblins. Plastic. And apparently, our new overlords. These aren’t your usual cuddly toys. No, these things look like someone let a goblin out of the shadow realm and gave it googly eyes and a pointy ear for good measure. They grin like they know all your passwords and your browser history. Yet people are queuing up, online and in shops, throwing money at these little fiends like it’s going out of fashion. Why? Because they’re blind boxes . You don’t know which goblin you’re getting until you rip the packaging apart. It’s like a lucky dip, only instead of sweets, it’s a tiny creepy creature staring back at you, judging your life choices. Now, back in my day, surprise toys meant chocolate eggs with a bit of plastic junk inside. That was simple. But no...