British humour – untypicable.

The November Armistice: A Ceasefire in the Christmas Wars

James Henshaw — Wed, 05 Nov 2025 10:00:00 +0000

Pumpkins have been escorted off the premises. The clocks have sulked backwards. Somewhere in the kitchen, Mariah Carey is already defrosting on the side. Every year, Britain reopens hostilities over the same question: is it too early for Christmas?

This year, let’s negotiate peace. Presenting the November Armistice—a set of gently binding social rules that lets everyone survive the grey without starting a full sleigh invasion.

Article I — The Remembrance Buffer

Until the second Sunday of November has passed, keep it low-key. If lights must glow, they glow warm and whispery, not “runway to Lapland.” Wreaths may exist in a Schrödinger state—bought, hidden, unobserved.

Article II — The Pre-Heating Clause

November isn’t Christmas; it’s pre-heating.

Permitted:
- fairy lights (warm white, two metres max per room),
- blankets with unreasonable sleeves,
- films where someone inherits a failing bakery and a rugged lumberjack,
- cinnamon in anything that will sit still.
Prohibited:
- full trees,
- exterior reindeer with moving parts,
- musical doorbells that open with “ding dong merrily.”

Article III — Consent-Based Caroling

Public playlists require informed consent. Office speakers: neutral until 1 December. Headphones: sovereign territory. Acapella in open plan: war crime.

Article IV — The Mince Pie Doctrine (Proportionality)

You may have mince pies in November only if you behave as though they are medicinal. Maximum two per week; scoffing the whole box triggers an automatic reset to Jacob’s crackers and reflection. Let’s ignore the fact they’ve been on sale in Sainsbury’s since mid-August…

Article V — The John Lewis Trigger

Decor escalation is formally allowed once two of the following occur:

the John Lewis advert lands,
your local council turns on the town lights,
the first proper frost that makes you say, “Ooh, that’s fresh,”
you find yourself pricing nutmeg like it’s a currency.
If all four occur on the same day, you may erect a small tree (≤5ft) and hum respectfully.

Article VI — The Twinkle Tax

Early twinkle creates a duty to save something for Christmas week. If your lights are up in mid-November, you are legally obliged to debut:

a new ornament on 20 December,
a heretofore untested gravy technique,
or a surprise board game with at least one rule no one will understand.

Article VII — The Twelve Days Rehabilitation Scheme

For those who prefer Christmas after the 25th, we salute your stamina. You will receive priority booking on leftover cheese and possession of Twelfth Night smugness. In exchange, please refrain from tutting at windows that look like small branch offices of Santa, even if they went up on the 9th.

Article VIII — The Year-Round Accommodation

If your fairy lights never came down, fine: declare them “ambient” not “advent.” Watching Elf in July is permitted under the Cultural Comfort Clause, provided you do not attempt to normalise yule logs during a heatwave.

The Psychological Winter Principle (The New Bit)

We’ve been arguing the wrong question. It isn’t “When does Christmas begin?” It’s “When does psychological winter begin?” For many, it starts the minute daylight clocks off at 4pm. November cosiness isn’t a premature Christmas; it’s a morale operation. Think of it as issuing emotional hi-vis: soft light, gentle rituals, low-stakes joy. Keep the big traditions for December—but don’t deny November a bit of glow. The nation runs better when the nation is less grumpy.

Diagnostic: Is It Too Early? (A Field Test)

If your living room looks like a tasteful café at dusk: legal.
If your front garden can be seen from the ISS: illegal until December.
If you’ve already opened the “just in case” Celebrations tub and are bargaining with the Bountys: seek counsel.
If your child’s school nativity is still “casting Joseph” and you’ve built a stable with working Wi-Fi: suspend operations.

Closing Statement

You don’t have to choose between joy now and magic later. Light the room, not the runway. Keep something special back for the week when time folds in on itself and everyone forgets what day it is. Begin where your winter begins, and be gentle with the neighbours whose winter begins elsewhere.

When challenged, smile, pass the shortbread, and explain you’re merely pre-heating. After all, Mariah Carey is already defrosting on the side.

Happy

0 %

Sad

0 %

Excited

0 %

Sleepy

0 %

Angry

0 %

Surprise

0 %

James Henshaw

James Henshaw is a brooding Geordie export who swapped the industrial grit of Newcastle for the peculiar calm of Lincolnshire—though he’s yet to fully trust the flatness. With a mind as sharp as a stiletto and a penchant for science-tinged musings, James blends the surreal with the everyday, crafting blogs that feel like the lovechild of a physics textbook and a fever dream.

Equally at home dissecting the absurdities of modern life as he is explaining quantum theory with alarming metaphors, James writes with the wit of someone who knows too much and the irreverence of someone who doesn’t care. His posts are infused with a dark humour that dares you to laugh at the strange, the inexplicable, and the occasionally terrifying truths of the universe—whether it’s the unnerving accuracy of Alexa or the existential menace of wasps.

A figure of mystery with a slightly unsettling edge, James is the sort of bloke who’d explain the meaning of life over a pint, but only after a dramatic pause long enough to make you question your own existence. His wit cuts deep, his insights are sharp, and his ability to make the surreal feel strangely plausible keeps readers coming back for more.

untypicable Turns One: Still No Idea What We’re Doing, but Apparently the Terrible Twos Are Coming

AJ Wright — Sun, 02 Nov 2025 10:00:00 +0000

untypicable turns one on 2nd November — a Sunday, which already feels like a breach of etiquette. We don’t usually post at weekends, mostly out of respect for our collective sanity and the faint illusion of work-life balance.

But birthdays deserve exceptions. So here we are: slightly over-caffeinated, overdressed in metaphorical party hats, and pretending this was all part of the plan.

When we first launched untypicable, we weren’t sure what it would become. A blog? A magazine? A safe space for overthinking and tea-based existentialism? Apparently, yes. All of the above — depending on the phase of the moon and the strength of the Wi-Fi.

A year later, it’s still here. A bit lopsided, full of personality, and prone to picking up strange ideas and waving them around like toys. But somehow, it’s walking. Sort of. Sideways.

The Early Months: Teething and Technical Tantrums

They say new parents live in a fog of exhaustion and doubt. Running a blog is the same, except the baby is a web server and it screams in error messages.

In the early weeks, we learned a lot — mostly about plugins that break everything and SEO guides that read like spiritual tests of endurance. We fretted about “niche,” “tone,” and “engagement metrics,” before realising we could just write whatever amused us and call it editorial direction.

Each post felt like a developmental milestone:

The first piece that didn’t make us cringe.
The first that was read by someone we weren’t related to.
The first spam comment congratulating us on our “excellent insights into cryptocurrency.”

Those were simpler times.

The Identity Crisis Phase

By month three, we’d developed the modern writer’s trinity of despair: impostor syndrome, analytics obsession, and the creeping suspicion we’d peaked with the homepage font choice.

We looked at other websites for guidance. They all seemed confident, professional, and horrifyingly consistent. Meanwhile, untypicable looked like a bright idea scribbled on a Post-it note and stuck to a teapot.

But then people started to get it. Not everyone, but enough. Readers who liked that we weren’t chasing trends or pretending to be lifestyle gurus — just three people quietly muttering about life, the universe, and uncooperative printers.

Apparently, relatability is the new expertise.

Parenting a Blog: The Toddler Years Begin

Now that untypicable has survived infancy, the terrible twos are looming. The site is walking unaided but bumping into things, experimenting with tone, and occasionally shouting NO! for no reason.

If it were an actual child, it would be eating crayons and insisting it could run a podcast. It’s confident, unpredictable, and slightly sticky with creative ambition.

We’ve read that the “terrible twos” are when toddlers start asserting independence — which, in blog terms, means we’ll probably ignore good advice and publish something called “An Ethnographic Study of Lost Socks.”

Lessons Learned: The Honest Ones

Consistency is overrated.
Life happens. Some weeks we post twice; others, we stare at drafts like archaeologists examining disappointment. Both count as progress.
Ideas come in bursts.
Inspiration isn’t a tap — it’s an unreliable kettle that hisses and occasionally floods the counter.
Everything takes longer than it should.
Writing, editing, resizing images, rethinking everything, then doing it again slower.
Nobody knows what they’re doing.
The best blogs are run by people who look confident while Googling “how to sound confident online.”
Success isn’t going viral.
It’s when someone emails to say, “This made me laugh,” or when we reread something and don’t immediately regret it.

Analytics: Our Emotional Rollercoaster

Checking analytics is like stepping on the scales after Christmas. You know you shouldn’t, but you can’t help yourself.

Some days, the numbers spike — usually for inexplicable reasons (“how to untypicably fold laundry” remains a suspiciously popular search). Other days, it’s tumbleweeds.

But the truth is, we didn’t start this for the metrics. We started because we had things to say, jokes to make, and a shared sense that if we didn’t write them down, we’d end up shouting them at pigeons.

Besides, one genuine laugh from a stranger beats a thousand drive-by clicks any day.

What Nobody Tells You About Year One

No one warns you that running a blog is basically an emotional apprenticeship. You learn by doing, by breaking things, and by occasionally arguing about commas.

You’ll publish something you love and it’ll vanish without a trace. You’ll toss off a late-night rant and it’ll get shared 300 times. There’s no logic — only chaos, caffeine, and mild despair.

And occasionally, amid all that, you hit a sentence that just works. That’s the moment. That’s why you keep doing it.

The Terrible Twos Forecast

As untypicable enters its second year, the plan is simple: survive, evolve, and maybe fix that one image alignment issue we’ve all agreed to ignore.

The site will probably:

Experiment more.
Swear slightly more.
Wander off-topic and insist it’s “conceptual.”
Post at increasingly odd hours, because apparently, we’ve already started the toddler phase.

Publishing this on a Sunday feels symbolic — like the blog climbing onto the coffee table and shouting, “Look what I can do!” before collapsing in a pile of cake crumbs and enthusiasm.

Still No Idea, and That’s the Point

After a year of this, we’ve realised that not knowing what you’re doing is secretly a gift. It keeps you curious, humble, and occasionally hilarious.

Certainty is dull. Uncertainty is creative. And if we ever start to sound like we know what we’re doing, please assume we’ve been replaced by corporate doubles.

So here’s to another year of doing it wrong, accidentally doing it right, and writing through the bits in between. untypicable will keep growing — sideways, diagonally, and sometimes back into its own archive — but growing nonetheless.

And if the terrible twos bring chaos, at least we’ll have good material.

Closing Thoughts (Before We Throw a Tantrum)

Publishing on a Sunday feels rebellious. Wild, even. Tomorrow we’ll go back to pretending we have a schedule, but today, the blog gets to stay up past its bedtime.

If you’ve read, shared, or even accidentally clicked on untypicable this year — thank you. You’ve helped a strange little corner of the internet find its footing.

Year two will almost certainly be unpredictable. But then again, so are we.

Now if you’ll excuse us, we’re off to baby-proof the analytics dashboard before Dwight tries to install another plugin.

Regards, AJ, Dwight, & James.

Happy

0 %

Sad

0 %

Excited

0 %

Sleepy

0 %

Angry

0 %

Surprise

0 %

AJ Wright

AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.

As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.

AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.

For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in. Also a contributor at Thinking Sociologically.

untypicable.co.uk

Mindfulness for the Chronically Irritated

Dwight Warner — Tue, 28 Oct 2025 10:00:00 +0000

They say mindfulness is about being present. Unfortunately, so is everyone else.

Everywhere you turn, there’s a person loudly breathing through their stress in a public park as if they’ve just invented oxygen. Or someone online telling you that gratitude is the key to happiness while selling a £49 workbook. You want to be Zen, truly — you’ve even downloaded the app — but by minute three you’re fantasising about throwing your phone into a lake.

This guide is for people who yearn for calm but live in a world designed by maniacs.

Step 1: Accept That You Are Fundamentally Un-Chill

It’s fine. Some people radiate serenity; you radiate mild despair and the smell of burnt coffee. Inner peace doesn’t come naturally to everyone. Some of us were born with what the ancients called “a face like a Monday.”

Your journey starts by acknowledging that you are not the type who can meditate beside a waterfall without worrying about midges or signal coverage. The key is to lower the bar. Aim not for enlightenment, but for slightly less homicidal irritation by teatime.

Step 2: Breathe Like You Mean It (Or At Least Convince Your Watch)

Every mindfulness guide tells you to breathe deeply. Fine. But deep breathing becomes less spiritual when your smartwatch interrupts to congratulate you for “maintaining respiratory function.”

Try the British Method: inhale quietly through the nose, exhale audibly through a sigh that communicates centuries of disappointment. Imagine you’re trying to cool a hot brew while muttering about the state of the trains. That’s not failure — that’s cultural authenticity.

Step 3: Gratitude, But Make It Petty

Gratitude lists are wonderful in theory, but by the third day it’s hard to feel thankful for “the sound of birds” when one of them has defecated on your car.

Instead, focus on micro-gratitude:

The kettle that hasn’t yet exploded.
The colleague who’s off sick, making the office blissfully quiet.
The miraculous moment between pouring a gin and being asked to join another Teams call.

Gratitude doesn’t have to be cosmic. It can be passive-aggressive. Sometimes “thank you” really means “thank heavens that’s over.”

Step 4: Loving-Kindness (In Theory)

Traditional mindfulness encourages you to send loving-kindness to all beings. Lovely sentiment — until you remember that one of those beings double-parked outside your house.

Try conditional compassion:

“May all beings be happy and free, except the person who invented autocorrect.”

That’s still progress. The Dalai Lama himself would probably struggle to bless someone who uses speakerphone on public transport.

Step 5: The Art of the Strategic Walk

Mindful walking is supposed to connect you to the present moment. Unfortunately, the present moment contains joggers, scooters, and one man arguing with his AirPods.

Walk anyway — but redefine mindfulness as strategic retreat. Find a path so remote it has its own postcode. Walk slowly, breathe deeply, and when a cyclist appears unannounced, practise compassion by imagining them reincarnated as a traffic cone.

Bonus tip: nature sounds are more soothing when not accompanied by humans explaining them loudly to toddlers.

Step 6: Declutter, Gently

Minimalism is about letting go of attachment. You’ve tried this before. It ended with tears over an old mug and the sudden realisation that everything “sparks joy” once it’s discontinued.

Instead, adopt emotional decluttering:

Delete one social media app.
Unfollow your ex’s new partner’s dog.
Mute that WhatsApp group where people say “Happy Monday!” like it’s not a threat.

Your peace of mind is worth more than maintaining digital relationships with people you’d cross the street to avoid.

Step 7: Acceptance Isn’t Approval

Acceptance doesn’t mean liking things. It means noticing that you despise them, and then choosing not to act on it — mostly because you can’t be bothered.

When someone says “everything happens for a reason,” remind yourself that sometimes the reason is “you made a terrible decision.” Observe, breathe, and move on. The storm will pass, and with luck, so will they.

Step 8: Meditation for the Easily Distracted

You’ve lit the candle, you’ve sat cross-legged, and within twelve seconds your mind is wondering what’s for tea. That’s fine. Meditation isn’t about not thinking; it’s about noticing how quickly your thoughts escalate from “I should relax” to “what if the dishwasher is on fire.”

If you make it to thirty seconds without checking your phone, you’re basically enlightened. Reward yourself accordingly.

Step 9: Unplug, Unwind, Uninvite

Digital detoxes are great in principle, until you remember your entire sense of self is backed up to the cloud. Still, try it for an hour. The world will continue spinning without your input — though, worryingly, it might do so more efficiently.

Unplugging also gives you space to re-engage with the analog world: books, cups of tea, existential dread. It’s surprisingly refreshing.

Step 10: Redefine Enlightenment

True enlightenment isn’t achieved on a mountain or in a retreat centre. It’s found in small acts of not losing your temper: when the kettle finally boils, when someone uses the word “journey” unironically, when you manage to endure a full supermarket self-checkout session without shouting “UNEXPECTED ITEM IN THE BAGGING AREA” at the top of your lungs.

You are not broken. You’re just highly attuned to the absurdity of modern life. And that, in its own way, is mindfulness — awareness mixed with rage, compassion topped with sarcasm.

Closing Reflection

So, breathe in. Breathe out.

Notice your thoughts, your surroundings, and that faint hum of irritation that reminds you you’re still alive.

Inner peace isn’t the absence of annoyance — it’s the decision to put the kettle on before it ruins your day.

Happy

0 %

Sad

0 %

Excited

0 %

Sleepy

0 %

Angry

0 %

Surprise

0 %

Dwight Warner

Dwight Warner is the quintessential oddball Brit, with a weirdly American-sounding name, who has a knack for turning the mundane into the extraordinary. Hailing originally from London, now living in the sleepy depths of Lincolnshire but claiming an allegiance to the absurd, Dwight has perfected the art of finding the surreal in real life. Whether it’s a spirited rant about the philosophical implications of queueing or a deep dive into why tea tastes better in a mug older than you, his blogs blur the line between the abstract and the everyday.

With an irreverent wit and a penchant for tangents that somehow come full circle, Dwight Warner doesn’t just write; he performs on the page. His humour is both sharp and delightfully nonsensical, like Monty Python met your nosiest neighbour and they decided to co-write a diary.

Known for being gregarious, Dwight is the life of any (real or metaphorical) party, whether he’s deconstructing the existential crisis of mismatched socks or sharing his inexplicable theories about why pigeons are secretly running the economy.

A larger-than-life personality with a laugh as loud as his opinions, Dwight Warner invites readers to step into a world where everything’s slightly askew—and that’s exactly how he likes it.

Things I Would Use a Time Machine For

Kerry Freeman — Fri, 05 Sep 2025 10:00:00 +0000

If you gave me a time machine, you might expect me to do something meaningful. Something noble. Perhaps I’d pop back and deliver a timely warning about antibiotics, or nobble Hitler before he got going. Maybe I’d whisper in Marie Curie’s ear about lab safety, or convince a young Elon Musk to take up bee-keeping. Honestly, the possibilities are endless for the morally upright, culturally aware, and heroically-inclined.

But no. I would do none of those things.

Because I am not history’s hero. I am a woman with a grudge, a strong sense of aesthetics, and several unresolved issues involving hats. I bring chaos, commentary, and occasionally, scented soap.

The first time I use the time machine, I appear in the Tudor court. Henry VIII is mid-rant—something about wives, or wars, or gout. I don’t listen. I walk up to him and slap him. Not hard enough to get executed, but firmly enough to see the disbelief bloom on his jowly face. Then I vanish. No one remembers my name, but ballads are written about the mysterious woman in sensible boots who struck the king and disappeared into thin air. Centuries later, historians will refer to it only as “The Incident.”

Afterwards, I hang around in the Tudor kitchens and teach a scullery maid how to make Yorkshire pudding properly. It’s my legacy.

My second trip lands me in a Regency milliner’s shop. There are feathers. Ribbons. Entire birds. I don’t browse—I claim. A bonnet so structurally implausible it may have its own postcode. I stroll back into 2025 wearing it like a crown. A man in Greggs dares to snigger. I raise a single eyebrow, and he apologises to me and the hat.

Later, someone on TikTok tries to copy the look. They fail. I win. The hat is immortalised in a museum as “uncategorisably iconic.”

For my third trip, I crash a 1920s house party. Jazz is playing. Everyone’s drunk on bathtub gin and self-importance. I float around the room making biting observations about stock portfolios and poor foundation coverage. When asked what I do, I say I’m from the future and here to judge. I eat five devilled eggs, critique a flapper’s hemline, and leave without saying goodbye.

Just before I go, I whisper into the ear of one wealthy heir: “Invest in cats. Not stocks. Cats.”

He does. History records him as the founder of the world’s first feline retirement village. You’re welcome.

In the Middle Ages, I arrive with a single bar of lavender soap and instantly achieve godlike status. I do not share the soap. I offer no explanations. I simply glide through villages smelling like a summer meadow while everyone else smells like wet turnip and regret. People bow. Someone offers me a goat. I graciously accept.

Later, I sell tiny chunks of the soap in exchange for ale, gossip, and aggressively large candles. I’m declared a saint. A minor one, but still.

I return to the 13th century again, this time to scribble nonsense in the margins of important documents. “Greg owes everyone sheep” appears in the Domesday Book. No one knows who Greg is. That’s the point. History students centuries later lose sleep over it.

I also sneak a limerick into a monastery scroll and sign it “Dave.” Monks are confused. Theologians argue about it for decades. I watch from the shadows with a pork pie and a satisfied smile.

And yes, I return to 2022. Not to change global events, but to stop my colleague Karen from making the tea. I intercept her at the kettle. “Milk last, Karen,” I whisper, like a caffeinated ghost. She looks confused. I vanish before she can ruin the Earl Grey. The timeline is improved.

Office morale increases by 4%. Karen mysteriously starts bringing biscuits to meetings. She doesn’t know why. She just feels it’s right.

In Victorian England, I attend a séance. Everyone holds hands. The medium asks if a spirit is with us. I answer. “Yes. And she says your wallpaper is tacky.” I knock over a candlestick for dramatic effect and vanish in a cloud of flour and stage fright. The medium gives up the trade the next day.

Before I leave, I whisper “Invest in central heating” into the ear of a nearby engineer. He nods, uncertainly. I feel good about that one.

My final journey is small, personal. I go back to 2013, to a house party where I am three proseccos deep and about to say the words “cheeky naan.” I stop myself. I look myself in the eye and gently shake my head. No one hears. But I feel the timeline shudder slightly with relief.

In that altered timeline, I leave the party with dignity intact, no curry-related shame, and a firm plan to ghost everyone I met that night. My future is quieter, but less cringe.

Would I stop a war? No. Would I rebrand historical hygiene as a capitalist opportunity? Absolutely. Would I single-handedly confuse entire eras with side-eyes, scented toiletries, and petty edits to key documents? Naturally.

I don’t use the time machine wisely. But I use it well.

And if anyone in 1427 tells you about a woman who arrived, critiqued their cloak, took their cat, and left—yes. That was me. And no, I’m not giving the cat back. She came willingly, and her name is Geraldine now.

You’ll find us in the 18th century, probably insulting wigs and drinking port behind a hedge.

Happy

0 %

Sad

0 %

Excited

0 %

Sleepy

0 %

Angry

0 %

Surprise

0 %

Kerry Freeman

Born and raised in Sheffield, Kerry Freeman is an unrepentant tea addict, cat enthusiast, and lifelong expert in the art of looking busy while doing the bare minimum. By day, she works as a minion in a government department (no, not one of the cute yellow ones with dungarees). By night, she brings her wicked sense of humour to untypicable.co.uk as an occasional contributor, where she fearlessly tackles life’s nonsense with sharp wit, historical references, and the occasional inappropriate joke.

Kerry has no children (by choice, obviously), but she does have a cat, which is basically the same thing but with more attitude and fewer school runs. When she’s not writing, you’ll probably find her at a historical re-enactment, enthusiastically pretending she’s living in another century—preferably one with fewer emails and better hats.

The Day I Tried to Befriend a Traffic Cone

Dwight Warner — Tue, 12 Aug 2025 13:00:00 +0000

It began, as these things often do, on a Wednesday. Not the chaotic optimism of Monday, not the emotional exhaustion of Friday, but the beige middle ground of the week where nothing’s supposed to happen. And yet…

I was walking home from the shop, carrier bag in hand, mentally debating whether a packet of biscuits could constitute dinner, when I saw it. There, on the kerbside, stood a lone traffic cone. Orange. Resolute. A splash of colour in the grey drizzle.

It looked tired, if that’s possible for an object without muscles.

Not physically tired — it wasn’t slumping or anything — but emotionally. You could tell it had been out in all weathers. Probably endured the occasional kick from a bored teenager or had a takeaway coffee cup wedged on its top by some aspiring street artist.

I slowed down.

Cones usually travel in herds. They’re pack animals, bred for the long, slow migrations of roadworks. Seeing one alone felt… wrong. Had it been separated from its family? Was this the result of some violent overnight reshuffle by the council?

I approached with caution. The key to befriending a cone, I reasoned, is respect. No sudden moves. No patronising pat on the top. I adopted my “nervous goose” stance: knees bent, gaze averted, small sideways shuffles. A man walking his dog stopped to watch. The dog looked concerned.

“Alright, mate,” I said, softly, as though I were greeting an old friend across a library.

The cone didn’t reply, but I sensed… a shift. Not physical, but in the atmosphere. An acknowledgement. Or possibly just a change in the wind. Still, I pressed on.

I told it about my day: the woman in the supermarket who loudly described an aubergine as “erotic,” the bus driver who winked at me for no apparent reason, my ongoing dilemma about whether to commit to a houseplant. The cone listened — or at least didn’t move away, which in cone terms is practically leaning in.

After several minutes of this one-sided rapport-building, I decided it was time for a gesture. A gift. In the animal kingdom, this could be food, grooming, or a shiny pebble. I rummaged in my bag and found a Werther’s Original. Perfect. A classic token of goodwill.

I placed it carefully at the cone’s base. It didn’t flinch, which I took as a good sign. We stood there in mutual stillness, two souls connected by… well, nothing really, but it felt significant.

That’s when the council van appeared.

It pulled up without warning, the door slid open, and a man in hi-vis hopped out. He did not make eye contact with me. He picked up the cone — my cone — and tossed it into the back with the cold efficiency of someone who doesn’t have time for municipal romance.

I opened my mouth to protest, but the van was already pulling away. The Werther’s remained on the pavement, alone.

I stood there in the drizzle, holding my carrier bag of biscuits, feeling as though I had just witnessed the final scene of a French art film about unrequited love.

I never saw that cone again. But I like to think that somewhere, in a council depot lit by flickering strip lights, it remembers me — the stranger who, for one brief Wednesday, tried to cross the great divide between man and municipal plastic.

And perhaps, one day, when I least expect it, I’ll see it again. Standing proud. Watching over a freshly filled pothole. Waiting.

Happy

0 %

Sad

0 %

Excited

0 %

Sleepy

0 %

Angry

0 %

Surprise

0 %

Dwight Warner

A larger-than-life personality with a laugh as loud as his opinions, Dwight Warner invites readers to step into a world where everything’s slightly askew—and that’s exactly how he likes it.

How to Win at Board Games by Ruining Friendships

James Henshaw — Wed, 06 Aug 2025 10:00:00 +0000

There’s a time and a place for bonding. For laughter. For shared experiences and warm memories. Board game night is not that time.

Board games are not about fun. They’re about power, psychological warfare, and the quiet thrill of watching someone you love unravel over a handful of paper money and a misused “Q” in Scrabble.

If you want to win—and we mean really win—you’ll need to throw kindness, subtlety, and emotional stability straight in the bin. Let’s begin.

1. Choose Your Weapon Wisely

The first step in any campaign of recreational devastation is selecting the right battlefield. Different games, different damage.

Risk – A world conquest simulator dressed as a board game. Watch alliances crumble faster than your opponent’s fragile ego. Ideal for friend groups with unresolved tension and passive-aggressive tendencies.
Monopoly – The ultimate test of capitalist cruelty. Pretend it’s just a light-hearted game about buying property. Actually, it’s about draining every last pound from your opponents while maintaining the smile of a well-fed loan shark.
Scrabble – A game for word lovers. Also, for people who enjoy delivering psychological papercuts with obscure two-letter words. Use “za” and watch your opponent briefly reconsider every life decision that brought them to this moment.

2. Master the Art of Weaponised Rules Lawyering

You don’t need to cheat. You just need to know the rules so intimately that they become a weapon of mass irritation.

“Technically, in Risk, you can’t fortify from South America to Asia unless you control Europe, but sure, go ahead… if we’re playing the casual way.”

In Monopoly, wield the rules like a fiscal blade:

“Actually, any property not bought when landed on is immediately auctioned off. Shall we start the bidding at £1?”

The key is to say it nicely, while radiating the smug energy of someone who once read the instruction manual for fun.

3. Feign Innocence While Executing Ruthless Strategy

Smile. Laugh. Say things like:

“Oh no, I didn’t mean to land there!”
Then bankrupt them anyway.

In Risk, offer a ceasefire. Then invade the moment they turn their attention to Australia.
In Monopoly, pretend to be unsure about a trade—then flip the board with glee when they realise you’ve just completed the orange set and now own three railways and half of central London.

It’s not just strategy. It’s theatre.

[mid_ad]

4. Monopoly: The Quiet Horror of Watching AJ Wright Work the Board. Again.

Every group has someone who’s suspiciously good at one game. The person who doesn’t raise their voice, doesn’t trash talk, doesn’t even roll with particular flair—just slowly, methodically destroys you with devastating efficiency.

That’s untypicable’s very own AJ Wright in Monopoly.

They won’t beg. They won’t bargain. They’ll just sit there in saintly silence, quietly amassing properties like a Victorian landlord on a mission.

The orange set? Gone. The railways? Gone. The utilities? Somehow in their pocket too, and probably turning a better profit than British Gas.

By the time you realise what’s happening, they’ve got a hotel on Strand, and you’re mortgaging Old Kent Road to pay the rent. You try to offer Whitechapel Road and a utility in exchange for not dying inside.
They decline. Gently. Almost apologetically.

It’s like being mugged by someone offering you a cup of tea afterwards.

5. Scrabble: For When You Want to End Friendships via Vocabulary

Scrabble is a game for logophiles. And also for people who enjoy passive-aggressively undermining their friends’ GCSE English grades.

“Qi” on a triple word score? That’s not a win. That’s a hate crime in 17 points.

Best tactics:

Use the word “za” and act like it’s just common knowledge.
Casually ask if they’d like a dictionary. Not because you think the word is wrong, but “just to help.”
Pretend “zoot” is a completely normal British term. If they challenge it and lose? Even better.

Bonus points for saying “You were so close that time!” when someone plays “CAT” for 5 points and cries a little inside.

6. Risk: Start Global. Get Petty.

You don’t really know someone until you’ve watched them throw their entire army into Kamchatka because you betrayed them in South America three turns ago.

Risk teaches geography, sure—but mostly it teaches grudges.

Top tactics:

Form alliances with weaker players. Then destroy them.
Pretend to forget who attacked who first.
Say, “I’m just spreading out” while parking 20 troops on their doorstep.

War crimes? No. Just aggressive friendship management.

7. The Aftermath: Own Your Victory. Smugly.

Once the emotional dust has settled and someone’s flipped the Monopoly board (again), you must embrace your role as The Victor.

Things to say as you collect the final rent or claim the last territory:

“That was so close!” (It wasn’t.)
“I thought you had me at one point!” (They didn’t.)
“Just lucky, I guess.” (You were not.)

Smile. Offer them crisps. Ask if they want to play again. Watch them wrestle with the desire to say yes just so they can destroy you next time.

8. Bonus: Rebuild Friendships with Something Cooperative… Then Ruin That Too

Just when they think it’s safe again—suggest a cooperative game.

Pandemic? “Let’s save the world together!”

Cue you refusing to share information, going rogue with your medic, and watching London burn to the ground while yelling “I HAD A PLAN!”

Friendship partially restored. Then razed to the ground. Perfect.

Winning Is Temporary. Humiliation Is Forever.

You didn’t set out to ruin friendships. But if someone can’t handle you financially dismantling them on Pall Mall, can you really call them a friend?

The mark of true friendship is being able to survive a 9-hour Monopoly session, three betrayal-fuelled Risk invasions, and an “XU” on a double letter score… and still share a bag of crisps at the end.

If they can’t? You win again.

Happy

0 %

Sad

0 %

Excited

0 %

Sleepy

0 %

Angry

0 %

Surprise

0 %

James Henshaw

I’d Do Anything for Love, But I Won’t Answer a Phone Call With a Withheld Number

Kerry Freeman — Fri, 04 Jul 2025 14:43:07 +0000

There are many things I’d willingly do for love. Hold your hair back while you’re sick. Pretend to understand tax codes. Sit through an entire football match without checking my phone once. Endure your karaoke rendition of Bon Jovi without flinching. But there is one act of devotion so terrifying, so harrowing, that not even Cupid’s fiercest arrow could pierce my resolve: answering a phone call with a withheld number.

The Withheld Number: Modern Horror

What am I, some sort of medieval peasant who answers the door to any cloaked stranger knocking at midnight? No. A withheld number is the 21st-century equivalent of an unmarked white van pulling up outside your house. Who is it? What do they want? Why won’t they reveal themselves like a normal, decent phone number? It’s a digital jump scare, the phone equivalent of someone leaping out of the shadows and shouting “Boo!”

When my phone flashes “No Caller ID,” my immediate reaction is to freeze. I stare at it like it’s an unexploded bomb. My heart rate skyrockets. The call rings out, echoing in my ears like the soundtrack to my inevitable downfall. I imagine men in suits tracing my IP address. I imagine tax fraud I didn’t commit, parking fines I didn’t pay, crimes I couldn’t possibly have orchestrated because I rarely leave the sofa.

What’s the Worst That Could Happen?

Could it be the bank? The doctor? Someone telling me I’ve inherited a small castle in rural France, complete with its own ghostly governess and a tax bill the size of Belgium? Possibly. But it’s far more likely to be:

A scammer who knows my National Insurance number, my cat’s name, and my star sign.
A cold caller trying to sell me cavity wall insulation or a funeral plan for a funeral I can’t even emotionally process yet.
My own sense of dread manifesting into an actual voice.

Or worse, it could be someone I vaguely know, calling with no warning to “catch up,” forcing me to fake enthusiasm while Googling who they are mid-conversation.

Love Has Limits

Do I love you enough to sit in A&E with you for four hours while you insist you’re dying of a mild headache? Absolutely. Will I hold your sweaty hand during a dental extraction while fighting the urge to faint? Of course. Will I answer a withheld call to find out if it’s you calling from someone else’s phone because yours died? Absolutely not. Leave a voicemail like a civilised human or text me your tragic predicament. If you’re in danger, ring me twice. Otherwise, you’re on your own, brave soldier.

Why Do Withheld Numbers Even Exist?

In an age where I can see exactly where my Uber driver is and what his star rating was in 2017, how is it acceptable that anyone can hide their number like a medieval assassin behind a tapestry? Show yourself, coward. If your number is hidden, I assume you’re either a scammer, my GP with blood test results I’m not ready for, or my dentist reminding me it’s been three years since my last hygienist appointment.

The Psychological Toll

Withheld numbers trigger an existential panic like nothing else. It’s the fear of the unknown, condensed into 11 vibrating digits. I could climb a mountain for love, metaphorically at least. But answering a call with no visible number feels like stepping into a void from which I may never emotionally return.

Conclusion

So yes, I’d do anything for love. I’d put up with your snoring, laugh at your terrible jokes, eat your questionable pasta bake, and even accompany you to IKEA on a Saturday. But answer a call from a withheld number?

I’d rather die in ignorance, clutching my phone to my chest, safe in the knowledge that some mysteries are better left unsolved.

Happy

0 %

Sad

0 %

Excited

0 %

Sleepy

0 %

Angry

0 %

Surprise

0 %

Kerry Freeman

Why Does Cheese Taste Better When You Eat It Standing Up in the Fridge Light?

Dwight Warner — Thu, 03 Jul 2025 10:00:00 +0000

It’s 11:07 p.m. You’re standing in your kitchen, bathed in the cold, unforgiving glow of the open fridge. Your hair is a mess. You’re wearing pyjamas with questionable stains. And there it is: the cheddar. Lurking on the middle shelf, half-wrapped in cling film like a damp ancient relic, calling to you with the silent desperation of a Shakespearean soliloquy.

You cut yourself a piece with a knife that was drying on the draining board, possibly clean, probably not. You pop it into your mouth. And in that exact moment — that standing, slightly hunched, fridge-lit moment — it is the most delicious cheese you have ever tasted in your life.

The Illicit Cheddar Effect

If you were to serve yourself the same piece of cheese at noon tomorrow, cut with care onto a plate, paired with an apple and a sense of dignity, it would taste… fine. Adequate. Pleasant enough. But it would not taste like illicit midnight cheddar.

Because cheese consumed upright, half asleep, in the humming companionship of the fridge, tastes better than any cheese consumed with manners and crockery. It is simply fact.

Part of it is the rebellion. You’re breaking society’s unspoken rule that eating is a seated activity, preferably at a table, preferably with a napkin, preferably in daylight. You’re casting aside decency, posture, and temperature regulation to indulge in an entirely private snack ceremony. It is cheese eaten outside the social contract. Cheese of freedom.

A Question of Guilt (and Dairy-Based Philosophy)

Perhaps it’s the guilt that enhances the flavour. Cheese is never guilt-free. Even the most joyful cheese carries the faint whisper of, “Should you, though?” But stolen cheese — cheese eaten in secret, from the block, with no plate in sight — carries a deeper frisson of wrongdoing. It becomes a forbidden food, an illicit dairy affair. And like all forbidden things, it gains power.

Or perhaps it’s the fridge light itself. That stark fluorescence turns the mundane into the dramatic. A block of Cathedral City becomes an object of devotion, its waxy rind catching the light like a golden idol. The thin slice you carve becomes a ritual offering to the gods of saturated fat. You stand there chewing, door ajar, feeling the cold air swirl around your ankles, and for one glorious moment you are a creature of pure instinct. You are alive. You are powerful. You are eating cheese while everyone else sleeps.

Cheddar of the Night

I have eaten cheese seated at a candlelit table, cheese arranged on a slate board with grapes and crackers and a pretence of refinement. It was pleasant, yes, but it did not taste like victory. Cheese eaten while standing in the fridge light tastes like something you got away with. A minor rebellion against adulthood’s crushing rules about proper behaviour.

So tonight, if you find yourself drawn once again to that bright-lit altar of leftover pasta and half-empty condiments, and you stand there, shivering in your dressing gown, gnawing cheddar straight from the block — know that you are not alone. You are part of an ancient tribe of nocturnal snackers, keepers of the sacred midnight dairy feast.

And yes, it really does taste better this way.

Happy

0 %

Sad

0 %

Excited

0 %

Sleepy

0 %

Angry

0 %

Surprise

0 %

Dwight Warner

A larger-than-life personality with a laugh as loud as his opinions, Dwight Warner invites readers to step into a world where everything’s slightly askew—and that’s exactly how he likes it.