Special Guest Blogger: Tenzing Norgay

Namaste, everyone. Or, as my old friend Ed Hillary used to say when he was trying to sound rugged while shivering uncontrollably: Hullo there, do you think my toes are still attached?
Usually, when people talk about me, they use big words pioneer or legend but let’s be honest, mostly, I was a man who was very, very good at walking uphill while carrying other people’s heavy luggage.
I was a young Sherpa with a dream and a very sturdy back. In the 1930s, I joined three British expeditions. Back then, high-altitude gear meant a thick wool sweater, a leather jacket, and a positive attitude. We didn't have fancy GPS or lightweight down suits. We had grit, canned mutton and enough tweed to outfit a small university.
I was a high-altitude porter. In 1951 my job was to carry the dreams (and the tents, and the stoves, and the extra tea biscuits) of British gentlemen who were convinced that if they just climbed high enough, they’d find the end of the Empire. We didn't reach the top then, of course but  then came 1952 and I went with the Swiss. I liked the Swiss. They brought better chocolate. With Raymond Lambert, I reached 8,600 metres and we were so close I could practically smell the thin, oxygen-depleted air of the summit. We spent a night at that height without sleeping bags or a stove.
So, 1953 rolls around. This was my seventh time on the mountain. At this point, the rocks on Everest were starting to recognise me and the leader was John Hunt. He was a good man, very organized. He brought a whole mountain of gear and a tall, lanky New Zealander named Edmund Hillary.
One day, Ed fell into a crevasse and I jammed my ice axe into the snow, wrapped the rope, and held on like my life depended on it which it literally did.
From that moment on, we were a team. He decided I was his climbing partner of choice and I decided he was the guy I had to keep from falling into holes and on May 29th, 1953 at 11:30 AM, we did it. We stood on the highest point on Earth, incredibly out of breath and very cold.
We were there for exactly fifteen minutes. People spend more time choosing a movie on Netflix than we spent on top of the world.
I buried some sweets and chocolate in the snow as an offering to the gods, Ed buried a small crucifix and then we looked around. What did we see? More mountains. It turns out that when you’re on the tallest mountain, everything else looks disappointingly small.
As soon as we got down, the world went crazy. Everyone wanted to know who stepped on the top first? Was it the British subject or the local hero but we had a secret pact, saying we reached it simultaneously but it was actually Ed who took the last few steps first.
After Everest, my life changed. I moved to Darjeeling, became the Director of Field Training for the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute, and traveled the world. I met Kings, Queens, and Presidents before i died from a cerebral hemorrhage. It wasn't a mountain that got me in the end, it was just time. But I like to think that somewhere up there, near the South Summit, there’s still a small piece of chocolate I buried in 1953 and if any of you find it, don't eat it. It’s for the gods. And honestly, after seventy years in the snow, it probably tastes like a British wool sweater.

Special Guest Blogger: Noor Inayat Khan

So, I’m dead. Now, don’t look so shocked. It happened in 1944, and unless I’d discovered some truly revolutionary ancient Indian skin-care secret involving actual immortality, I’d be roughly a hundred and twelve years old by now. Trust me, being a ghost is much better for the posture, you’d be surprised how much those heavy wireless radios weigh on a girl’s spine.
I was a peace loving Sufi, a musician and a writer of children’s stories about gentle bunnies. Naturally, the British government looked at me and thought, there’s the woman we should send to occupied France to blow things up. Logic was not exactly the Allied Forces' strongest suit in 1943.
My life started with a bit of a geographical identity crisis. I was born in the Kremlin because my father, a Sufi teacher and musician, was visiting Russia. In 1914, just as the world decided to start its first round of global fisticuffs and we fled to Britain and then to France.
Being a pacifist in the middle of a World War is like being a vegan at a barbecue, eventually, someone is going to try to shove a hot dog in your face. My brother Vilayat and I sat down and decided that even though we hated violence, we couldn’t sit around while the world turned into a giant, goose-stepping nightmare. So, back to England we went.
I joined the Women's Auxiliary Air Force (WAAF) and trained as a wireless operator, which was essentially the 1940s version of being IT support and  the Special Operations Executive (SOE) eventually scouted me. My training reports were colorful. My instructors wrote that I was clumsy, unsuitable and scared of weapons and they wasn't wrong. I was terrified but apparently, the SOE was running low on people who could speak fluent French and tap out Morse code at 20 words per minute, so they gave me a fake passport, a cyanide pill and a one-way ticket to a dark field in Angers.
I was the first female wireless operator sent into occupied France and I was given the code name Madeleine and I arrived, lugging a B2 wireless set in a suitcase that weighed about 30 pounds. Do you know how hard it is to look like a nonchalant Parisian chic lady while carrying what feels like a box of bricks?
Within weeks, the Prosper resistance network I was supposed to work with was decimated. Everyone was being arrested and I was the only one left with a radio. I was basically the only person in Paris provide the Wi-Fi for the Resistance.
For three months, I played a high-stakes game of hide-and-seek by changing my hair color and changing apartments while travelling all over Paris with my suitcase of doom. I was sending messages about arms drops and sabotage operations, all while the Gestapo was driving around in vans with direction-finding gear trying to triangulate my position and then i got caught but not by a brilliant piece of German counter-intelligence but being betrayed for 100,000 francs by the sister of my circuit leader. Apparently, she was jealous because she thought I was getting too much attention.
They sent me to Dacha Pforzheim prison which wasn't the five-star resort the brochures didn't promise where I was kept in chains because they thought the girl who used to play the harp and write about  kittens was dangerous.
I was taken to the wall and they shot me through the back of the neck and though I was given me the George Cross posthumously, though it’s a bit hard to pin it on a spirit. I also have a statue in Gordon Square, London which is very strange to have pigeons sitting on your head for eternity, but if it helps people remember that a timid Sufi writer helped bring down the Third Reich, I can live with a bit of bird poop.

Special Guest Blogger: Philo Farnsworth

For those of you who haven’t spent your Friday nights reading patent filings (honestly, what are you doing with your lives?), let me introduce myself. I am Philo T. Farnsworth. I was a farm boy from Idaho who grew up to be the man who was granted the first patent for the television by the United States Government.
People always ask me how does a teenager in a horse-drawn plow come up with the world’s first working all-electronic television system and it was simple. I was bored.
In 1921, I was fourteen years old, tilling a potato field in Idaho. I looked back at the neat, parallel rows I’d just plowed, and it hit me like a heavy clod of dirt). Why couldn’t we scan an image the same way? Line by line. Electronic beams moving back and forth across a vacuum tube, just like my plow moving across the dirt.
While most fourteen-year-olds were worrying about puberty or how to talk to girls, I was drawing diagrams for an image dissector on a blackboard for my high school chemistry teacher.
Fast forward a few years to San Francisco. I wasn’t exactly living the high life, I was basically a mad scientist in a rented lab, trying to prove that mechanical spinning disks (the television of the time) were a joke. Mechanical TV was clunky, loud, and looked like a moving shadow through a screen door.
In 1927, I finally did it. I transmitted a simple straight line using my video camera tube. My wife, Pem, was there. I turned to her and said, "There you are, honey. A line." and she was thrilled or as thrilled as one can be when their husband spends the grocery money on vacuum tubes and glass blowing. But that line was everything. It was the birth of the electronic age. It was the moment I built the world’s first working all-electronic television system. I figured I’d be a billionaire by Tuesday.
By 1930, I had the patents, but I also had a target on my back. A little company called RCA decided they didn't want to pay me and claimed their guy, Zworykin, invented it first.
We went to court. It was a mess. But remember that high school teacher? He had kept the drawing I made on the blackboard when I was fourteen. Long story short, I won. I am officially the guy who was granted the first patent for the television by the United States Government. Suck on it, RCA.
However, the world is a strange place. My technology, specifically the image dissector, ended up being used by the Germans to broadcast the 1936 Olympic Games in Berlin. Imagine that. I’m sitting in my lab and halfway across the world, my invention is being used by Nazis to show Jesse Owens making them look like losers in high-definition (for the time).
Once television became a thing and commercials for soap and cigarettes started clogging up the airwaves, I got bored again. Also, I was tired of fighting lawyers. I moved on to something bigger. Something hotter, I invented a small nuclear fusion device called the Fusor.
While everyone else was trying to figure out how to make color TV work, I was in my basement trying to bottle the sun. I wanted to give the world clean, limitless energy. I wanted to fix the planet. Unfortunately, the world was more interested in watching I Love Lucy.
The Fusor technically worked, but it wasn’t the energy for everyone miracle I’d hoped for, still, you’re welcome, science.
In my later years, I became somewhat dependent on alcohol. Look, if you had spent your youth fighting corporate giants for the rights to your own brain, and your middle age trying to build a sun in your garage, you’d probably fancy a drink too.
Television had turned into a monster and by the 1960s, It wasn't the educational, world-uniting tool I had envisioned. It was a wasteland and I didn’t even let my own kids watch it much. The irony wasn't lost on me that I’d created a window to the world, and I didn't like the view.
Eventually, the lifestyle and the stress caught up with me. I became seriously ill with pneumonia and died which is a real drag when you’ve still got three or four more world-changing inventions in your head but what I left behind was a bit of a mixed bag really as i was the man who gave you the ability to watch a man walk on the moon from your living room, but I’m also the reason people know what a Kardashian is.

Special Guest Blogger: Miguel de Cervantes

I was just a regular guy in Madrid trying not to get stabbed so that naturally ended with me stabbing someone but it started in 1569. I was young, I had two working hands and I possessed that dangerous cocktail of pride and boredom that usually leads to a courtroom appearance. I got into a bit of a disagreement with a gentleman named Antonio de Sigura. In my defense, the guy was asking for it. In the law’s defense, puncturing a man with a sword is generally frowned upon.
A warrant was issued for my arrest, and the punishment was having my right hand cut off and being exiled for ten years. Now, as someone who planned to write for a living, the cutting off the hand part felt like a bit of a professional setback. So, I did what any rational, brave Spaniard would do and ran for the border like a man whose pants were on fire.
I ended up in Italy and for anyone fleeing the law, Italy is great. The pasta is excellent, and everyone is too busy arguing about art to notice a fugitive writer in the corner.
By 1571, I decided that since I couldn't be a civilian without being arrested, I’d become a hero and joined the navy. Specifically, I fought in the Battle of Lepanto against the Ottoman Empire.
I was sick with a fever on the day of the battle, shaking like a leaf in a Mediterranean gale. My captain told me to stay in bed. I told him I’d rather die fighting than stay tucked in like a lapdog. It sounded very poetic at the time but then I got shot. Twice in the chest, once in the left hand.
The result? I spent six months in a hospital in Sicily and walked away with a useless left hand that functioned only as a paperweight.
After five years of playing soldier, I was finally heading home to Spain in 1575 with letters of recommendation from Don John of Austria himself. I was basically carrying the ultimate Get Out of Jail Free card.
As my ship, El Sol, neared the Spanish coast, we were jumped by Barbary pirates. My luck, as usual, was functioning at a sub-zero level because I was carrying those fancy letters of recommendation, the pirates thought I was a high-ranking aristocrat. They thought, Jackpot! This guy’s ransom will buy us a new fleet and several islands.
They took me to Algiers. My ransom was set at 500 gold escudos. My family, God bless them, didn't have 500 gold escudos. They didn't have five gold escudos but they did have some goats and a lot of prayer. So, I spent the next five years as a slave.
Now, some people would accept their fate but not me, and over the next five years, I orchestrated no fewer than five escape attempts, one of which included trying to walk to a nearby Spanish Town Oran but getting lost and after three days walking back to prison.
Finally, in 1580, the Trinitarian friars managed to scrape together enough money to buy me back. I returned to Spain at the age of 33, broke, disabled, and with five years of kidnapping trauma under my belt. Naturally, I decided the best thing to do was get a job in government administration as a tax man but it turned out I was much better at getting shot than I am at accounting.
I was eventually thrown into prison (again) for irregularities in my accounts but it was there that i hit upon the idea of writing a novel about a nobleman who reads too many books and decides he’s a knight-errant. People think Don Quixote is a satire of chivalry but mostly, it’s a reflection of my life.
I published Part One in 1605. I was 58 years old. In the 1600s, being 58 was the equivalent of being 112 today but the book became a sensation. It was translated into multiple languages and I became famous across Europe.
And do you know how much money I made? Almost none. I sold the rights for a flat fee because I needed to buy bread. While everyone was laughing at my knight and his squire, I was still struggling to pay my rent. Then, some douchebag named Avellaneda wrote a fake sequel to my book while I was still working on Part Two.
I had to write Part Two just to spite him. It’s arguably better than the first one, mostly because I spent half the book making fun of the guy who tried to rip me off.
I died in 1616, on the same date as that Shakespeare fellow in England (though we used different calendars, so don't get pedantic with me). I left this world with no money, one working hand, and a story about a crazy guy on a skinny horse but as Don Quixote himself said: 'Fortune may have yet a better success in reserve for you, and they who lose today may win tomorrow' but I maybe should have added Or the day after. Or several decades after they're dead. Either way, keep tilting at those windmills. 

Special Guest Blogger: Hulk Hogan

Alright, brother, let me tell ya something! You know, when you’ve been slamming giants, inspiring millions of Hulkamaniacs, and generally just being the greatest American hero to ever tie a bandana, a life lived at 110 decibels. And let me tell you, when you’ve lived the life of Hulk Hogan, there’s a lot
to unpack. It’s like a gym bag full of sweaty bandanas, old championship belts and a few questionable supplements from the 80s,  you know, just vitamins.
First things first, the fans, the Hulkamaniacs! Bless their patriotic little hearts. Without you, I’d just be Terry Bollea, a guy with a magnificent mustache and an even more magnificent tan, probably selling insurance in Tampa. But with you I became a living, breathing, bicep flexing embodiment of the American dream! I taught kids to say their prayers, take their vitamins, and believe in themselves. And by vitamins, again, I mean… well, it was the 80s, dude. Things were different.
And speaking of prayers, my spiritual journey, brother, has been just as wild as my wrestling career. From the moment I stepped into that ring, I knew there was a higher power guiding my leg drops. God, you see, he’s always been in my corner, even when I was powerbombing people through tables,
which, let’s be honest, probably wasn’t exactly what the good Lord had in mind. But hey, it was for entertainment! And I always thanked Him for the victory, even if I had to cheat a little to get it. Sometimes, God works in mysterious ways, brother.
But life ain't all sunshine and bandanas, dude. There have been a few speed bumps, moments when the spotlight shines a little too bright, and maybe catches you in a moment you’d rather forget. Like when you’re caught on camera in a sex tape with my best friend's wife saying things you absolutely, positively should not be saying about my daughter sleeping with a black man and liberally using the 'N' word to embellish my point of view. . Woof, brother. That was a rough patch. Not my finest hour, not my finest minute, honestly.
It made me realize that even a superhero like me, a man who could bodyslam the world, could still stumble. And when you stumble in front of a billion people, man, it creates a crater. But you know what? Even craters can fill with water and become beautiful lakes… eventually. It was a learning experience, a humbling moment that made me reflect on a lot of things. And it taught me that even the biggest, strongest, most tanned dude in the world has to be accountable, brother. And hey, I owned it, I apologized, and I came back stronger, with a renewed sense of purpose. That’s what Hulkamania is all about, right? Falling down, and then getting back up, picking up a microphone, and telling everyone you're still the greatest of all time!
And speaking of political aspirations, remember when I threw my bandana in the ring, not for a championship belt, but for the Vice Presidency? Oh, yeah! I told my good buddy Donald Trump, 'I'm your guy'  He’s a smart dude, that Trump, he chose Mike Pence but he probably just didn’t want me
overshadowing him with my sheer charisma and larger-than-life presence. Can’t blame him, brother.
I was the dude who brought wrestling into the mainstream, a man who wore a feather boa and sunglasses indoors like it was totally normal but it's all about fighting for what you believe in, even if what you believe in is occasionally controversial and racist.
It’s about that fire in your belly, that desire to win, that feeling that you can accomplish anything if you just train hard, say your prayers, and, well, maybe take a few more of those special vitamins than the average person.

Special Guest Blogger: Frederick Forsyth

People, bless their optimistic cotton socks, often asked about the "creative process." but i didnt write about feelings and fairies, I wrote about how a man, with sufficient ingenuity and a well-placed contact, might blow something up, or, more likely, prevent it from being blown up. My books weren’t born of artistic angst, they were born of a meticulous adherence to plausible reality and the pressing need to meet a deadline. One has bills to pay, after all.
Take The Day of the Jackal. Everyone goes on about it. The detail, the suspense! Frankly, I was just trying to write a believable story about a professional killer. I spent weeks researching French police methods, weapons, passports. Not because I’m some kind of literary martyr, but because I didn’t want some retired Gendarme writing me an angry letter pointing out the flaws in my fictional police cordon.
As for my life, it’s been a bit of a kaleidoscope. Pilot, journalist, spy  and then, rather unexpectedly, a best-selling novelist.
My younger self, clattering away on an old typewriter, probably wouldn’t have believed I’d still be writing decades later but then to be fair, my younger self was mostly concerned with finding a decent pint and not getting shot in some godforsaken corner of the world. Simpler times.
I did have some controversial views, like that time I vociferously supported Brexit The EU, bless their bureaucratic cotton socks, just didn't understand that some chaps prefer their tea, brewed exactly how they like it, without a thousand directives on the exact temperature of the water or the acceptable angle of the teabag. Common sense, you see. A rare commodity, it seems.
And then there's this climate change brouhaha. All this talk of the planet boiling, the ice caps melting, the end of days just around the corner, delivered with the grave pronouncements of a particularly gloomy vicar.
Now, I’m not saying it’s not getting a bit warmer, but the sky isn't falling, and frankly, I suspect the planet has seen a good deal worse than a few extra degrees. It's a rather resilient old thing, Earth. She's been through ice ages and volcanoes, and I suspect she'll manage perfectly well without us all running around in a panic, banning perfectly good cars and eating laboratory-grown steak.  
So, will histoerians mention the geopolitical thrillers or the fact that I thought leaving the EU was a perfectly sensible decision and that all this climate hysteria is a bit overblown? Probably both, knowing my luck.
Ultimately, I suppose, I hope they remember the stories. The ones where the good chaps, usually British, occasionally French, used their wits and courage to prevent some monstrous injustice. The ones where research was king, and a well-placed fact could be more devastating than a missile. The ones that, for a few hours at least, took people away from their own particular drizzles and worries, and plunged them into a world of genuine peril and cunning.
As for the rest of it, my opinions on the price of milk, the state of modern manners, or indeed, the baffling complexities of the European fishing policy well, those are just the ramblings of an old chap who’s seen a bit too much of the world to take much of it seriously anymore.

Special Guest Blogger: Brian Wilson

It all started, as these things often do, in a garage. Not because we were cool, rebellious teenagers with leather jackets and a profound message to deliver. No, we were just three brothers, a cousin, and our friend Al Jardine, making a racket. That’s probably the most rock-and-roll part of our origin story. The rest was just trying to avoid hitting Dennis with his own drumsticks.
Then came the "brainstorm." Surfing. Hot rods. Girls. The quintessential California dream. The funny thing is, none of us were exactly beachy types. I mean, I liked the beach. From a safe distance. With a hot dog but Surfin' it was. And people loved it. They bought the records. They wanted more. So, we gave them more. "Surfin' Safari," "I Get Around," "California Girls." Lots of songs about things we barely did, but made sound like the greatest thing on Earth. It was genius, really. A brilliant marketing scheme disguised as pop music. Who knew? Not us, probably.
Then things got... interesting. My brain, you see, it wasn't content with just three chords and a catchy chorus. My brain was like a mischievous toddler who discovered the entire toy chest and decided to throw everything in the air, just to see what kind of glorious mess it would make. I started hearing
sounds no one else seemed to hear. Layers. Textures. It was all there, in my head, shimmering and begging to be put on tape.
Schizoaffective disorder and mild bipolar disorder they called it although the bucketfuls of LSD, cocaine and marijuana probably didn't help and after a nervous breakdown, I withdrew from regular concert touring to concentrate on songwriting and recording.
This is where Pet Sounds comes in. Everyone talks about Pet Sounds but it nearly broke me.  I spent so much time in the studio, conducting my little orchestra of session musicians, trying to translate the chaos in my head into something tangible, something beautiful. I was trying to capture the feeling of watching a sunset while simultaneously experiencing the dread of a wormhole opening in my living room. You know, everyday stuff.
The guys, my bandmates, they weren't always on board. Mike, bless him, was usually the first to raise an eyebrow but I just knew. I felt it. It was the sound of something new. Something pure. And a lot of very complex chords.
I did try to stop the drugs but by then I was hanging out with people like Alice Cooper and Iggy Pop so that's like being a vegetarian while living in McDonald's.
And then Smile. That album was going to be my grand opus. It was going to be the sound of God, as channeled through my slightly frazzled brain. Or maybe just a really confused Brian. We had fire engines and horse whinnies and a track called "Barnyard" that sounded exactly like what you’d expect.
My brain, you see, was always been a busy place. Like a hyperactive amusement park, but all the rides are playing different music simultaneously, and the clown is also trying to explain quantum physics. Sometimes it's a symphony, sometimes it's just a lot of honking and shouting. For a while there, it
was mostly shouting. Loud, insistent voices, telling me all sorts of interesting and occasionally terrifying things. It made trying to write a simple pop song quite the adventure.
Through it all, the drugs, the suicide attempts, the mental hospital visits, the music kept coming. Sometimes it was a trickle, sometimes a flood.
Sometimes it was just a strange little tune that I'd hum to myself for three days straight until it finally found its way onto a piano.
My brain was finally silenced after contracting COVID and the later effects of that which was respiratory problems but I wrote a bunch of songs about cars and girls and surfing, a few albums that apparently changed the world, a good noise and I managed to put a smile on a few faces along the way
even if my own face was often contorted in a mixture of concentration and sheer bewilderment most of the time.

Special Guest Blogger: Dolly Parton

Hello there, darlin’, It’s your old pal Dolly and i'm here sitting in Gods waiting Room (thank you Cancer) and thinking back on the mountain of hairspray and glitter that could probably be seen from the International Space Station, and I'm thinking, how on earth did a little girl from the dirt-poor mountains of Tennessee end up so goddam' famous?
At age 18, I packed a suitcase, a guitar, and a few weeks’ worth of canned beans and drove to Nashville, the city with the neon honky‑tonk signs and that was the start of a beautiful ride with an aim to make the world a little brighter, just like my stage outfits.
Now, I know some of you might only know me because your mama played 9 to 5 while vacuuming on a Saturday morning, or crying into your pillow to I Will Always Love You, the Whitney version obviously.
Speaking of that little tune, I wrote it as a dramatic farewell to my long-time musical partner Porter Wagoner but back in the day, the King himself, Mr. Elvis Presley, wanted to record my song but his Colonel manager said Elvis would get half the publishing rights so i said no thank you and boy, am I glad I did! Years later, Whitney Houston blew the roof off the world with her version in The Bodyguard. That song made me enough money that I could have bought Graceland lock, stock, and barrel so thanks, Whitney. I will always love you, indeed!
I’d written over 3,000 songs but I don't just want to be remembered for the high notes, the big hair, or the outfits because you see, I started out dirt poor. I’m talking twelve kids in a two bedroom cabin with a leaky roof kind of poor. We didn't have two nickels to rub together, but i said if I ever got in a position to help others, I was going to help.
That’s why, way back in 1988, we started helping local schoolchildren stay in school. Then, in 1995, I started the Imagination Library because I wanted kids to have books of their own and when disasters strike wildfires, hurricanes, floods, well, a Tennessee mountain girl never forgets where she came from.
I even tossed a million dollars at the Moderna vaccine research back in 2020 during the pandemic. Who knew my little ol' country songs would turn me into a vaccine-funding Rockefeller?
I wore heels that defied the laws of physics, and spread as much joy as I possibly could because at the end of the day, wigs tangle, makeup melts, applause fades but kindness is a rhinestone that never loses its sparkle.

Special Guest Blogger: Pope Francis

People looked at me and saw the white cassock, the skullcap and the heavy responsibility of 1.3 billion souls but before I was His Holiness, I was just Jorge from Buenos Aires, and let me tell you, the path from the streets of Buenos Aires to the chair of St. Peter is less of a straight line and more of a chaotic tango.
Long before I was hearing confessions in the Vatican, I was wearing a lab coat as a certified chemical technician and being a chemist taught me that everything is a reaction. When I talked about the environment i was looking at the Earth as a closed system. We’re all in the same test tube, my friends and the Bunsen burner is being turned up way too high.
People often forget the most glamorous part of my CV as nightclub bouncer. Yes, the Vicar of Christ used to spend his Friday nights folding his arms over his chest and telling guys in shiny shirts that they weren't getting in as they were not on the list.
In the club, you have to spot the troublemaker before they start throwing chairs. In the Vatican, the chairs are 500-year-old gilded mahogany, so the stakes are much higher.
Being a bouncer taught me about human nature. It taught me that everyone, the drunk kid in the alley and the billionaire in the velvet booth, is looking for the same thing but my final job was just a much larger version of that. Except instead of keeping people out of the club, I was trying to drag everyone in.
Living in Rome was a constant struggle, it is very hard to be the Universal Father when  San Lorenzo de Almagro is playing. I try to pray for everyone, but I think the Lord understands if 51% of my spiritual energy goes toward a winning goal in the 90th minute.
If history remembers me as the guy who spent too much time talking about the poor, I’m okay with that as I want people to look back and say, Remember Francis? He was the one who told us we didn't have to look like we were at a funeral to be holy.
I want to be remembered as the Pope who reminded the world that God is not a cosmic judge with a clipboard and I opened doors, making the Catholic Church more acceptable of the LGBTQ community and blessing same-sex relationships and pointed out that Capitalism was not a good thing and climate change was an upcoming catastrophe although i did get some heat for saying that Mauro Inzoli, an Italian priest accused of child sexual abuse, could remain a priest as long as he submitted to  a life of prayer and humble discretion, especially when he then went on to abuse more children and got sentenced to prison.
Once upon a time you knew where Catholics stood on their beliefs, circa 1450, but I did at least try and drag them into the modern age by not only saying that the Church needs more women involved, divorce is okay, abortion is a decision for the mother not the Church and Atheists can get into Heaven as God would forgive their unbelief.
I did have to deal with some real modern day tyrants, one of my last visitors was that strange Orange American President and his wife and daughter who decided to dress up like something from the Addams Family, when he asked me for a private sitting to confess his sins, I said that he was only there for 24 hours. The chairs were not reinforced either and they were expensive chairs as i said.
I look at the world today, and it’s a bit of a chemistry experiment gone wrong. There’s a lot of volatility. There’s a lot of acidic rhetoric but i am a firm believer that as i went from a Nightclub bouncer to the top authority on God, nobody should ever give up because today you may be emptying the office bins of some dullard who doesn't even acknowledge you or serving drinks to some obnoxious man who clicks his fingers at you and calls you Sweetheart but one day you may be in a position to decide whether they get to sit at Gods right hand or not, and that is a real ego trip. 

Special Guest Blogger: Richard Chamberlain

For decades, I was America’s handsome, earnest, perpetually swoon-worthy leading man. The epitome of heterosexual charm, the knight in shining armour who always got the girl, or at least looked awfully conflicted about not getting the girl. And all the while, I was… well, let's just say my internal monologue during those passionate embraces was less Oh, darling, my heart aches for you and more Did I remember to turn off the coffee machine?
The audience, bless their innocent hearts, always assumed I was a lady killer but keeping my secret, dear readers, was pure genius, if I do say so myself.
It all started for me with Dr. Kildare. Suddenly, I was America's sweetheart, the poster boy for wholesome, strapping masculinity. Every woman wanted to marry me, every mother wanted me to be their son-in-law but I was just trying not to blush when the male nurses walked by.  It was the acting
challenge of a lifetime and so convincing that  even my character wasn't even aware of it.
If anyone ever questioned a lack of a visible girlfriend, i'd mumble something about being too dedicated to my craft. Which, technically, wasn't a lie.
Crafting an entire public persona around a lie is rather demanding work.
Then came Shogun. A whole new level of manly man. Stranded, alone, fighting for survival, falling in love with a beautiful Japanese noblewoman. Talk about a test of one's acting prowess! I had to learn Japanese, ride horses, sword fight, and simultaneously project an aura of rugged heterosexuality so
convincing it could fool a polygraph.
And then The Thorn Birds, Father Ralph. A priest torn between his sacred vows and his forbidden love for Meggie Cleary and for years, it was a delicate dance. A performance within a performance. The character on screen, and the character I had to play off screen. Always charming, always polite, always
vaguely unavailable.
My dates were always with lovely, understanding women who were either in on the secret or simply didn't mind a dinner companion who talked extensively about gardening.
It wasn't always easy, of course. There were moments of genuine loneliness, moments of frustration with the elaborate charade. But there was also a perverse kind of pride in the sheer scale of the deception until a French magazine outed me but by then i didn't care and i lived out my life in Hawaii until a stroke claimed me.

Special Guest Blogger: Orion

I see you, little mortals, straining your necks every night, pointing your flimsy telescopes at me. I’m Orion. The Big Guy. The Hunter. The one with the snazzy belt and the incredibly unfortunate neighbour, Scorpius. Don’t pretend you don’t know me. I’m practically an international landmark.
And honestly, it’s a bit much sometimes. You’d think eternal fame and a front-row seat to the cosmic ballet would be all sunshine and nectar, but let me tell you, endless vigilance is exhausting. And the view? Spectacular, sure, but after a few millennia, you start to notice the dust bunnies collecting on Jupiter.
Let me take you back, way back, before I was merely a twinkle in Zeus’s eye (and before I actually became a twinkle in everyone else's). Before I was constrained to this rather glamorous but utterly immobile existence, I was a man of action. A man of legend. Or at least, I was working on it.
My birth, as all good legends begin, was somewhat complicated. Son of Poseidon, you see. Bit of a chip off the old block, though I preferred terra firma to the briny depths.
My life was simple, magnificent, and entirely dedicated to the pursuit of the magnificent. I hunted. Oh, how I hunted! Beasts of every stripe, every scale, every frankly improbable number of heads. I stalked the forests, spear in hand as the apex predator of the ancient world, the gold standard for monster-slaying. My deltoids were legendary, my aim unerring and my roar could make a hydra lose a head or two from sheer fright.
Life was a grand adventure. I’d wake with the sun, stretch my magnificent limbs, perhaps flex for an admiring nymph or two and then set off.
Sometimes I'd hunt with Artemis herself, the goddess of the hunt. She was a bit… intense, for my tastes. Great shot, mind you, but never appreciated my flair for the dramatic. Always complaining about my boisterous laughter echoing through the sacred groves. Honestly, some goddesses just don’t
know how to relax.
But it wasn't all just chasing deer and flexing. I had a keen eye for beauty, both in nature and in nymphs. There were a few incidents, the one with Merope, for instance. Long story short, I was a bit too enthusiastic in my courtship, her father wasn't amused, and I ended up blind for a while. A temporary setback, mind you! Nothing a good oracle and a trip to the dawn couldn't fix. It just added to the whole tragic hero mystique.
And then there was my most infamous, and ultimately fatal, blunder. You see, I was a really good hunter. Perhaps too good. I had this habit of boasting.
Not in a mean way, just in a 'listen to how awesome I am' sort of way. One particularly sunny afternoon, after a rather successful boar hunt that involved minimal property damage, I might have, hypothetically speaking, bellowed to the heavens that I could single-handedly rid the entire world of every beast that walked upon it. Every. Single. One.
Now, in hindsight, perhaps that wasn't the wisest declaration. Especially when Mother Earth herself, Gaia, was in earshot. Apparently, she didn't appreciate the implication that her magnificent creations were mere nuisances to be eradicated by a particularly brawny mortal with a big spear and an even bigger mouth.
So, what did she do? She sent a scorpion. A tiny but venomous one which was frankly, rather miffed at being told it was about to be hunted into extinction by a mere mortal.
The battle was epic. Or, it would have been, if I could have actually found the blasted thing. It kept scuttling under rocks, camouflaging itself in the sand. I was charging around, bellowing, swinging my club, making a proper mess of the landscape and then  BAM! Or rather, sting! Right on the heel.
The pain was indescribable and I collapsed mortified. Not by the pain, you understand, but by the sheer indignity of it all. To be brought down by a creature I could have stepped on, had I only seen it coming! The irony was not lost on me, even as the world faded to black.
I expected Hades and eternal punishment, but no. The next thing I knew, I was floating. And shimmering. And utterly unable to scratch my nose.
Turns out, everyone up on Mount Olympus had been watching the whole spectacle. Zeus, decided that the greatest hunter the world had ever known deserved a more prominent retirement plan. And so, he plucked me from the mortal coil and flung me into the night sky, transforming me into a constellation.
And that’s how I ended up here. Stuck in the velvet black, eternally posed, spear raised, chasing Taurus the Bull and guiding ships and inspiring poets.

Special Guest Blogger: John Sykes

One minute you’re a scrawny kid in Blackpool, trying to make your cheap amplifier sound like a stadium, and the next you’re… well, still trying to make an amplifier sound like a stadium, but now there are actual stadiums involved, and a road crew to fetch your tea.
My journey began, like many aspiring rock gods, in the unglamorous confines of a garage. Or a shed. Or possibly my mum's spare room, much to her chagrin. I remember my first guitar, a cheap, plywood affair that sounded less like rock and roll and more like a disgruntled badger being throttled. But I loved it. I attacked it with the ferocity of a starving wolf, convinced that if I practiced enough, eventually it would transform into a glorious Gibson, spewing forth torrents of molten rock.
The early bands we mostly played covers, badly, but with enthusiasm where our stage presence involved a lot of head-banging and not falling over and then came Thin Lizzy. Suddenly, I wasn’t just a kid in a shed anymore. I was playing with the Thin Lizzy. Talk about a step up. I remember the audition
with Phil Lynott, a man absolutely dripping with charisma, watching me tear through some exercises. I was sweating bullets, convinced I’d trip, or my guitar would spontaneously combust. But I didn’t. And I got the gig.
Those years were a blur of incredible music, endless touring, and the kind of rock 'n' roll antics that would make your average health and safety inspector faint. Phil was a genius, a poet with a bass guitar, and Scott Gorham, well, he was the calm eye of the storm. Me? I was mostly trying to keep up, soak it all in, and make sure my guitar didn't sound like a badger again.
We played some legendary shows. Some less legendary. I recall one particularly boozy night where I almost walked straight off the front of the stage but it was only the length of the guitar lead that just stopped me. Then Whitesnake. Ah, the 80s. The decade of excess, of power ballads, of hair that defied gravity and probably required its own post code. Slide It In and 1987 were huge. Suddenly, we were MTV darlings. Meaning, we had to wear a lot of eyeliner and look intensely serious while miming along to songs in front of green screens but that's part of it, the ability to look competent on camera despite feeling like an absolute muppet.
The tours were insane. Stadiums packed with screaming fans, pyrotechnics going off, and the sheer joy of playing those riffs. It was everything I’d ever dreamed of until David Coverdale went mental and thought i was trying to take over the band and fired me.
After Whitesnake, there was Blue Murder, a band I poured my heart and soul into. That was a different beast altogether, a chance to really explore my own vision. Then solo work, guest spots, the never-ending pursuit of the perfect tone, the elusive riff that makes the hairs on your arm stand up.
I mean, let’s be honest, the music industry is a fickle mistress. One minute you're lauded as a pioneer, the next you're vaguely remembered as the bloke who was in that band with the bloke who wasn't the bloke, just the one who always seemed to be wearing leather trousers, even in summer  
So, what’s my conclusion on this grand business? Honestly, I don’t know. And maybe that’s the point. I never set out to create a legacy, I just wanted to play guitar, make some noise, and hopefully not have to get a proper job.

Special Guest Blogger: David Johansen

My life was one long, glittering, loud, and occasionally very damp hallucination in three parts, The Dolls, the tuxedo, the taxi cab through time.
Let’s start with the New York Dolls. People talk about us now like we were some kind of grand architectural plan for punk rock. Trust me, there was no plan, just five guys from the outer boroughs who looked like we’d been kicked through a thrift store backwards and came out looking like the baddest broads on the block. We weren't trying to change the world, we were just trying to find a world that wouldn't arrest us for wearing spandex.
I suppose  the fact was that we proved you could play three chords, look like a glamorous train wreck and still manage to scare the hell out of your parents. We were the Ghost of Christmas Future for rock and roll, showing everyone that the future was going to be loud, messy, and wearing very uncomfortable shoes. I look at some of these bands today, with their perfectly curated distressed look, and I just want to hand them a tube of cheap lipstick and tell them to try doing this while someone is throwing a beer bottle at your head.
Then came the middle act. The Buster Poindexter years. Believe me, Buster was a riot. I went from being a punk icon to a lounge lizard with a pompadour that defied the laws of physics and gravity. I traded in the torn fishnets for a tuxedo and started singing about rum. It was the ultimate prank. People thought I’d sold out but my philosophy was if they think you’re a punk, become a crooner. If they think you’re a crooner, go play the blues with a jug band. Keep 'em guessing.
Now, we have to talk about the movie. You know the one. Every December, like clockwork, my face pops up on TV screens across the globe, looking like I’ve been plugged into an electric socket and haven't slept since the Eisenhower administration.
Playing the Ghost of Christmas Past in Scrooged wasn't just a gig, it was typecasting. Driving a New York yellow cab, smoking a stogie, and terrorising Bill Murray? That wasn't acting. That was just a typical Saturday night in 1978.
There’s something poetic about being the Ghost of Christmas Past. Because, in a way, I am the Ghost of Christmas Past for a lot of people. I’m the guy who reminds them of that one wild night they can’t quite remember but will never forget.
I did reach the National Treasure phase of my life. The part where people stop throwing things at you and start giving you awards for lifetime achievement. It’s very touching, really. It’s also a great way to remind you that you’re old.
I look at the music industry today, the algorithms, the TikTok dances and it’s all very shiny, very polite and very, very boring.
My legacy, I hope, is a lack of politeness. I hope the legacy I left behind is a reminder that rock and roll is supposed to be a little bit ridiculous.
I’ve been a Doll, a Poindexter, a Ghost, and a Harry Smith. I’ve been a millionaire, a mendicant, and everything in between. And if I’ve learned anything, it’s that the music stays, the clothes eventually go out of style (and then come back in twenty years) so stay gorgeous, darlings, and keep the volume the hell up.

Special Guest Blogger: Clem Burke

It all started, as many good stories do, with a simple desire to make a lot of noise. And let me tell you, I excelled at that from an early age. My poor parents. Bless 'em. They probably thought it was a loud phase but the call of the rhythm was too strong. It was elemental. Like a caveman discovering he could make a pleasing thud by hitting a hollow log, only my log was usually a pillow and my cave was the family living room.
Then came Blondie. Oh, Blondie. A glorious, chaotic, beautiful mess of ambition, talent, and questionable fashion choices. We were all a bit rough around the edges, held together by sheer willpower and an unwavering belief that we were making something special. And guess who was holding the whole thing together, literally and metaphorically? Your humble servant, at the back keeping time.
People always focus on Debbie, naturally. She's the face, the voice, the icon. And rightly so. She's phenomenal. Chris was the wizard behind the curtain, the musical architect. Jimmy and Frank, the rhythm section's other half, laying down the grooves. And then there's me. The engine room. The bloke who ensures everyone stays in the same postcode, tempo-wise. It’s like being the designated driver for a bus full of wildly talented, perpetually distracted artistic geniuses.
The early days were a blur of sweaty clubs, dodgy sound systems, and the constant fear that my kick drum pedal would spontaneously combust mid-song. We were young, hungry, and probably a little bit insane. We’d play a gig in some grimy dive bar, then pile into a van that smelled like stale beer and drive halfway across the country and there were moments of utter boredom, long stretches of highway, and plenty of questionable catering. But then there were the moments when it all clicked.
Take Heart of Glass, for example with its disco beat and then there was "Rapture." Suddenly, we're doing hip-hop. Did I know much about hip-hop drumming? Not a sausage. But you adapt. You listen. You experiment. and that was the beauty of Blondie, really. We never stayed in one lane. We were constantly swerving, often without indicating, into different musical territories. And every time, I had to figure out how to make my drumming fit, how to be the bedrock for whatever wild musical adventure Chris and Debbie had concocted. From punk snarls to disco struts to reggae riddims to hip-hop beats, it was a constant masterclass in musical versatility. My hair might have been all over the place, but my beat had to be tight.
During the 1980s and 1990s when Blondie was on hiatus, I played drums for the Romantics, Pete Townshend, Bob Dylan, Eurythmics, Dramarama, the Fleshtones, Iggy Pop, Joan Jett and The Stranglers amongst others and stood in for the Ramones a few times under the name Elvis Ramone.
So i  hit things hard and mostly in time"? Hopefully, with a bit more flourish whether in a packed stadium or a tiny club where the stage was so small my cymbal stand was practically in the bass player's armpit but  I was just this tiny cog in a massive, beautiful machine.

Special Guest Blogger: Hercules

Before you start with the flexes and the strongest man alive chatter, let me tell you, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Right now, for instance, I’m nursing a slightly tweaked rotator cuff from trying to open a particularly stubborn jar of olives. The irony is not lost on me, trust me.
You see, everyone knows the legend. The twelve impossible labors. The monsters, the mayhem, the sheer, unadulterated muscle. But what they don’t tell you is the sheer amount of divine bureaucracy involved, the perpetual backache, and the eternal struggle to find sandals that fit. Being a hero is less about glory and more about constantly being asked to do things no one else wants to, usually involving large, smelly beasts or ridiculously heavy objects.
You know how it is. Family drama. We all have it. Except when your family drama involves your dad being the King of the Gods  and your stepmom being the perpetually peeved Queen of the Gods so, my life started with a rather intense infant wrestling match with a pair of snakes Hera sent to my crib. I defeated them of course, but it was a sign of things to come,  a demigod's life is rarely peaceful, and often involves wrestling things that really don't want to be wrestled.
Fast forward a bit, and Hera’s grudge reached its peak. She inflicted me with a temporary madness. And in that haze, I did the unthinkable. I… well, I hurt my family and to atone, I was sentenced by the Oracle of Delphi to serve King Eurystheus of Tiryns. Twelve labors. Twelve impossible, ridiculously difficult, utterly absurd tasks designed to break me. Or, more likely, to provide Hera with endless entertainment.
Let's be frank, Eurystheus was less an inspiring leader and more a sniveling coward who probably changed his toga every time I showed up with another monster pelt, the  Nemean Lion,  the Lernaean Hydra, the Ceryneian Hind the golden-horned deer and  bringing Cerberus, the three-headed hound of Hades, up from the Underworld.
You'd think after all that I'd get a a lifetime supply of ambrosia and a spa day but nope, i got more quests.
I went on to slay more giants, rescue princesses from sea monsters and even participate in the Argonautic expedition, my life became a never-ending series of requests from gods and mortals alike. All I ever wanted was a quiet cottage, a good book, and maybe a pet that didn't have multiple heads or a venomous bite.
I stood up to impossible odds, faced my demons (and actual demons), and kept going when any sane person would have packed it in and started a goat farm.

Special Guest Blogger: Connie Francis

Hello, world! In my day, if you wanted to reach a million people, you had to squeeze into a girdle that defied the laws of physics and travel to sixteen different cities in a week. Now, you just click a button but it was thanks to Tik Tok that when i died of pneumonia, a whole new generation had heard of me.
 I think they expect me to get all misty-eyed and talk about the "Golden Age of Music." And look, I can do that. I have the sequins to prove it. But when I look back at my life and my songs, mostly what I think is: Boy, Connie, you sure were a dramatic little thing, weren’t you?
First was my name which went on a journey of its own from Concetta Rosa Maria Franconero to Concetta Franconero and then Connie Franconero
and finally Connie Francis and a discography that reads like a psychiatric evaluation of a woman who has had the worst luck with men in the history of the Northern Hemisphere.
Take Who’s Sorry Now? That was the big one. The one that saved my career. My father, a man who thought he knew everything about the music business despite being a roofer, forced me to record it but I hated it. I thought it was old-fashioned but I sang it and suddenly, I was the queen of the heartbroken. That song is essentially three minutes of me pointing a finger at an ex-boyfriend and shouting, "I TOLD YOU SO!" I was the 1958 version of Cardi B, just with more crinoline and fewer tattoos.
Lipstick on Your Collar reminded a whole generation of women that if he’s cheating, you don’t cry, you make a hit record out of it and buy a mansion. And then there was Stupid Cupid. I mean, really? I spent the better part of my youth complaining about a toddler in a diaper with a bow and arrow but i was the spokesperson for every girl who ever got stood up at a soda fountain. If you’ve ever cried over a boy who didn't call, I was your patron saint and worse, enough hairspray to dissolve a hole in the ozone layer.
But then there’s Where the Boys Are. Ah, the anthem of Spring Break. Every time I hear that song, I think of Fort Lauderdale. Back then, a scandalous Spring Break meant a girl wearing a bikini that showed her navel and maybe sharing a malted milk with two different boys in the same afternoon.
I’ve had a lot of ups and downs. More downs than a Vegas escalator, if I’m being honest, the hotel rape and subsequent depression and suicide attempts as well as the botched nasal operation which left me unable to sing completely for years derailed my career but at the height of my fame, I couldn't walk down the street without being mobbed. I recorded music in multiple languages, including English, Spanish, Italian, French, German, Greek, Yiddish, and Japanese, making me a best-selling artist in international markets.
I look at the music today, and I think, Where are the melodies? Where are the stories? Everything sounds like a blender full of marbles. But then I realize I’m sounding like a cranky old lady, and I have to remind myself that my father thought rock and roll was the end of civilization. Everything moves on. But a good heartbreak? That’s eternal. As long as there are people getting dumped, Connie Francis will be relevant.

Special Guest Blogger: Felix Baumgartner

So, here I am. Or rather, here I’m not anymore. And let me tell you, the irony of my current predicament isn’t lost on me. It hangs heavier than my reputation for jumping out of perfectly good, or in my case, perfectly high, vehicles.
Most of you probably know me for the jump, right? The one where I basically fell from God's attic? Yeah, that one. October 14, 2012. Stratosphere. Edge of Space. 128,000 feet. Breaking the sound barrier with nothing but a fancy suit and a very deep breath. That was my masterpiece, my magnum opus, my hold my beer and watch this moment taken to stratospheric levels.
Honestly, the view up there was indescribable. The curvature of the Earth, the inky blackness above, the sheer, mind-numbing vacuum of it all. For a moment, even my iron-clad Austrian nerves felt a little wobbly. I mean, here I was, a guy who spent his life defying gravity, about to voluntarily throw myself into it from a height that made commercial airliners look like ants on the pavement.
The freefall itself? A blur. Literally. I was going so fast, my own thoughts couldn’t keep up. It was pure sensation, pure adrenaline, pure oh dear God, please let my parachute open. There was a moment, when I first stepped off that capsule, where I looked down and thought, Felix, you absolute madman. What have you gotten yourself into now? It was glorious. It was terrifying. It was, without a doubt, the most alive I’d ever felt. And landing? Pure relief. The cheers, the record books, the endorsement deals… it was all gravy. The world knew Felix Baumgartner. The man who fell from space.
And then… there’s the other thing. The frankly tad embarrassing footnote to an otherwise stellar career.
Remember how I said I cheated death from the edge of space? Well, apparently, death decided to catch up with me closer to sea level.
The man who laughed in the face of terminal velocity, shuffled off this mortal coil not  going out in a wing suit incident over an active volcano but in a motorised paragliding accident in Italy.
I leap from the literal edge of human existence, survive a journey through the upper atmosphere at speeds faster than sound, perfect countless BASE jumps from impossibly high landmarks, and what finally gets me? A glorified lawnmower with a bed sheet.
I mean, I’ve got to laugh, haven’t I? What else is there to do? I spent my entire life pushing boundaries, tempting fate, staring down the abyss. I’ve freefallen from cliffs, skyscrapers and even the very edge of the stratosphere. I survived every single one of those calculated risks, honed through years of training and experience. And then, one ordinary afternoon, enjoying a relatively tame hobby, poof. Gone.

Special Guest Blogger: Perseus

My life was mostly just me trying not to be turned to stone or eaten but i was the son of Zeus, if you believe my notoriously unreliable family tree. Slayer of monsters. Husband of the truly magnificent and blessedly low-maintenance Andromeda. And, apparently, the guy who invented putting an eye out, then taking it.
You've seen the statues and the epic poems they make it all seem grand and destiny-driven whereas my fate mostly awaited me trying to avoid being minced, petrified, or generally having a very bad day.
Dumped in a chest with my mum, Danaë, after Zeus knocked up another mortal, we washed ashore on Seriphos, where King Polydectes, a man whose charm rivalled a particularly mouldy goat cheese, took us in. He eventually got a bit handsy with my mother, which, as a strapping young lad, I naturally took exception to so he plotted to rid himself of me by sending me on an impossible quest to bring back the head of the Gorgon Medusa.
So, I'm stuck with this truly impossible quest and my first port of call was the gods because apparently, they love a good impossible quest, especially when it involves someone else doing the heavy lifting.
Hermes rocks up, looking all casual in his winged sandals and tosses me his sandals, then Athena hands me her highly polished shield and even Hades, the benevolent uncle, even loans me his helmet of invisibility.
So, I'm kitted out and my first stop is the three old crones with one eye and one tooth between them and I literally had to yoink their eye mid-pass to get any informnation from them then off to Medusa's lair and tiptoeing around a cave full of statues who clearly didn't get the don't look memo.
Suddenly there she was, Medusa, having a really bad hair day and using Athena's shield as a rearview mirror, I crept up and just like that, the most dreaded monster in all of Greece was headless and it was stuffed into a bag.
So, now I'm flying home, courtesy of Hermes' sandals, with a Gorgon's head clanking around in my bag when i noticed something truly peculiar. A stunningly beautiful woman, Andromeda, chained to a rock, about to be devoured by a sea monster.
Now, I'm not going to lie, she was a looker. Even chained to a rock, with impending doom looming, she still had that beauty thing going on and a deep-seated desire not to appear a total coward, kicked in.
The fight with Cetus wasn't some elegant dance of blades, It was more like a grapple with a very large, very angry, very slimy fish before he finally went down.
The King Cepheus and Queen Cassiopeia were, understandably, a bit sheepish about the whole sacrificing our only daughter thing and gave me her hand in marriage and after that, life with Andromeda was surprisingly normal for a demigod. We had kids, founded cities (Mycenae, ever heard of it?), and generally tried to steer clear of anything that involved more sea monsters or divine intervention or being turned into a full sized garden gnome.

Special Guest Blogger: Robin Smith

Let’s be honest, shall we? When you spend the better part of two decades having five-ounce spheres of cork and leather hurled at your cranium by gentlemen like Curtly Ambrose and Courtney Walsh, you tend to develop a certain perspective on life. Usually, that perspective is Why am I standing here instead of in a nice, safe library? or I hope the hospital food in Antigua is edible.
But now that the dust has settled and the whites have been bleached for the final time, i look back and think that they called me The Judge. I’d like to think it was because of my stern, impartial wisdom on the field, but we all know the truth: it was because my hair at the time looked like a periwig that had survived a freak lawnmower accident.
For those who may have forgotten or didn't know, I occupy a very specific niche in the Great British Tapestry. I am a Durban lad who decided to play for England. This essentially means that for half my life, South Africans considered me a traitor, and for the other half, the British considered me a very useful immigrant who still couldn’t pronounce Worcestershire correctly.
Playing for England back then was a bit like being the lead singer of a tribute band where the audience is constantly checking their watches and wondering when the original lineup is coming back. Being a South African in that dressing room added an extra layer of spice. I remember walking out to bat against the Aussies, Merv Hughes staring at me through a mustache that had its own postcode, and him snarling, You’re not even English, mate.
But that duality has shaped me. I’m a man of two worlds. I crave the South African sun but I’ve developed a British mastery of complaining about the weather. I want a braai, but I’ll settle for a Sunday roast if the gravy is thick enough to stop a bullet. My legacy, in part, is proving that you can take the boy out of Natal, put him in Hampshire, and he’ll still try to square-cut a delivery that’s clearly aimed at his throat.
I always fancied myself a bit of a musician but I’m not saying I was Eric Clapton, I was barely even Eric from the accounts department who plays at the Christmas party but i do wonder what would have been if I’d picked up a Gibson instead of a Gray-Nicolls. Would I have had groupies instead of slip-fielders? Probably not. I’d have likely forgotten the lyrics and ended up playing Wonderwall at a pub in Eastleigh which is slightly less painful than somebody trying to hit you in the ribs with a thunderbolt at 95 miles per hour.
That’s the thing about cricket, you get hit, you spit out a bit of tooth, you adjust your helmet, and you get back in the bubble and try and score the runs to win the match.
I took a few bouncers to the heart, play a few shots that made you look like a genius and several more that make me look like i had  never seen a bat before and all while eventually learning how to play a decent version of Mustang Sally without breaking a string, I’ll take that.

Special Guest Blogger: Jimmy Cliff

Born on April 1st, my entire life, it seems, has been one delightful, chaotic, utterly unplanned prank. And somehow, I've managed to rope millions of you into it with some catchy tunes. My apologies, and also, you're very welcome.
Growing up in Somerton, Jamaica, I wasn't exactly plotting world domination via a bassline. My early ambitions were more along the lines of getting enough food to eat and not getting into too much trouble. Music was just... there. Like the sunshine, or the insistent hum of the cicadas. It was part of the fabric. I started writing songs before I even knew what I was doing.
I remember heading to Kingston, a starry-eyed country boy, thinking I'd just knock on a studio door and poof, instant hit but it more like knock, knock, knock, wait for hours, maybe sing a bit, get politely dismissed, repeat ad nauseam. It took a while, a lot of walking, a lot of dreaming, and a good dose of stubbornness and while some may call it perseverance, i called it not having enough bus fare to go home.
Then came the moment. I met Leslie Kong. He recorded my first single, 'Dearest Beverley'. Now, you might think such an auspicious start would lead to immediate fame, limousines, and a lifetime supply of mangoes. Not quite. It was more like, Okay, that was nice, what's next? I wrote Many Rivers to Cross, a song that still gets me a bit misty-eyed, then had to cross about a thousand more literal rivers. Who knew profound introspection could be so much work?
I didn't wake up one morning, scratch my head, and declare, Today, I shall make this reggae thing a global phenomenon! I just made the music that was in my soul. It was the rhythm of Jamaica, the stories of my people, mixed with a little bit of rock 'n' roll, a little bit of soul, and a whole lot of whatever fell out of my head that day.
The Harder They Come film? That was just a story, man. A powerful one, yes, about a young man trying to make his way in a tough world. It had a soundtrack, and I happened to sing a few songs on it. Next thing you know, people all over the planet are swaying to You Can Get It If You Really Want or humming Many Rivers to Cross in languages I couldn't even pronounce. It was like I’d opened a gate and I was standing there, holding the keys, wondering, Did I just do that?
It wasn't a meticulous marketing strategy, I assure you. There were no focus groups or high-powered executives. It was just... good vibes.
My music, they say, has a message. Peace, love, unity, perseverance. And yes, it does. But sometimes, it's also just about feeling good, about dancing, about forgetting your troubles for a few minutes. I mean, my songs are not always Shakespeare, right? The world is serious enough so let's shake our hips a little.
I showed people that a little boy from a small village in Jamaica could reach the whole world with nothing but a guitar and a voice.