Special Guest Blogger: Jean-Marie Le Pen

Buckle up, mes amis because this is going to be as spicy as a Marie-Antoinette profiterole.
If you ever find yourself scrolling through the labyrinth of French politics looking for a souvenir of the far right and perhaps, for those who love a good scandal, a dash of racist notoriety, then welcome!
Picture it, a young Jean-Marie, all fire and perm, storming the political arena like a French Bridget Jones who’s had one too many espressos and decided the EU is the real villain.
I was born in 1928 in a small town that smelled of coal and ambition. Even as a child I was fascinated by the idea of order, the kind you get when you line up your toys in perfect, militaristic rows.
When the French army called, I answered, more out of a sense of duty than any desire to become famous. My time in the army gave me a taste of hierarchy and the smell of freshly polished boots, which later proved useful in politics.
In 1972, after a series of jobs that included a brief stint as a civil servant (which I left because bureaucracy is for the weak), I co-founded the National Front. The moment I saw our first poster I felt the rush of a rock star’s debut. This was my first genuine far-right brand-building exercise, and I was proud of the fact that my name was now on every billboard from Marseille to Lille.
My early years in politics were marked by a series of très memorable gaffes. Did I compare Nazis to French resistance heroes? Oui. Did I blame immigrants for everything from unemployment to bad croissants? Yep.  I first earned the racist label in the 1980s after a televised interview in which I, perhaps too candidly, referred to people of non-European origin as a “danger to French identity.
Perhaps my most entertaining highlight was the avalanche of lawsuits that followed my incendiary remarks, in 1992, I was convicted for saying that the Nazi occupation of France was not particularly inhumane and i got a three-month suspended prison sentence and €10,000 (£8,283) fine.
In 2004, I took my show on the road to the European Parliament. My highlight here was an impromptu, flamboyant speech in which I compared the EU to a giant bureaucratic nightmare that eats French cheese and culture. I was subsequently banned from certain parliamentary sessions, a move I consider a badge of honor.
I made five attempts to become president of France and failed five times also but  sacre bleu, I am the ghost of French politics past.
My daughter Marine inherited the family business, and let me tell you, she’s so much prettier, and it was fun watching her try to re-brand the National Front into a more respectable party although that did include expelling me from my own party for anti-Semitic remarks and denying the Holocaust whilst praising Nazi war collaborators.
I pioneering the art of saying whatever’s most offensive in the room,  Controversy sells and a good scandal keeps you in the news. I made political incorrectness a brand, a lifestyle, a fashion statement. And let’s not forget the trials! Getting hauled before judges for defending the indefensible? It was like The Mask of Zorro, but with more lawyers and less ziplining. Moi, j’adooore a good courtroom drama. Especially when the prosecution’s arguments are as flimsy as a Frenchman’s excuse for not doing the dishes.
A quiet Sunday in Provence, the kind where the sun lingers  and I’m sipping a glass of Château Whatever, surrounded by my family (well, the ones who still speak to me), when my brain and my heart ganged up on me but neither the stroke or the heart attack killed me outright, they played a much longer game and  i died from them a year later.

A Problem For Future Space Travellers

I am away this week for my Birthday so I am pre-posting this a few days before the proposed plan to send Artemis 2 on its 4 day trip to the Moon where it will circle it for 2 days and then make the 4 day trip back today.
The delayed mission which will send four astronauts on a 10-day journey around the moon and back is pencilled in for countdown between April 1 and April 6 but NASA have yet to confirm the date as the weather on the day could scupper any plans but NASA have said that today is the preferred date with liftoff scheduled between 22:24 and 00:24
Artemis 2 is a test run for Artemis 3 which will see humans return to the moon and establish a long-term presence there and further afield but that's where it gets messy, and i mean literally messy because at some point building a sustainable human presence in space or other Planets such as Mars will require not just solving engineering problems, but also understanding how reduced gravity will affect sex and reproduction.
As yet, no one has had sex in space (as far as I am aware) but it will have to be considered the actual logistics of performing this docking maneuver in microgravity where weightless objects that come into contact repel one another so i can forsee weights or very strong Velcro but that's for the future scientists and astronauts to worry about.
Hopefully today we will see the first steps to rekindling our Space Exploration story, weather and me being able to find a TV and being sober enough to turn it on at 22:24 tonight permitting.

Special Guest Blogger: Dred Scott

Bit of an odd one, this, writing a blog post. One moment you’re succumbing to a nasty bout of tuberculosis in 1858, and the next, you’re in a sort of celestial waiting room with surprisingly good Wi-Fi and an eternity to catch up on things. They tell me my name is rather a big deal down there. Dred Scott. Apparently, I’m in the history books.
But since i'm here I thought I’d clear a few things up. Mostly, that my life wasn’t the grand, sombre march of martyrdom they make it out to be. It was, for the most part, a long, frustrating, and occasionally farcical inconvenience with racism and whips.
I was born into this whole being a slave business. No one asked my opinion on the matter, which I thought was rather poor form from the outset. My first 'owner,' the Peter Blow family, were, by all accounts, decent enough chaps. For people who thought they owned me, of course.
Then came Dr. John Emerson. A blighter in the army. He was my assigned ‘manager,’ if you will. And he was promoted. A lot. This is where the whole kerfuffle kicked off. He dragged me from the slave-holding state of Missouri to Illinois. Now, Illinois, as I’m sure you know, had rather progressive views on the whole ‘people owning people’ front. Namely, they were against it. I thought, Splendid! Fresh start!
But no. Dr. Emerson simply ignored the local laws. Then he hauled me up to the Wisconsin Territory, where the same rules applied. Legally, I should have been free. Instead, I was just a very confused and very illegal slave in a free territory. It was all a bit of a muddle.
After a decade of this continental goose-chase, Dr. Emerson popped his clogs, and his widow inherited me. And here, I had a thought. A rather bold one, I’ll admit. I thought, You know what, I’ve had quite enough of this. I’d served my time. I’d lived in free states. It felt like I’d served my sentence. So, I did what any reasonable person would do. I offered to buy my freedom. A perfectly reasonable transaction, no?
She refused.
So, I did what any slightly-less-reasonable, now-rather-annoyed person would do. I sued her but i wasn’t what you’d call a legal eagle. My grand contribution to my case was mostly just standing there, looking a bit miffed, while my lawyers did the heavy lifting.
The case bounced around the courts for years. It was the ultimate bureaucratic nightmare and then, the big one. The Supreme Court. The head honchos. The final boss level. I imagined them as wise, thoughtful chaps who’d see the glaringly obvious injustice of it all. Silly me. Chief Justice Roger Taney, a man whose face looks permanently sour as if he’d just discovered his tea was cold, wrote the majority opinion.
He declared that no person of African ancestry, whether slave or free, could be a citizen of the United States. And if you’re not a citizen, you can’t sue in federal court. Case dismissed. My entire case, my entire life, was wiped away with a single, condescending sentence. The whole thing, he declared, was an issue for the states to decide, which was a bit like telling the chickens to have a quiet word with the fox.
The verdict, as you might imagine, caused a bit of a stir. It did not, it’s fair to say, calm things down. In fact, it rather poured petrol on the fire. And here I am, a footnote in my own disaster. The man who lost the most consequential court case in American history.  I wasn’t trying to start a civil war, you know. I was just trying to stop being someone else’s property.
So what happened in the end? After all that, after nine judges in Washington told me I was so much chattel, the original Blow family, the very people who owned me as a boy, they bought me and my wife. And then they set us free. So, after a decade of legal battling, it all came down to a spot of old-fashioned charity. You couldn't write it. It's all a bit of a shambles, really.
As for my death? I’m afraid it was terribly pedestrian. Tuberculosis. Not a dramatic last stand. Just a slow, fading cough, and then, pop. It  turns out that the only way for a black man to fully escape the American legal system in the 1850s was, well, to die. A bit drastic, but effective.

God Speaks On US, Israel And Iran Holy War

America’s secretary of defense, Pete Hegseth, sports an array of tattoos with Christian messaging, including one which reads 'Deus Vult', which is associated with the medieval crusades and has been reaching for biblical language to describe the war against Iran. He called on God to 'break the teeth and kill the wicked enemies who deserve no mercy' and should be 'delivered to the eternal damnation prepared for them'. In other words, for Hegseth this is a holy war in which he calls on god to 'grant this task force clear and righteous targets for violence'.
We recently saw Trump being anointed by Fundamentalist Christians and praying for 'continued blessing' and asked God: 'For your grace and protection over him…and over our troops'.
Troops are also complaining that they are being told that this war was all part of God’s divine plan referring to Armageddon and the imminent return of Jesus Christ.
The Israeli prime minister, whilst announcing the start of the war, invoked the Jewish holiday of Purim by comparing present day Iran to ancient Persian who 'rose against us with the
exact same goal of completely destroying our people and today the end of the evil regime will also come' while Netanyahu has also compared Iran to the biblical Amalekites and who the Old Testament God ordered to be completely destroyed including there: 'Men and women, children and infants, cattle and sheep, camels and donkeys'.
Meanwhile in Iran, senior Shia clerics declared the dead Ayatollah as a martyr and as the 'Hidden 12th Imam, who is meant to return on the day of judgement and declared the defence of the homeland as a sacred duty and that it is their duty of all Muslims to support Iran.
God only knows what he thinks of yet another war in his name, so i asked him and he is not a happy chappie as he explained to me.
'I was sitting in my kitchen, scrolling through the War Tracker App' he said 'when I realized the world’s latest scoreboard looked suspiciously like a scoreboard from a medieval tournament. The contenders? America, Israel, and Iran. Their rallying cry? 'God is on our side!'
'Do you any back of the participants?' i asked and he sighed and replied that 'My plan was create galaxies, invent love and get in the decaffeinated Coffee for the Angels' he explained, 'Holy wars, on the other hand, are a bit… extra and I have been on to the celestial HR department to add the clause: 'God will not participate in wars against humans' but they say it's covered under the 'God Moves in Mysterious ways' sub clause. 
I even contacted the USA’s, Israels and Irans representative direct and said that i didn't want them killing each other to show how peaceful they were but all three said that they were just trying to keep the world safe, so how can you argue with mad logic like that?'
'Israel even claimed they had an ancient right of being the chosen people and assumed it was practically a celestial permission slip because: 'We have the holy land so God must be on our side, right?' and i replied that I gave them the land to live in, not a license to launch missiles at anyone who refuses to accept them launching missiles at them and anyway the 'chosen people’ thing was metaphorical. I meant 'chosen one to love' and not the chosen one to fight their neighbours.
I suggested that maybe he didn't make that clear enough in the Do Not Kill Commandment but by now he was in full rant mode.
'As for Iran' he continued, 'They have taken the phrase 'Allahu Akbar' (God is great) to mean 'Allahu obeys whatever is our leaders foreign policy is and their rep even bought a Powerpoint presentation which shows 'Divine Approval Rating: 100%' and the America guy was trying to persuade me that they were  'Just doing God’s job' and 'The Scriptures say…blah, blah, blah' and dismissed my argument that I didn’t create a War‑Instruction‑Manual.
I made love and let there be light and all that so don't not use my name as a shield for violence because i still have the Cosmic pause button and the Angels are demanding i use it else they are threatening to go on strike and stop checking on humans and guarding or protecting them.
So i asked him if he had a message for the warring side and he replied: 'Guys, stop fighting over who gets the right to claim me. I’m busy creating sunsets and rainbows, and I could use a break from all this crap'
There you go then, when it comes to Holy Wars, God thinks you are all dicks.

Correct Move By IOC

I have long said that Transgender women athletes should be banned from female events due to the unfair advantage they have and finally the International Olympoic Committee and caught up and said that they face exclusion from future Olympics to protect 'fairness and safety'.
Kirsty Coventry, the president of the IOC, said the decision had been taken because: 'It would not be fair for biological males to compete in the female category' and then made the pointed assertion that the decision was made by the the first female Head of the IOC.
Coventry, a seven-time Olympic swimming medalist, explained that now  all athletes wanting to compete in the female category at the Olympics will have to undergo a one-off SRY (sex determining region Y gene) screening to detect their biological sex  
As the IOC have longed tried toi halt illegal use of drugs wto gain even a small advantage, it is shameful that it has taken this long when the science shows that there is a 12% male performance advantage in most running and swimming events, a 20+ per cent male performance advantage in most throwing and jumping events and 100% in events that involve explosive power such as lifting and punching sports.
There have been some who are disappointed with the charity Dsdfamilies saying that while they understand fairness in competition is important, they are concerned that: 'Proposed processes do not always demonstrate the level of understanding, dignity and respect that this issue requires' which i am not certain what their point is but it is a victory for women who now can be assured that they competing on a level playing field.
The best argument i have heard against athletes transitioning and competing in the sport of their new gender is that this is only a problem with males to females, you don't hear of females transitioning to males and competing and that speaks volumes.

Special Guest Blogger: Marianne Faithfull

If you’re expecting a sobriquet like The Divine Marianne, Queen of Cool, Architect of Bohemian Bliss, you’ll be sorely disappointed. I’m just a lass from East London who wandered into the rock ‘n’ roll circus, tripped over the ringmaster’s ego, and somehow ended up in the tightrope act. Without a net.
I grew up in a world where posh meant a hatbox and trouble meant the randy milkman. My father, a dashing war hero with the constitution of a wet noodle, once told me, Marianne, you’ll go far, but not too far, love. And preferably in a straight line. Ha! If only he’d known.
By the time I was 19, I’d traded my Oxfam-approved upbringing for a flat in Chelsea, a disdain for authority, and a nascent obsession with the Rolling Stones. Mick Jagger once said I had a voice like a chain saw that’s forgotten how to sing. He didn’t say it nicely. But here’s the thing about Mick: he’s a terrible poet, a dubious philosopher, and a man who once paid me in cocaine and compliments. Which, as currency goes, is about as reliable as a bus in Manchester.
To be honest I was rubbish at being a rock star. I mean, look at me. I didn’t fit the mold of the waifish siren or the leather-clad Amazon. I was… a woman. With opinions. And a habit.
And, let’s be honest, a talent for self-sabotage that would make a cactus blush.
My 70s album Broken English? A masterpiece, obviously. But back then, critics called it 'the sound of a woman who’s had one cigarette too many.' Darling, I was one cigarette too many.
And yet! That record became a goddamn feminist anthem. Because nothing says female empowerment like coughing up a lung while singing about being the dog’s bollocks at love.
I also spent a decade battling heroin addiction. But hey, that’s just my way of keeping up with the times. If today’s Gen Z is battling screen addiction, I was battling the same thing but with a needle. Classic.
By the 90s, I’d kicked the habit (mainly because my veins looked like a map of the Amazon and I needed them for blood tests). My voice, once dubbed the raspy whisper of a thousand smoke-filled salons, had evolved into something… gnarlier.
I then spent two decades performing at places like the Glastonbury Festival, where I’d stagger onstage in a dress made of curtains and belt out “Sister Morphine” and  the kids loved it.
But here’s the thing about dying: it’s dull. All the drama, the tears, the existential crises—it’s just one long, drawn-out anticlimax. I tried to spice it up by contracting Breast Cancer, Hepatitis C, Emphysema, Pneumonia and Covid so take your pick which one finally got me but I outlived Bowie, Jackson, Prince and George MIchael and my last tax return.
I’ve been a muse, a menace and a magnate of melodrama but never, ever boring.

Genocide In Gaza Still Happening

With all eyes on Iran, the Israeli genocide in Gaza has slipped out of the headlines but it hasn't slipped from Benjamin Netanyahu's mind because he has carried on doing what he has always done, killing Palestinians.
Since the Ian War began 28 days ago, dozens of Palestinians have been killed including killing 12 at a displacement Camp which Israeli planes bombed but then almost 700 Palestinians have been killed since the announcement of the ceasefire in October 2025 and at least 75,000 since October 2023.
Oxfam has said that despite the pledge that on the Peace Deal conclusion there would be an immediate resumption of full aid to Gaza, Israel is still refusing to allow essential aid to be delivered and 'progress towards recovery is limited and almost not there. This is basic survival in Gaza'.
Wanted War Criminal Netanyahu, who also faces charges of corruption and bribary in his own country as well as being on the list of the United Nations for War Crimes, seems to be looking for a war to keep him in power and after the UN  Security Council this week laid out a detailed plan for Palestinian armed groups to decommission their weapons, Netanyahu is demanding that Hamas disarm or Israel will disarm them 'the hard way'.
One Palestinian woman told the BBC that: 'We pray to God that peace will be imposed, and that the national committee will come and control Gaza' but the National Committee for Gaza Administration, which reports to Trump's absurd Board of Peace, said: 'There is no date yet for a return to Gaza'.
The whole Middle East is literally on fire and there is one common denominator in all which is happening there at the moment, Israel who have been committing a genocide for over 80 years in Palestine and America who have supplied the weapons and funding and now joined in another illegal war alongside the murderers in Tel Aviv.

Starmer Responds To Trumps Barbs

Day 28 of a war that the Fuchsia Fascist has said was already won despite him now readying thousands of American troops to the area but then not much of what he says can be taken as truth, even an ex-CIA leader came out and said that he is more inclined to believe the Iranians than his own President but we had already reached that conclusion anyway.
In a new move Trump is now saying that the Ayatollah is gay which doesn't do anything to improve his standing as having the mind of a spoilt child and we await the reply that you're a pedophile fired back at him and i don't know if the Ayatollah is gay, nor care, but we know that Trump is actually a pedophile and mixed in a pedophile ring for decades and if it walks like a nonce, and talks like a nonce then yep, he's a nonce.
Almost as much in the firing line as the Ayatollah has been our own Keir Starmer who refused to join the warmongers Trump and Netanyahu in the Iran debacle by saying it was not only illegal but Trump attacked with no viable plan and that really ticked off the Mango Moron because he hasn't stopped banging on about it ever since.
The sex pest President has said that the UK government's deal to hand over sovereignty of the Chagos archipelago to Mauritius, because he wanted to use the joint UK base on the island of Diego Garcia to launch attacks on Iran was 'An act of great Stupidity'  and 'A big mistake'.
After Starmer refused permission for America to use the airfield at Diego Garcia, Trump said he was  'very disappointed in Keir' and 'This is not Winston Churchill we're dealing with' and then came out with the bizarre statement that Keir offered to send both the Royal Navy's aircraft carriers to the Middle East but got the reply that 'That's OK, Prime Minister Starmer, we don't need them any longer - But we will remember. We don't need people that join Wars after we've already won!' 
The UK government denied it and went to the pain of pointing out that they wouldn't say that because one is in Dry Dock and the other is undergoing a major refit.
He then completely undermined his argument by saying that that Keir Starmer told him that he really didn't want to send any ships to help and said he thought that was terrible and very surprising and he was 'not happy' with the UK.
Then it was back to: 'Unfortunately Keir is no Winston Churchill' and returned to the story of the PM offering to send both Royal Navy aircraft carriers and that he had rejected the offer because 'We want things sent before the war, not after the war is won' which led Number 10 to again deny they made such an offer and patiently explained once again that they couldn't even if they wanted to, which they didn't.  Still obsessing over the ships we refused to send, the next insult was that the UK aircraft carriers aren't the best and are 'toys' and said that Keir Starmer was: 'A liberal and that's the way they think' so credit to Starmer who went on TV today to say that Donald Trump has been putting pressure on him in different ways to join the war but insisted that 'He won't buckle under pressure' nor 'Get dragged into the war' and vowed that he is 'Not going to waver on the issue of getting more involved in the Iran war' or make him abandon his principles or values.
Despite all the bluster, the Iran War is not going well for Trump and his war criminal pal in Tel Aviv and Trump's aides yesterday said that they only show him a 2 minute highlight reel of things being blown up in Iran so maybe he really does think it is going better than it actually is but with the Houthi's now joining in and threatening to bring a second crucial waterway to a standstill, it's not going to end anytime soon and Iran will enter the History Books along with Iraq and Afghanistan of Middle East Wars which left America running away with its tails between its legs.  

Special Guest Blogger: Nicholas Brendon

So, if you’re reading this, I’ve finally achieved the one thing Xander Harris never quite managed and successfully transitioned into the spiritual realm without a resurrection spell or a grumpy British librarian hovering over me with a crossbow.
So, where to begin? My origin story isn't exactly a comic book epic. There were no radioactive spiders, no alien parents, just... a lot of average kid stuff, mixed with an unhealthy amount of television and an even unhealthier dose of self-doubt due to a stutter.
Before I was the guy who didn't have any powers, I was the guy who wanted to throw a 95-mph fastball. That was the dream, Nicky Brendon, starting pitcher for the Dodgers. I had the arm, I had the heart, and I had the ability to look great in those tight white pants. But then my arm decided to retire before I did.
I got into acting not for some some deep, artistic epiphany about the human condition, the  truth was my stutter made every sentence feel like I was trying to navigate a minefield while wearing roller skates. It was bad. I’d get stuck on a B or an S and just… stay there. Forever.
I discovered that if I used someone else’s words in a script, the stutter vanished. Acting wasn't about fame, it was the only way I could say a complete sentence without sounding like a skipping CD.
So, I traded the pitcher’s mound for the soundstage. I traded a baseball for a wooden stake. It’s basically the same motion, just with more splinters.
Then came the late 90s. The glorious era of grunge, dial-up internet, and an undeniable craving for supernatural teen drama. And suddenly, there I was, a guy somehow auditioning for a show about a girl who slays vampires while navigating high school. The role? Xander Harris. The lovable, wisecracking, perpetually unlucky-in-love best friend. It was like they’d read my diary and then added 'fights demons' to make it more exciting.
And thus, my destiny was sealed. For seven glorious, monster-filled years, I got to be Xander Harris which was the greatest gig in the world, even if I did have to wear those Hawaiian shirts.
Playing Xander was a trip. The guy who, despite being surrounded by vampires, witches, and werewolves, still worried about his love life, his job, and whether his friends actually liked him or just tolerated him so I resonated with Xander as we both had a talent for self-sabotage, and an unwavering loyalty to our friends, even when they were trying to turn us into a rat.
The show blew up, and suddenly, I went to people wanting me to sign their foreheads even if i was  the only one in the Scooby Gang who could die from a papercut while everyone else was busy being immortal but I survived seven years of apocalypses, two different weddings (one involving a demon), and I only lost one eye. In the grand scheme of the Hellmouth, that’s a pretty solid win-loss record.
After Buffy ended, I quickly learned that the world really, really liked the idea of me as the quirky, sarcastic best friend even if i wanted to move on making a joke about someone’s terrible fashion sense after they’ve just been dismembered.
I've had some fantastic roles since Buffy, and some that were... let's just say they paid the rent but i really enjoyed the convention circuit! Where else can you meet someone dressed as Spike, lamenting the price of a signed photo, while I'm sharing a table with someone who once played a disgruntled Alien on a forgotten sci-fi show from 1986?
I loved seeing my old castmates there. It’s like a mini-reunion every time. We swap stories, mostly about how old we’re getting, how much coffee we need, and whether anyone remembers that one incredibly obscure episode where a demon made it we had to sing every line. It’s a reminder of the incredible thing we all created together, and it brings a smile to my face every time. Not just because of the nostalgia, but also because I usually get free snacks.
After Buffy things got dark but I’ve never claimed to be a saint. I’ve struggled with the darkness more than most slayers. I’ve had my ups and downs with depression and alcoholism. I’ve been the guy on the poster and the guy on the mugshot. But through all the rehabs, the mistakes, the arrests and the public apologies, you guys stayed even after that one night in LA when things got a little, shall we say, electric.
Getting tasered while you’re drunk is an experience I would give a zero-star rating on Yelp. 0/10. Do not recommend.
My most important fall was an actual fall for which i underwent spinal surgery after I suffered paralysis from the waist down and the spinal surgery to fix that caused a spinal cord puncture and a heart attack and a dignosis of a heart defect which caught up with me.
It turns out that kicking the bucket from natural causes is a lot less dramatic than being eaten by a Preacher-turned-God or losing an eye to a rogue preacher.
There was no dust, no fancy light shows, no Glory, the Mayor or the First Evil it felt like a bit of a plot hole for a guy who spent his twenties fighting the undead which in all honestly, felt like a bit of a letdown.

Special Guest Blogger: Trojan Prince Tithonus

You probably know me from the myth. If you’ve forgotten the details, allow me to give you the skinny. I’m the bloke who was granted immortality but, due to a rather significant clerical oversight on Mount Olympus, not the eternal youth to go with it. A classic case of not reading the fine print before signing on the cosmic dotted line. It’s the long and short of it. My life, the ultimate cautionary tale for anyone making a wish to a capricious deity. Always ask for the full spec sheet, that’s my advice.
It all started so promisingly. I was a handsome prince, Eos was the goddess of the dawn and we were madly in love, the whole nine yards. She couldn't bear the thought of me, a mere mortal, shuffling off this mortal coil. So, she went to Zeus. Now, Zeus was a busy god (lightning bolts, seducing swans, the usual) and I suspect he was dealing with a rather large divine paperwork backlog that day. He heard immortality for the boyfriend, scribbled it on a celestial post-it note, and bunged it in the Approved pile.
And so, my grand adventure began.
The first century was a hoot. The second was… fine. By the third, I was starting to notice a bit of a sag around the jowls. By the fifth, my hair had gone the colour of dusty cobwebs and my back made a noise like a trireme running aground whenever I stood up too quickly. Eos, bless her cotton socks, remained as radiant as ever. Every morning, she’d wake up, fresh as a daisy, ready to paint the skies. I’d wake up feeling like a crumpled, slightly damp parchment that had been left out in the rain.
You think getting old is tough? Try it for three thousand years. It’s not the dramatic sagas that get you. It’s the sheer, grinding, monolithic tedium of it all. I’ve seen fashions come back into style seven times. I’ve watched humans invent the wheel, then invent the self-driving car,  I’ve seen empires rise and fall, philosophies blossom and wither, and through it all, I’ve just been there. The world’s oldest and grumpiest man.
Achilles had his heel, Odysseus had his cunning journey, Me? I have a faulty warranty. I am a footnote. A cosmic blooper reel. When the bards tell my story, it’s not to inspire heroism, it’s to make people awkwardly shuffle their feet and say, Gosh, that’s a bit unfortunate, isn’t it.
Then came the final act. You can’t just keep withering forever, you know. Physics, even divine physics, has to kick in at some point. My body, having reached the absolute peak of decrepitude and one morning, I just… shrank. Went all papery and crackly. My limbs long and spindly, my voice no longer a wheeze but a buzz. I became a cicada.
So, the moral of my story is be careful what you wish for? Read the terms and conditions because one moment you’re the tragic figure who got a raw deal from the gods, the next you’re a happy little insect with a very simple to-do list. And to be honest, it’s a much better gig.