-an OD of Toughts-

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...

Depression and anxiety. It's like driving a knackered old diesel up a steep hill in reverse, with a punctured tyre and Radiohead playing in the background. And yet, somehow, you’re expected to smile through it like you're in a yoghurt advert. But here’s the thing: healing is possible. Not with glitter, unicorns or chanting at crystals but one real, awkward, imperfect step at a time. It’s not about pretending you’re fine when you feel like a bin fire. It’s about dragging yourself out of bed, brushing your teeth like it’s a military victory, and choosing against all odds to show up for yourself. Even if “showing up” means sitting on the floor eating snacks at 3AM. Right. Tools that worked for me and might work for you, unless you’re a houseplant. 1. The Outdoors There’s something remarkably grounding about standing in a field shouting into the wind. Or walking in a forest that smells like damp bark and existential dread. Nature doesn’t ask you to smile. It just exists and sometim...

The scale and I? We’re enemies. One wrong meal, one off calibration, and suddenly my sense of self-worth nosedives because of a number. If I let that number dictate my journey, I’d have given up long ago. My weight can fluctuate by a kilo in a single day something it took me years to understand, and even longer to stop blaming myself for. So now, I focus on how I feel. How my body moves. How walking feels. How roomy the chair is. How my clothes fit. That feeling that quiet confidence, that freedom is what success looks like to me. The Rooftop That Changed Everything I’ll never forget that sunny day in Milan. I was standing on a rooftop, surrounded by centuries-old beauty, and I couldn’t enjoy a second of it. I was in too much pain to explore, too drained to care. That moment broke me. What should have been a little break became the moment I gave up. But rock bottom has a way of becoming a foundation. Today, I have a new life. A different energy. A deeper appreciation. And I long to go ...

  Right, so imagine, if you will, the mid-1960s. A time of questionable fashion, even worse music, and, crucially, motorcycles that largely handled like a shopping trolley full of actual bowling balls. And then, there was Kawasaki. A name, back then, that probably conjured images of… well, I don't know, industrial machinery? Not exactly a purveyor of two-wheeled ecstasy. But apparently, they'd had a thought. A rare occurrence for a Japanese corporation, one might argue. They looked across the pond, saw America, land of the brave and home of the deeply credulous, and decided, "Yes! We shall sell them motorcycles. Big ones." So, they got some chaps – probably smelling faintly of instant noodles and regret – locked them in a room, and told them to build something utterly, monumentally brilliant. They called it "New York Steak." Because, obviously, that's what you name a groundbreaking motorcycle project. Not "Project Thunderpants" or "Death o...

Once a jewel of the Mediterranean, known for its charm, history, and stunning coastline, Malta today feels more like a permanent construction zone. Cranes tower over every town, dust clouds choke the air, and roads crumble beneath the chaos. Villages merge into sprawling urban monotony, leaving locals and visitors alike wondering: what’s left to see in a country that never stops building but seems to lose more of itself with every brick? The Crane-Scarred Skyline Ask any Maltese resident and you’ll hear the same refrain: What are tourists even coming here to see anymore? Because instead of domes and narrow cobbled streets, the skyline is now dominated by cranes, dozens of them, stretching into the sky above every village and town. Stepping outside is an assault on the senses: jackhammers echo endlessly, concrete mixers rumble, and dust settles on everything, including your laundry. Navigating Malta means detours and blocked roads at every turn, while urban planning often feels like...

  Twelve years. That’s how long it’s been since Labour burst out of the Naxxar Counting Hall like a flaming rocket powered by voter rage and a suspicious amount of electoral Red Bull, leaving the Nationalist Party in a smoking crater of existential crisis and confused applause. Since then, the PN has done what any self-respecting political party does when it loses catastrophically: it changes the wallpaper, moves the chairs around, and sets fire to itself three times for good measure. Let’s be honest, the PN hasn’t just struggled. It’s made struggling into an Olympic sport. Simon Busuttil: The Man With the Plan (Just Not a Very Good One) Simon came from Brussels, which probably explains why he was so good at issuing calm press statements and so bad at winning elections. He looked the part, sounded the part… but had all the firepower of a damp tea towel. He abstained on civil unions, lost an MEP election by the same soul-crushing margin as the general one, and even when the Panama P...

Let's get one thing straight: the entire, tedious point of civilization has always been to keep the thugs from running the show. It’s a simple, almost boring concept, yet one we seem determined to forget. Unless we consistently and forcefully stop the strong from savaging the weak, the idea of a "safe society" is a pathetic fiction we tell ourselves between crises. A civil society that quaint notion where the powerful aren't allowed to brutalize the vulnerable for sport or profit is the ideological opposite of the world being built by so many of today's leaders. The goal is supposed to be moving away from brutality, not embracing it as a legitimate political tool. It's about protecting the weak, not empowering the strong to do their worst. And don't kid yourself; it’s all the same tired, predictable playbook. The names and places change, but the strategy is identical. Whether it’s Trump’s flunkies bullying immigrants, white supremacists menacing minoritie...