-an OD of Toughts-

Realistic Recovery: Grit and Grace Have you taken your walk today? I haven’t. It’s August, and if I get told to go for a walk and drink more water one more time, I swear to the ever-living god I’ll throw my phone into the sea. Then, of course, I’ll probably go on a walk anyway, because frustratingly, I know it will help my mood. And yes, I am dehydrated, despite my motivational water bottle with its smug hourly reminder.  photo by Lothar Baxmann Most good ideas are simple. But taking care of your mental health is hard. Well-meaning advice can be life-changing—or infuriating. Sometimes it’s like being handed a teaspoon of water for the house-fire that is your body, your brain, your room, the planet. They feel like a 2015 infographic: relevant once, now trite and overly earnest. And yet, the truth remains—complete fixes are a myth, usually a monkey’s paw in disguise. A life worth living is built from small but meaningful actions, often requiring more effort than you feel capable ...

  From Neighbours to Enemies We have become an aggressive, violent nation. This is not hyperbole. Concrete has swallowed the island, green spaces have vanished, and the result is obvious. Road rage explodes into fistfights. Parking disputes turn into screaming matches. Party hotspots end in blood. People murdered. People beaten. People snapping at the slightest provocation. Civilised behaviour has evaporated because Malta itself is no longer civilised.  A Day in the Cage Here is Malta in one day. At six in the morning, the compressor starts drilling. It continues until eight in the evening, joined by the staccato rhythm of a jackhammer. I close my window because the neighbour below is smoking cannabis, choking my lungs. Two floors down, another neighbour lights his barbecue as if he owns the block It takes me an hour to drive a journey that should last fifteen minutes. A double-parker blocks the road, tells me to get lost when I honk, and refuses to move. On the return tr...

 Right, so a good friend and a person who avoids mainstream movies suggested I watch Seeking a Friend for the End of the World . And immediately, I thought, brilliant, another one of those quirky indie films where everyone talks about their feelings while the world burns to ash. The sort of thing where characters exchange long, meaningful glances while a meteor is hurtling toward Earth. Normally, I would rather be staring into the foamy head of a Kilkenny than sit through two hours of people sighing into teacups. The premise is simple enough. In three weeks, a massive asteroid will slam into Earth and wipe us all out. Now, in most films with this setup, you would expect Bruce Willis in a vest, tanks rolling down Fifth Avenue, a space shuttle or two being lobbed into orbit, and about four explosions before the credits have even finished. That is the standard Hollywood recipe. But this is not that. No. This is a film where Steve Carell, usually the king of awkward comedy, goes on a ...

Right, let’s address the genius argument I keep hearing: “You’ve been telling us about this doom and gloom since March 2013. But it never materialised!!!!!” Yes, well done. You’ve spotted that the sky hasn’t fallen yet   That’s not proof of economic brilliance, that’s proof you’ve got the observational skills of a goldfish. Debt isn’t a thunderstorm. It doesn’t arrive with a crash of lightning and a loud bang over Castille. It creeps. It lingers. It builds up quietly in the background, like cholesterol in your arteries, until one day, bang, heart attack. And you’ll be sat there, wide-eyed, saying, “But I thought pastizzi were fine, I’ve been eating them since 2013, and I’m still standing.” What we’ve got here is the economic version of that. Successive governments dishing out freebies, cheques, handouts, subsidies, anything to buy a smile, a vote, or at the very least a Facebook “like”. And where does the money come from? Not from a magical tree sprouting €50 notes in Castille’s ...

A few weeks ago, at a music festival full of people who smell like compost and regret, someone asked me how work was going. Without thinking, I replied, “I’m decentring work.” Photo by pen_ash Now, to most people, that sounds like I’ve joined some sort of spiritual cult where we wear linen trousers and hum at sunrise. In reality, it just means I’m working less and lying down more. Apparently, this is part of something called “the rest revolution,” which is a cultural shift where doing nothing is considered not just acceptable but aspirational. Like a Rolex but without the time-keeping or the €20,000 bill. It is fuelled by trendy buzzwords like “quiet quitting,” “micro-retirement,” and my personal favourite, “lazy boy jobs” which all translate to I’m sick of flogging myself for pennies while Jeff Bezos buys another yacht. And they’re right. We’ve reached the point where many jobs demand more hours, more stress, and more meetings about meetings, but give you less money, less stability, ...

At some point, usually after a hangover, a breakup, or a speeding ticket, we all decide that it's time to become a “better person.” Whatever that means. We picture ourselves as less angry, more generous, perhaps someone who volunteers at a soup kitchen and doesn’t shout at printers. But we immediately run into a problem: we haven’t the faintest idea what “better” even looks like. Are we meant to start yoga? Hug strangers? Stop flipping people off in traffic? Nobody says. Now, the world is stuffed full of lifestyle gurus who’ll tell you to journal, meditate, juice kale, or swim with dolphins. But the truth is, self-improvement doesn’t come from reading books or listening to people who use the word “authenticity” unironically. It comes from doing . And more importantly, not being a complete arse . So, what does being a “better” human actually involve? For a start, stop being awful to other people. Revolutionary, I know. Try treating people with respect, not because it’s spiritual,...

The pounding heart, it starts to race, A brand-new mask, a different face. It hides behind the daily news, Shifting truths and worn-out views. The ache today’s not hard to trace— Just miles away from my own place. From where I’d greet the break of dawn, But now that road feels far and gone. It’s a flight that cuts the sky, Then dives beneath where eagles fly. On this long and endless ride, In a world that dances then tries to hide. It’s a flight that sinks, not soars, With rusted wings and bolted doors. I’m nailed against this empty wall— And now I barely feel at all. No, I’m not a hero, Not one with stars to claim. I’m not a hero, Just one more lost name Since the war went down in flame. I sleep in fog, in silver-grey, Where fallen trees just rot away. And dreams that chased the wind at night, Collapse before they take their flight. Oh, what a weight, what bitter luck— To trip just past the final truck. From all the fear I tried to hide, From all the pain I...

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...

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...