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.

Special Guest Blogger: Dick Cheney

People keep asking me if I have any regrets. Regrets? I had five heart attacks and a transplant and if my own cardiovascular system couldn't stop me, a few pesky historians certainly wouldn’t.
My political career was a wild ride. We toppled statues, we rearranged the middle of the world like a game of Tetris, and I managed to shoot a man in the face and get him to apologise to me. If that isn't the American Dream, I don’t know what is.
People often asked what it was like working with George W. Bush. I liked the man. Truly. He had the enthusiasm of a Golden Retriever and the attention span of a moth in a lantern shop. My job was simple, I was the guy who told him which way the wind was blowing, and then go out and buy a massive industrial fan to make sure the wind blew exactly where I wanted it to.
George liked things to be simple. I remember sitting in the Oval Office while he’d go on about bringing democracy to Iraq and I’d just nod, sip my lukewarm coffee, and think, George, you can’t even bring a consistent syntax to a prepared speech, but sure, let’s go with the democracy thing.
Now, let’s get to the elephant in the room, or rather, the missing WMDs in the desert. People say we lied to go to war. That’s such a grubby, pedestrian word. Journalists are so unimaginative. I prefer to think of it as proactive reality-shaping.
When we were looking at the intelligence, it was a bit like an abstract painting. Some people saw a smudge while I saw a nuclear centrifuge.
Sure, the aluminum tubes weren't for uranium. Sure, the yellowcake from Niger was basically a fan-fiction novel written on a cocktail napkin and Saddam was not mates with-Al-Qaeda but does that really matter in the grand scheme of things? We had a feeling and more importantly, we had a lot of Halliburton stock that wasn't going to increase in value if we just sat around the Rose Garden eating pretzels.
I remember watching the Shock and Awe campaign from my office. It was beautiful. It looked like the world’s most expensive Fourth of July display but did the Iraqi's greet us with sweets and flowers? Well, they threw things. Shoes mostly but the lack of gratitude from the Iraqi people was disappointing. We gave them the gift of total chaos and the opportunity to rebuild their entire society from scratch using nothing but grit and American-funded contractors who didn’t speak the language. If they couldn't make that work, that’s on them. I was a big picture guy.
When you’re the Vice President, you realize that laws are more like enthusiastic suggestions. Waterboarding? Please. If you can’t handle a little moisture in your lungs while we ask where the hidden trigger for the imaginary bomb is, maybe you shouldn’t be a terrorist. Or a suspected terrorist.
Or a perfectly innocent non white person.
We have to talk about the 2006 quail hunt. Poor Harry Whittington. There I was, just trying to enjoy a quiet afternoon of killing small birds, and Harry decides to jump right into my line of fire.
The media went nuts and made it sound like I did it on purpose. If I’d done it on purpose, Harry wouldn't have been able to give a televised apology to me afterwards for getting in the way of my gun.
I didn't even send him a "Get Well" card. I sent him a bill for the ammunition he wasted by stopping it with his cheek but that’s the kind of manners we’re losing in this country nowadays, today if you grazed a guy with a few pellets of 28-gauge lead and he sues you for emotional distress and starts a
GoFundMe.
I always knew people thought of me as some sort of cinematic antagonist part Darth Vader, part Ebenezer Scrooge, but with a better security clearance but I may not go down in history as the most likable guy, but I was never running for Prom Queen. They talk about the trillions of dollars spent and the million dead Iraqis and the loss of thousands of American soldiers but I find that kind of math boring.
The world is a messy place. Someone has to be the one to stand in the shadows and make the hard, incredibly profitable decisions that the simple folk can’t handle. While George was out there trying to find the right words to describe a crusade, I was in the back room making sure the oil kept flowing
and the defense contracts were signed in triplicate.
As for the Iraqi people? I hope they’ve enjoyed the last twenty years of… whatever that is over there. We did our part. We removed a dictator, we lost the receipts, and we left behind a lovely Mission Accomplished banner that George really, really liked.
I remember when that Vice movie came out with Christian Bale. My grandkids told me he gained forty pounds to play me. Forty pounds? For Pete’s sake, I’ve had heart attacks that burnt more calories than that. Bale did the sneer alright, I’ll give him that, but he lacked the quiet, simmering joy I get from reading a well-drafted oil lease agreement.
My heart had been giving me problems for years which surprised many as until then even I didn't think I had one, but until the end I spent my last days fly-fishing in Wyoming where the air was crisp, the kind of cold that reminds a man he’s alive which, given my medical history, was something I try to
acknowledge at least once an hour. The fish don't ask about weapons of mass destruction. They don't bring up the insurgency. They just bite the hook, much like the American public did in 2003. It’s peaceful.
I lived in the world as I wanted it to be. And if I had to lie, cheat, and shoot a lawyer to get there? Well, that’s just a Tuesday in my book.

Special Guest Blogger: Trojan Prince Ganymede

Alright, everyone, settle down, pour yourselves a nice tall glass of whatever you mortals are drinking these days. Nectar’s not really available for public consumption, sorry. You will just have to trust me that it is well worth the hype. And no, you can't just come up here. Safety regulations, you know. And
my employer is a bit particular about unexpected guests. Especially if they are likely to spill anything. Spilled nectar is a nightmare to get out of the carpet.
Anyway, you might have heard whispers of me and seen a statue or two, perhaps even marvelled at my being genetically blessed with a face that could launch a thousand ships, or in my case, a single very enthusiastic eagle.
I was just a simple shepherd boy, you see, back in the good old days in Troy. Life was good. Fields were green, sheep were fluffy and I spent a considerable amount of time distracting a particularly amorous king of the gods.
And that is where my adventures truly began. One minute, I’m contemplating the existential joy of shepherding and the next I’m soaring through the heavens, clutched in the talons of a rather magnificent, but utterly terrifying, eagle. It was quite the recruitment drive. No job application, no
interview, just a sudden, unsolicited relocation package that involved a lot of altitude and a distinct lack of safety harnesses. Turns out, that eagle was none other than Zeus, in one of his more avian disguises. He'd decided, rather unilaterally, that my face was simply too beautiful for my mortal coil. It needed to be enshrined amongst the gods, serving them at their eternal happy hour.
So, here I am. The universe’s most exclusive cupbearer. Imagine being the head waiter at an eternal, slightly dysfunctional family reunion where everyone has superpowers and a penchant for drama.
My job description was to pour nectar and look pretty while doing it and occasionally wiping up the dribbles of an over-enthusiastic Dionysus while preventing Hera from noticing Zeus’s latest dalliance with a particularly fetching cloud nymph.
Life on Olympus is an experience and as the ever present observer of all divine shenanigans i've seen it all from Zeus losing his temper and accidentally zapping his own sandals to Poseidon complaining endlessly about the lack of decent seafood options and I've been watching them for millennia, bless their little hearts because I see that they're basically powerful, immortal toddlers with a tendency to throw world-ending tantrums.
My adventures aren't exactly epic quests involving monsters and damsels in distress. My adventures are navigating a particularly crowded Olympian banquet without tripping and subtly refilling Zeus's goblet and avoiding eye contact when Hera walks by, and making sure the ambrosia never, ever runs out.
But amidst all the eternal drudgery, the endless pouring, and the constant need to remain impeccably groomed you know what else bears my name?
A moon and not just any moon but the largest moon of the planet Jupiter. As in, the Roman equivalent of Zeus.
One day, I'm polishing a goblet, minding my own business, and someone mentions it. 'Oh, by the way, Ganymede, they named one of Jupiter's big rocky bits after you.' My jaw nearly hit the floor. The planet named after my cosmic eagle-abductor, and its largest moon, a colossal sphere of ice and rock, is called Ganymede.
It’s overwhelming, utterly ridiculous, and frankly, a bit of a flex. I mean, most people get a park bench, maybe a commemorative plaque. I get a celestial body visible through telescopes, a gigantic chunk of the cosmos, silently orbiting, forever echoing my name.
Sometimes, when I have a quiet moment I look out from Olympus, past the clouds, past the stars, and imagine that immense, icy sphere. My moon. It's a bizarre sort of legacy for a shepherd boy who just wanted to tend his flock.
May my Moon shine brightly and forever reminding the universe that even the most lowly amongst us can end up with the most unexpected, and hilariously grand, of destinies. Just don't ask me to go visit it as the commute is a nightmare.

Special Guest Blogger: Lady Annabel Goldsmith

Usually, when people hear the name Annabel Goldsmith, they think of one of two things, either a nightclub with very expensive gin and very famous velvet curtains, or a family tree that looks more like a dense briar patch of politicians, journalists, and environmentalists. It’s a bit daunting, really. Most
people leave behind a nice set of silver spoons but I seem to have left behind a series of tabloid headlines and a daughter who was basically the Queen of Pakistan (in spirit, if not in law).
Let’s start with the nightclub, shall we? It is a peculiar thing to be a Legacy because your first husband, Mark Birley, decided to name a basement in Berkeley Square after you. For years, I was the only woman in London who could say she had a basement full of Duke’s sons and supermodels, and yet I
never had to pay for the plumbing.
People were always coming up to me and saying that they had had the most scandalous night at yours in 1974. I always smiled and nodded, despite the fact that in 1974 I was probably at home trying to convince a toddler that mashed carrots were not a projectile weapon.
My legacy, in that department, is essentially being the patron saint of the 2:00 AM hangover. It’s a noble calling, I suppose, but I’d like to think I’ve contributed a bit more to the world than just a venue for people to lose their dignity and their Chanel earrings.
My secret lover for over a decade and then second husband, Jimmy (Sir James Goldsmith, for those of you who weren't on the Christmas card list) was a man of gargantuan appetites and even larger opinions. I see him in all of my children. Zac is busy trying to save every tree in the northern hemisphere, Ben is rewilding everything that isn't nailed down and Jemima is out there being brilliant and making films and reminding everyone that the Goldsmith genes are remarkably resilient.
I spent a great deal of my life trying to save the tiger. I’ve always felt a certain kinship with tigers, they are striped, they are moody, and they prefer to spend their days lounging in the sun while someone else brings them snacks but that was me, perfectly imperfect, slightly chaotic, and always, always refusing to take the world as seriously as it takes itself so cheers, darlings and don't worry about the future because it's going to happen anyway, and usually without your permission. You might as well have another drink and enjoy it.

Special Guest Blogger: Ace Frehley

It was a wild ride from the Bronx kid who just wanted to make some noise, to Space Ace, the guy who looked like he was beamed down from a glittery, pyrotechnic spaceship. Who would've thought? My mum probably just thought I needed a haircut and a proper job. Little did she know, being a proper spaceman was the job.
We started Kiss, and man, what a concept. Four guys in makeup, platform boots that made me question the structural integrity of my ankles almost every night, and enough stage smoke to choke a brontosaurus. People always asked me did we ever take it seriously? and I always say, Seriously? We
were dressed like cartoon characters! We took the music seriously, and the show seriously. The rest was just glorious, loud, beautiful chaos.
I mean, imagine trying to nail a guitar solo while  knowing that at any moment, a rocket might shoot out of your guitar. Or that you might just trip over your own feet in those ten-inch heels. It built character, I tell ya. Or at least, it built a very strong sense of balance and an even stronger pain tolerance.
The smoking guitar. Ah, yes. My signature move. It started as a cool idea, right and then you try to make it happen and you’re backstage, messing with wiring, trying to rig up some kind of smoke bomb in the neck of your prized instrument. Half the time, it just fizzled. The other half, it worked too well,
and I thought I was going to lose an eyebrow. But when it went off just right, when that smoke came billowing out, and I hit that bend... pure magic. Or pure engineering failure that somehow looked cool. Either way, the crowd went wild.
I still remember the first time we tried it and i was told just hit this switch and a rocket shoots out the headstock. Sounds simple, right? It was, until the rocket decided to take an unscheduled detour towards the drum kit. Or the ceiling. Or, God forbid, the front row. We got better at aiming, eventually.
Mostly. My main goal was always to avoid hitting Peter Criss in the head. He was already a bit...temperamental.
I wasn't the most technically proficient guitarist. There were plenty of those guys, and they’re all fantastic. I don't need them to say I was the quiet, introspective artist. That wasn't me.
I want them to say, Ace Frehley? Man, that guy was cool. He rocked hard. He had killer riffs. He made you smile. And he looked like he was having the time of his life, even when he probably just wanted a nap.
The end came after I fell down a flight of stairs at home and severely injured my head which led to a fatal brain bleed but I want people to remember the pure, unadulterated joy of strapping on my guitar, plugging into a wall of Marshall amps and just letting loose. The way the crowd lights up when
you play that first chord.
Maybe they’ll remember the anthems, the solos but if it's the times I nearly blew up the stage, then I will take that.

Special Guest Blogger: Prunella Scales

I blame the Sunday supplements who used words like venerable, iconic and National Treasure when describing me. National Treasure is a particularly terrifying term, isn't it? It makes one sound like a dusty Ming vase kept behind velvet ropes in a drafty museum, or perhaps a slightly chipped gargoyle on the side of a cathedral.
I always said that i only became an actor to be people much more interesting than I am and would say things more intelligent than anything I can think of myself and i was cast in many comic roles  before my big break in 1975 when i was cast as a Hotel Managers wife.
To the world, I suppose, I am Sybil Fawlty. It’s a cross I bore with a certain amount of floral-printed pride. For decades, people have walked up to me in supermarkets, squinted at my face, and then shouted "BASIL!" at the top of their lungs into my ear. It is a testament to my vocal training that I haven’t reflexively slapped a stranger in the frozen pea aisle.
People seem to think I spent the 1970s trapped in a cupboard in Torquay, permanently holding a telephone and a cigarette, waiting for John Cleese to trip over a radiator.
Then, of course, there is my life with husband and fellow actor, Timothy West.
We have spent a significant portion of our golden years on canal boats, which is an interesting choice for two people who are supposedly venerable. If you want to test the foundations of a fifty-year marriage, I highly recommend steering a twenty-ton piece of iron through a hole the size of a needle’s
eye while your husband shouts instructions at you from the towpath.
There’s something remarkably grounding about a canal. You can’t be a Grand Dame of the Stage when you’re covered in duckweed and trying to fend off an aggressive swan with a wooden spoon.
Being an actor is a peculiar way to build a legacy. We spend our lives becoming other people, only to realize at the end that we’ve left bits of ourselves scattered all over the place. I left a bit of my heart in a rehearsal room in 1962, I left a bit of my sanity in the Fawlty Towers kitchen, I left my favorite pair of gloves in a dressing room in Birmingham and I’ve certainly left several layers of skin on various brambles along the Grand Union Canal.
Dementia claimed me but let it be remembered that Prunella Scales was a woman who was married to a very loud man, lived on a very slow boat, and occasionally shouted at a tall hotelier.

Special Guest Blogger: Norse Goddess Frigg

Is it just me, or is eternity getting a bit long?
I know, I know. I’m the Queen. I’m the All-Mother. I’m the one who knows everyone’s destiny but keeps her mouth shut because, frankly, spoilers are rude. But looking back over the last few millennia, I’ve started to wonder if I’m being remembered for the right things. Or if I’m even being remembered as me.
First of all, if I hear one more mortal confuse me with Freyja, I am going to lose my divine mind.
I get it. We’re both blonde-ish. We both like gold. We both have names that start with 'Fr' but Freyja has a chariot pulled by cats. Cats. Have you ever tried to get a cat to go where you want it to? It’s a logistical nightmare. I, on the other hand, run the most powerful realm in the nine worlds while my
husband is out hanging off trees and trading his eyes for a sip of water.
Freyja is the goddess of love, beauty, and... well, fun whereas I'm the goddess of marriage, wisdom, and keeping the household from burning down.
She’s the party girl and i’m the one who makes sure there’s a designated Valkyrie to fly everyone home. My legacy shouldn’t just be the sensible one. I have a sense of humor! I once tricked Odin into helping the wrong army just to prove a point. That’s top-tier wifely trolling right there.
My biggest claim to fame is Frigedæg, Freitag or Friday. It’s my day and what have you humans done with it?
You’ve turned it into a day where you stop doing your jobs at 2:00 PM, eat greasy appetizers at a chain restaurant, stay up late and drink in the pub but do you think you’re thanking me? No. You’re thanking the concept of not being at work.
I wanted Friday to be a day of sacred oaths and weaving the fabric of society. Instead, it’s the day people get too drunk on margaritas and text their exes. It’s a bit insulting, really. I’m the goddess of the home, and most of you spend Friday night trying to find any reason not to be at home.
If I had known my name would be synonymous with Casual Fridays I would have lobbied for Tuesday. Tyr doesn't do anything on Tuesdays anyway. He just sits around and sighs all the time.
Then there’s my husband, Odin. Want to know the secret to a marriage that lasts several thousand years? Separate bedrooms and a very high tolerance for ravens, Huginn and Muninn,  hanging around the rafters, eavesdropping on my conversations with the Valkyries.
His legacy is all wisdom, poetry and war whereas mine is being the woman who actually knew what was going on while he was off on a five-year quest.
Do you have any idea how hard it is to maintain a royal household when your husband keeps inviting every stray warrior who dies in battle to come live in your guest house? Valhalla is a nightmare for the plumbing.
Odin thinks he’s the master of secrets, but I’m the one who knows how to keep them. I know the fate of every soul, but I don’t go around shouting about it to look edgy. That’s the difference. He wants the glory and I just want the realm to stay in one piece while he’s out.
When it came ot my son, Baldur, I did what any mother would do. I went to every fire, every water, every iron, every stone, and every infectious disease and said, 'Hey, don't hurt my boy' and they all agreed! It was a masterpiece of administrative genius but I missed the mistletoe but in my
defense, when i realised i thought what’s that floppy little thing going to do?
Turns out, if you give a blind god a mistletoe arrow and let Loki whisper in his ear, it can do quite a lot.
People often depict me with a spinning wheel but i'm not making socks for the gods with it, i'm weaving the very fabric of reality and if I drop a stitch, a star goes out. If I change the tension, a kingdom falls. It’s a high-stakes job with zero vacation time. But does it get the same respect as Thor’s hammer?
No. Thor hits a giant with a mallet, and everyone writes a poem. I prevent the universe from unraveling at the seams, and people ask if I can hem their trousers.
If you want to celebrate me, you don’t need to sacrifice a goat or a virgin. Just enjoy your Friday. Drink something nice, stay home if you want to, and for the love of the Aesir, check your yard for mistletoe and try not to cause Ragnarok before Monday.

Special Guest Blogger: Charlie Kirk

If you had asked me five years ago if i would be a certified martyr of free speech, i would say that all i wanted was getting another shout-out from the 47th President himself.
Fast forward to today and instead of being surrounded by a wall of Trump memorabilia, a bookshelf crammed with The Bible and The Constitution, instead i got assassinated by a rogue coalition of globalists and deep-state operatives.
I literally went from from standing on a university lawn explaining how birth control medication screws up female brains while brandishing my Bible and a copy of The Constitution  to having a permanent spot on the front page of every left-leaning Twitter feed.
Before getting to the end which suddenly, quite dramatically, ends in a bullet to the neck, let’s rewind the tape and I was born in a small town and my first words were, 'Jesus loves the United States.' My dad taught me how to fix a car and how to spot a liberal from a mile away instilled in me three core values: faith, freedom, and the unshakeable belief that the CIA is spying on us.
From the moment I could hold a pen, I was scribbling arguments that the Founding Fathers would have wanted women to follow the biblical model in relationships and the Civil Rights movement was wrong.
I remember the first time I saw a Donald J. Trump rally on TV. It was 2015, and my mom was watching The Ellen Show. Suddenly, Trump appeared, his hair a glorious, golden comet of confidence. I turned the volume up, grabbed my first MAGA hat (hand-made, of course), and thought, That’s the man who will finally put God’s name on the front page of every newspaper.
From then on, my life became a series of I’m right, you're wrong moments whether it was debating the true meaning of the First Amendment or why shooting big holes in schoolchildren is a sacrifice worth making for our second amendment rights.
Between Sunday school, high school football, and endless re-watching of The Apprentice for educational purposes, I cultivated a love for two things, the truth (as told by my favorite President, Donald J. Trump) and a good, old-fashioned, 2nd-amendment rifle.
When I started my own think-tank , Turning Point USA , I figured, Why not give the world a place where free-thinking patriots can gather and discuss the true reason behind why the Government wants to replace all public drinking fountains with overpriced juice bars.
We hit every campus, set up booths with complimentary red MAGA hats and held talk-outs on topics like Why the Bible is the original manifesto (and why you should read it before any other textbook), how gun control is just a fancy term for the government’s way of making us all defenceless and how the mainstream media can’t tell you the truth but you can always trust a YouTube commentator.
And let me tell you, nothing felt better than seeing a freshman’s eyes widen when i patiently explained that the Covid distancing prohibitions was a plot against Christianity.
My growing fame earned me a place on the Top 10 Most Likely to Be Targeted By The Illuminati list but little did I know that list would become, quite literally, a prelude to my own assassination.
Picture this: I was invited to debate American gun laws at Utah Valley University. It’s a crisp September afternoon in 2025. The birds are singing and I’m wearing my favorite red baseball cap, a 'Jesus & Trump 2024' T-shirt, and a custom-made GOD LOVES YOU (even if you’re a tree hugging lefty) badge pinned to my lapel while the audience was a sea of bewildered liberal arts majors who probably thought Constitutional rights were a new indie band.
As I step onto the stage, five-foot-nine tower of unshakeable confidence, Bible in one hand, a copy of the Declaration of Independence in the other, and my trusty Make America Great Again cap perched on my head like a crown. I see the student crowd and I open my mouth to deliver the opening line, 'The right to bear arms is God-given, and if you think we shouldn’t have guns, you might as well be asking God to take away your Wi-Fi and I’m here to tell you why.'
The debate went as well as you’d expect when you throw a handful of biblical verses, a sprinkle of Trump’s most famous tweets, and a dash of the deep state is trying to take your guns into a room full of philosophy majors and then I heard a pop of a gunshot echoing across the quad.
The crowd erupted. Some students screamed, others started a chant that sounded suspiciously like “Maybe we should have less guns?” In that moment, my mind was a whirlwind of  'What the…?' mixed with when i said that some gun deaths every single is worth the cost to have the Second Amendment, I obviously meant the death of other people and not my own.
It was a divine moment, proof that God is sometimes too busy to be always watching over us but now that the dust has settled, I’ve taken some time to reflect on what this whole episode taught me and each blessed by Scripture and Trump’s tweets so to my supporters, keep fighting the good fight, keep waving those flags, keep quoting the Constitution, opposing gay marriage and most importantly stay vigilant and armed because although a faith-based approach to personal safety never hurt anyone in America, a bullet proof suit of armour sure helps.
In the name of Jesus, Donald J. Trump, and all the patriots who refuse to let the Libs ruin our day...Amen.
 

Special Guest Blogger: Georgio Armani

The name alone, it resonates, no? It whispers of impeccably tailored suits, the rustle of silk, the glorious, understated elegance. Mamma mia.
I remember, not so long ago in my youth, when my biggest problem was not burning the pasta. Yes, vero. My ambition, in my youth, was less about dressing the world’s elite and more about convincing my mother that a career in fashion wasn’t just an elaborate excuse to avoid becoming a doctor.
'Giorgio,' she'd sigh, waving a wooden spoon, 'A tailor? You want to spend your life with pins in your mouth?' but Mama, i would reply, i just want to make people feel beautiful! but that was part of being Italian, the passion, the drama, and the loud arguments over dinner that end with everyone hugging and eating more pasta.
My first foray into fashion wasn’t exactly a graceful ballet. More like a clumsy stumble into a fabric bin. I worked in a department store, La Rinascente. My job? Displaying window mannequins. I’d arrange them, pose them, give them little narratives in my head. This one, she’s off to the opera. This one, she’s just broken up with a terrible tenor. I’d spend hours, perfecting their stance, making sure their imaginary lives were as chic as possible.
I was learning. Learning how clothes spoke, how they moved, how they transformed.
Then came the suits. Ah, the suits. Everyone talks about the suits. The deconstructed jacket. The softness. The way it moved with the body, not against it. It wasn’t a revolution, per se, it was just common sense. Why should a man feel like he’s wearing a straitjacket when he could feel like he’s wearing a second skin?
And the fashion shows! Dio mio! The backstage chaos, the models tripping over imaginary obstacles, the last-minute panic when a zipper mysteriously vanishes.
The pressure to be Giorgio Armani was immense. People expect me to glide, to pontificate, to look as if I’ve just stepped out of one of my own ad campaigns. And most days, va bene, I do. But sometimes, sometimes all I want is to kick off my exquisitely crafted loafers, put on a comfortable, slightly worn tracksuit, and devour a truly enormous bowl of pasta al ragù. But no, the public expects the maestro. So, I adjust my collar, straighten my shoulders, and glide.
So will i be remembered for the thousands of suits that have graced red carpets, boardrooms, and even a few weddings where the groom wore Armani and looked better than the bride?
Will it be the perfumes that evoke sensuality and strength? The sunglasses that hide a multitude of sins and hangovers?
Will they remember my incessant battle against bad taste? Dio mio, the horrors I have witnessed! baseball caps, Polyester leisure suits, neon accessories, poorly fitting jeans that commit fashion crimes against humanity. I've spent my life whispering, no, shouting (elegantly, of course) that simplicity is sophistication. That less is more.
I may no longer be here to oversee impeccable behaviour but i still notice the fashion shows, tutting softly at a misplaced seam or a too-bright accessory so Ciao, for now and remember, always dress well. You never know who you’ll meet.

Special Guest Blogger: Greek God Ares

I know what you’re thinking. Ares, why are you here? Shouldn't you be out there inciting a riot or sharpening a spear with your teeth?
First of all, mind your own business. Second of all, being the God of War in a family of intellectuals is a nightmare. My father, Zeus, who, let’s be honest, spends 90% of his time turning into various farm animals to ruin someone’s marriage, once told me to my face that I was the most hateful of all the gods on Olympus.
The most hateful? Really, Dad? Have you met your wife? But no, I’m the problem because I like a little hullabaloo.
Growing up was tough. While Apollo was learning the lyre and Artemis was practicing her archery (from a safe distance, like a coward), I was out there getting my hands dirty. I don’t do strategy or long-term planning. I do war. The messy kind. The kind where you wake up in the morning, scream at the sun, and run toward the nearest Sharp Thing.
Two giants, Otus and Ephialtes, stuffed me into a bronze jar for thirteen months. It was a long time ago. It was cramped, it was dark, and I didn’t have a snack. If you think you could handle thirteen months in a jar without losing your edge, you try it. Artemis had to bail me out, which honestly, was more painful than the jar itself.
We have to talk about my sister, Athena.
If war had a Teacher’s Pet, it would be her. She’s the Goddess of Strategic War. Do you know what that means? It means she sits in a tent with a map and a juice box while I’m out there doing the actual work.
She’s beaten me a few times. Big deal. She uses wisdom and tactics which is just a fancy way of saying she cheats. In the Trojan War, she literally hid behind a cloud and helped Diomedes stab me in the stomach. A mortal! Stabbing a god! Do you know how much that hurts? Not the wound, the embarrassment.
I’m the god of the bloodlust, the roar, the adrenaline. She’s the goddess of did we bring enough supplies? Boring. If I wanted to think about logistics, I’d be the God of Middle Management. War isn't supposed to be a chess game, it's supposed to be a mosh pit with consequences.
Look around you. Everything you love is because of me. Civilizations? Built on the ruins of people I helped kick over. Technology? You wouldn't have the internet if you hadn’t first invented better ways to throw rocks at each other.
And yet, where is my statue? Where is the Ares Day parade? You’ve got Valentine’s Day for my girlfriend, Aphrodite (which, by the way, is a total commercial sham)but nothing for the guy who keeps the world spinning through pure, unadulterated conflict.
Now, let’s talk about the state of humanity today. Humans, what are you doing?
You guys are fighting wars with buttons. A guy in an air-conditioned room in Nevada presses a key, and a drone three thousand miles away drops a missile. Where’s the sport? Where’s the eye contact? Where’s the part where you get covered in the other guy’s sweat and gory bits? You’ve turned war into a spreadsheet. It’s pathetic. If you’re waging war while sitting in an ergonomic chair drinking a smoothie, you aren't a warrior. You’re a librarian with a grudge.
Back in my day, if you wanted to destroy a city, you had to roll up your sleeves and do it brick by brick. You really got to know the architecture. Now? You just drop a bomb and the whole thing is gone in a mushroom cloud. It’s lazy.
I’m not saying we need to go back to the Bronze Age but we need to put the passion back into conflict. Stop trying to justify everything, just admit you’re angry and admit you want to hit something! It’s much more honest.

Special Guest Blogger: John Prescott

I led my life believing that a proper breakfast involves a full English and a strong cup of tea but that was the kind of man I was, born  in a modest council house in Grantham, the kind of place where the smell of boiled potatoes was a constant and I entered the world with a yowl and a plan.
My dad was a miner, my mum a cleaner, and I grew up in a house with parents who thought moderation was a type of sandwich.
Fast forward to the early ’80s. I’d already been elected as a Labour Councillor and I’d decided it was time to actually do something with my knack for shouting at people.
I was elected MP for Kingston upon Hull East in 1970, a constituency whose residents taught me the value of hard work, humour and the unbridled joy of a properly cooked fish and chips.
I quickly learned that Parliament was a bit like a giant, stuffy pub where underneath the silk ties and polished shoes was a collective yearning for a decent pint and a decent argument.
My first real highlight came in 1997, when Labour won a landslide victory, and I was appointed Deputy Prime Minister (and Secretary of State for the Environment, Transport and the Regions). Suddenly I was the guy who was no more being the guy who yelled at the bus driver for taking the wrong route, now I could make the routes.
I introduced the Cycle-to-Work scheme, which, helped thousands of people cycle to work and it gave me a clear run in my Jag to the office.
Working alongside Tony Blair and Gordon Brown was like being in a band where everyone thinks they’re the lead vocalist. We managed to rewrite the party’s manifesto, bring the UK into the era of digital connectivity and on one rare Sunday, I found myself in a small Yorkshire pub, debating whether to support a proposal for a expansion of the port when a local farmer, visibly agitated, shouting at me and hurled a raw egg straight at my head and I responded with a calm smile, a measured nod, and a purposeful, punch to his face to underscore the seriousness of my point.
The incident made the front page of The Sun the next day under the headline, 'Rambo Smashes Egg-Throwing Nutjob!' but looking back, the episode taught me If you’re going to punch a protester, make sure you have a reason that can be turned into a catchy headline.
When you stand at a podium, you often wonder what will echo through the corridors of history. Will it be the policies you championed, the speeches you delivered or the scandals you survived? Sometimes it just involves an egg.

Special Guest Blogger: Greek God Hermes

Listen, I’m a man of brevity. I’m the god of the quick text, the short-range herald but I have notes. I have many, many notes.
First of all, let’s address the the wings on my feet. Being the Messenger of the Gods is not the glamorous gig the poets made it out to be. Homer really glossed over the chafing. Do you have any idea what kind of aerodynamic drag you get from a brimmed hat when you’re breaking the sound barrier? It’s a nightmare for the neck muscles.
And the sandals? Let’s talk about the Talaria. You think your fancy carbon-plated running shoes are high performance? Please. My footwear has a mind of its own. They don’t just cushion the impact but occasionally decide to chase a hawk mid-delivery because they think it’s a game. I’ve spend half of eternity trying to steer my own feet while Zeus screams at me to deliver a very important lightning bolt to some king in Phrygia who forgot to say bless you after a sneeze.
I’m basically the universe’s most overworked delivery driver, except I don’t get tips, and if I’m late, I get turned into a shrub.
Before we get to my main grievance, let’s talk about my resume. People see me and think, Oh, look at the cute guy with the wings, he’s like the ancient version of ther Royal Mail.
Excuse me? I am the God of Commerce. If you’ve ever bought something on sale, that was me. I’m the God of Travelers. If you’ve ever found a shortcut that saved you five minutes, you’re welcome. I’m the God of Language. If you’ve ever used a double entendre to make a colleague laugh, that’s my bread and butter.
I also invented the lyre out of a tortoise shell because I was bored at four hours old. Then I stole Apollo’s cows just to see if I could. I’m the patron of thieves, liars, and politicians (usually the same thing to be honest).
I have a legacy of speed, wit, and high-stakes negotiation. So why, in the name of my father’s lightning-scarred glutes, is my face, specifically my staff, plastered all over the American medical system?
It’s a lot of emotional labour which is why, when I finally get a break, I like to look down at Earth. And what do I see? I see my staff on your pharmacies. I see my wings on your health insurance cards.
America. We need to talk about the Caduceus.
You know the one. My beautiful staff. Two serpents entwined in a lovely symmetrical dance, topped with a majestic pair of wings. It screams elegance but it does not scream, I am a trained medical professional who knows how to remove an appendix.
Somehow, around the turn of the 20th century, the US Army Medical Corps looked at both and said, The one with two snakes and wings looks way cooler. Let’s go with that.
Guys. You picked the symbol of the God of Thieves and Merchants to represent your healthcare.
Do you realize how funny that is to us on Olympus? I’m literally the god who guides souls to the Underworld. That is my job. I meet you at the finish line and walk you to Hades. If I’m showing up at a hospital, it’s usually because someone is leaving.
When I’m not being misidentified by the Surgeon General, my life is a blur of high-speed errands. People think being a god is all ambrosia and harp music. No. It’s mostly logistics.
Zeus would tell me to tell Poseidon to stop making the earthquakes and I would zip down to the Mariana Trench and tell Poseidon who would send me back with a message to tell Zeus to stop letting his eagles poop on his dolphins.
Then there’s the Underworld shifts. Do you know how depressing it is to spend your Tuesday afternoon explaining to a ghost that, no, they can’t bring their emotional support peacock into the Elysian Fields and to leave it at the Styx and that happens more than you would think.

Special Guest Blogger: Ivan Pavlov

I never intended to be a psychologist. In my day, psychology was seen as a bunch of people sitting in velvet chairs talking about their dreams of flying sausages. I was a physiologist. I cared about the guts! The juices! The magnificent, sloshing machinery of the gastric system!
I spent years studying the digestive glands of dogs. I wanted to know how the stomach knows food is coming. I was the King of Saliva. I was the Sultan of Secretions. I had perfected the art of the gastric fistula which is a fancy way of saying I put a little window in a dog’s stomach so I could watch the soup happen in real-time or severing the dog's esophagus and created a hole in the neck, meaning food would fall out instead of reaching the stomach.
But then, the dogs started being difficult. In a perfect world, a dog should only salivate when you put a nice, juicy piece of dried meat on its tongue. That is basic biology. It’s honest. It’s predictable.
But my dogs, bless their furry, misguided hearts, started cheating. They began drooling the moment my laboratory assistants walked into the room. The assistants weren't food. (Well, maybe to a very hungry wolf, but not to my lab pups.) I realised that the dogs weren't reacting to the meat,  they were reacting to the white lab coats. I called this psychic secretion.
It sounds like something a Victorian medium would sell you for five rubles, but it was actually the birth of Classical Conditioning.
I realized these dogs had learned a association and as any obsessive compulsive Russian scientist will tell you, when you find a variable you didn't account for, you don't ignore it, you lock yourself in a cold room for thirty years and study it until everyone involved is slightly traumatized.
Everyone thinks I walked around like a frantic butler, ringing a dinner bell while shouting, 'Dinner is served, Comrade Fido!' but In reality, I used a variety of stimuli. I used metronomes. I used harmoniums. I used whistles. I even used electric shocks (look, it was the early 1900s).
The metronome was my favorite. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The dog hears the ticking, the dog gets the meat powder, the dog produces 4.5 milliliters of high-quality drool. It was beautiful. It was rhythmic. It was predictable and I was the conductor of a Glandular Orchestra.
Ironically I did win the Nobel Prize which should remind people I DIDN'T USE A BELL!
What I did in the early 20th Century has connections to you today. Look at you. You’re sitting there reading this. Maybe you’re on a bus, or at home on the sofa or pretending to work.
Suddenly, your phone goes Ding!
Your heart rate spikes. Your thumb twitches. A little squirt of dopamine hits your brain. You didn't choose to feel that way. You didn't sit down and think, 'Ah, the auditory frequency of a push notification indicates a 74% probability of social validation, therefore I shall feel excitement.'
No. You just did it.
You are conditioned. You are my greatest legacy. I did it with meat powder and metronomes but Silicon Valley does it with Ding and when your Pavlovian responses kick in every time you hear the New Email, text or notification, tip your hat to old Ivan, the man who turned drool into data.

Special Guest Blogger: Franz Beckenbauer

When I was a little boy in Munich, the only thing I could do better than kicking a leather ball around the backyard was pretend-playing the role of the referee complete with yellow cards, exaggerated whistles, and an occasional 'offside' shouted at my poor mother as she tried to serve us dinner.
Little did I know that those early theatrics would become the foundation for a career that spanned playing, coaching, chairmanship, and enough public appearances to make a Kardashian blush.
I was born a few months after the war had finally decided that enough was enough. My parents, both of whom survived the rubble of post-war Munich by playing Schach (chess) and occasionally smuggling small pieces of chocolate, gave me the name Franz.
At age six I discovered football as my father, a former amateur player for TSV 1860 München, noticed my enthusiasm and signed me up at the local club, SC 04 Schwabing. The first lesson was simple, Don’t trip over the ball. The second lesson was more philosophical: If you do trip, at least do it with style.
In 1964 I had just broken into the first team of Bayern Munich (then a modest club playing in the second division). My teammates started calling me Der Kaiser because of my elegant playing style and the way I liked to stand with my arms spread wide before a free kick, a pose that made me look like a monarch addressing his subjects.
The name stuck and it gave me a brand that even the most sophisticated marketing agencies in Berlin would have envied.
The first major trophy I lifted was the European Cup with Bayern in 1972, after beating the mighty Ajax 2-0. I remember the moment the ball hit the net and it felt like the entire continent had paused for a collective Wooo-hoo!
If you think the Kaiser sounds like a fancy nickname, you’re missing the point as I captained West Germany to their first World Cup win in 1974. It was an extraordinary tournament and we defeated the Netherlands, the team famed for Total Football, in the final, 2-1. The match turned into a tactical chess game, which I, being a chess aficionado, enjoyed immensely.
A particular moment that still makes me grin happens when I think of the famous 1974 Final photograph, where I’m running with the ball in my arms, Gerd Müller trailing behind, and the crowd cheering as if we had just handed them free Saurkraut. I later discovered that the photo was used for a promotional campaign for a brand of German mustard.
In 1976, West Germany reached the European Championship final, only to lose to Czechoslovakia on a penalty shoot-out.
Twice named European Footballer of the Year, I appeared 103 times for West Germany, playing in three FIFA World Cups and two European Championships and I ended my playign career in the North American Soccer League with the New York Cosmos, playing alongside Pelé.  with the Cosmos for four seasons up to 1980, and the team won the Soccer Bowl on three occasions (1977, 1978, 1980).
Fast forward to 2006, when Germany played host to the World Cup.
I was the team president by then and, as you might guess, I was also the official face of the “Football for All” campaign.
However, a political scandal from that time involving a political donation (a small sum of 6.7 million euros) erupted in 2016 caused the media to spin a tale that I had been bribing the German Football Association. In true German fashion, the press called it Der Skandal however, the trial was suspended due to the Covic pandemic and closed in 2020 without a verdict because the statute of limitations expired. Thank you International Pandemic!
If you read any modern football textbook, you’ll see a chapter titled The Art of the Sweeper-Libero. That’s me, in a nutshell. I reinvented the role of a defender who both defends and launches attacks, turning a simple hacking the ball clear job into a creative masterpiece.

Special Guest Blogger: Gene Hackman

I grew up in a tiny town in San Bernardino, California. My father owned a printing press, which explains why I can still read a newspaper without a tablet (though I had to squint). My mother, a devoutly religious woman, wanted me to become a minister. I told her I could preach something else, the art of lying convincingly for a living. She didn’t have a choice.
My first break came when I stumbled into a community theater in San Diego, pretending to audition for a place-holder role. The director liked my gruff voice and gave me a part as a convict who never spoke. That’s how I discovered that silence could be more powerful than a thousand screaming monologues and it also saved me from having to memorize a lot of lines early on.
From there, I bounced around TV shows such as The Mod Squad and Ironside until a chance meeting with a producer who’d seen my French Connection performance and which led to a lifelong partnership with every major studio that could afford my demanding schedule.
Winning an Oscar in ’71 for The French Connection was like finding a parking spot right in front of a crowded theater which was an unexpected delight that made the whole night feel worth it.
In 2003, after finishing Behind Enemy Lines, I announced I was retiring. The industry asked Why and I answered, because I’ve seen enough explosions, car chases, and bad coffee on set to last me a lifetime.
The truth was my brain was already taking short-term memory loss personally and a few months later, I received the diagnosis that I’d been pretending to ignore for years - Alzheimer’s disease.
My mind began to misplace not just names and dates, but entire scenes—I’d forget whether I was playing a cop or a villain, whether I’d ever met a director named “Scorsese,” or whether I had actually been an actor at all. I started to act my own life, improvising for an audience that was increasingly invisible.
Retirement, however, didn’t mean I vanished completely but I was humbled by the fact that people still watched The French Connection and Unforgiven and that my name appears on lists of greatest male actors of the 20th century.
My wife passed away in early 2025 and losing her felt like the world had turned the lights down a notch and then flicked the switch off as  by now I was just a grumpy old man in a rocking chair, sipping black coffee, and muttering, 'What was I supposed to be doing again?'
Without my wife and sole carer laying dead in one part of the house and me with a brain that was by now telling me i was a Unicorn, a week later i was also found dead.

Special Guest Blogger: Sven-Goran Eriksson

If you’ve ever asked yourself the existential question, What if I were a football manager who was also highly sexed and a bit pervy? then congratulations, you’ve just invented my alter-ego.
I’m a man whose résumé reads like a mixtape of triumphs and embarrassments. I’ve managed clubs whose fans chant my name louder than a 3-minute pop chorus, I’ve coached a national side whose hopes were as fragile as a fresh-made crumpet, and I’ve flirted with the press in a way that would make a Bond villain blush.
I grew up in the tiny town of Torsby, where the most exciting thing on a Saturday night was watching the local band Lärkarna rehearse. My footballing education began in the back garden, where I spent more time perfecting my header than my homework.
I got my first professional contract with IFK Göteborg in 1975. I remember stepping onto the grass and thinking this is it, I’m finally moving from the backyard to the big league but I was more of a bench-warmer than a bench-sweeper, but hey, you’ve got to start somewhere.
My debut was a spectacularly timed sprain that left me limping off the field like a toddler trying to avoid a puddle.
As a player I was no great shakes but fast forward a decade, and I find myself in the sun-drenched stadiums of Italy, first as an assistant at S.P.A.L., then as head coach of Lazio. This is where my reputation for being a bit pervy really began to bloom, in the purely tactical sense.
I won the Serie A title in 1999-2000 with Lazio playing attractive football, we were disciplined, and I managed to keep my beard tidy while shouting tactical instructions in both Swedish and Italian and from that to the England Experiment when the English FA, desperate for a fresh voice, hired me as their national team manager.
The press loved it: 'Sven the Swede, the man who could bring order to our football chaos' however, I was about to discover the true meaning of order in a country that treats tea and weather as religious rites.
Euro 2004 and we reached the quarter-finals, beating the likes of France and Portugal and I still get goosebumps remembering the stadium roar after the final penalty. It was the first time in nearly three decades that England had truly competed on a European stage.
I’d switch formations mid-game like a DJ changing tracks at a rave. 4-4-2? Nah, let’s go 3-5-2. Oh look, a set-piece! Let’s do a short-corner!” The players loved it, the commentators loved it, the pundits loved it… calling me 'the Swedish Sir Alex'.
Then came the infamous Sex Scandal. Yes, the affair with Ulrika Johnson, a Swedish model and former weathergirl. It started innocently enough with a coffee in Stockholm, a whispered joke about sweating more than the players after 90-minutes and then… well, you know how the story goes.
The tabloids dubbed me the most highly sexed manager since… well, ever.
I’ll admit, the press loved it. The headlines read: 'Eriksson’s Off-side Affair.' I was on the front pages of The Sun, The Daily Mail, L’Équipe (in French), Bild (in German) and every interview becomes a potential episode of Debbie Does Dallas meets Match of the Day.
After being let go by the Football Association I tried my hand at a few other ventures which never involved a national anthem and became a football ambassador and returned to Lazio as a technical director.
Finally, I settled into my favourite post-career pastime of regaling audiences with tales of that one time we almost beat Argentina but if I had to sum up my contribution to football in a single sentence, it would be  play the ball well, keep your tactics fluid and never underestimate the power of a well-timed wink at a blonde weathergirl.

Special Guest Blogger: Jason

Listen, everyone talks about the Hero’s Journey like it’s this soul-enriching, transformative experience. They make it sound like a gap year in Bali, but with more bronze swords and fewer sourdough starters.
Let me set the record straight, being a Greek hero is 10% divine favor and 90% trying not to get incinerated while your crew of legendary ego-maniacs argues about who gets the most legroom on a boat.
I’m Jason. You might know me from such hits as the Quest for the Golden Fleece and that all started because my Uncle Pelias was a jerk. I showed up in Iolcus wearing one sandal (long story, involved a disguised Hera and a very muddy riverbank)and instead of saying, Welcome home, nephew, Pelias said, You look like a guy who wants to go to the edge of the known world to steal a magical sheepskin from a king who hates everyone.
So, I did what any rational youth would do and pulled together the Argonauts. We’re talking Heracles,  Orpheus and the Boreads twins and after dodging harpies and Clashing Rocks that tried to turn the Argo into a giant toothpick, we finally arrived in Colchis. The King, Aeetes, was... let’s call him difficult.
I told him I wanted the Golden Fleece to reclaim my kingdom. He told me I could have it, provided I completed a few light chores.
These chores were not mow the lawn or take out the bins but included plowing a field with two metallic Fire-Breathing Bulls which are just like regular bulls but these could turn your face into a charcoal briquette but thankfully Aeetes daughter, Medea, gave me some magic ointment that would stop me from melting.
Then sowing Dragon’s Teeth which almost immediately grew into a crop of fully-armored, extremely grumpy warriors, the Spartoi, who were so damned grumpy they fought amongst themselves and completely eliminated each other and after the bulls and the harvest of warriors, i had to defeat a dragon that never slept who was guarding the fleece.
I drew my sword, ready to do something brave and probably fatal but  Medea, bless her, pulled out some magical herbs and sang a little song. The dragon’s eyes started to droop. Ten seconds later, the Eternal Guardian was snoring so loud it was shaking the pine trees.
I grabbed the Fleece and ran for the Argo and rowed like our lives depended on it. Which they did.
So, Was It Worth It? The thing about being a hero is that it doesn't really have a happily ever after button because when we got back i hooked up with a princess called Creusa which my ex girlfriend Medea never took very well and presented to Creusa a cursed dress as a wedding gift that stuck to her body and burned her to death as soon as she put it on and killed her father and our two sons and I died when the rotting hull of the Argo fell on me when I was sleeping so if a woman helps you defeat fire-breathing bulls and a dragon, maybe don't try to leave her for a younger woman, that doesn't end well for anyone.

Special Guest Blogger: Jimmy Carter

When a man in a small town in Georgia says he is going to run for president most people assume he’s either a bold optimist or a prankster. When I announced my candidacy back in 1976, the peanut growers in Plains could barely contain their excitement because a lot of us thought that campaign trail might finally involve a good stretch of blacktop for hauling our harvests to market. Little did I know that the trail I would eventually walk would be a bit messier than any dirt road.
If you ask any kid in the 1970s what a president does, they probably picture a man in a suit, a stovepipe hat, and a silver tongue but in January 1977, while the nation was still wrestling with the aftershocks of Vietnam and the energy crisis, I was sneaking a few bags of peanuts into the West Wing. I’d packed them in a briefcase, hidden beneath a stack of Energy Policy memos, and whispered to the Secret Service that if the world blows up, at least we’ll have a snack.
The Iran hostage crisis left a sour taste in my mouth that no amount of roasted peanuts could remedy. Sixteen Americans held captive for 444 days but in 2002 the Nobel Committee decided that a former president who had never started a war deserved recognition.
When I left office, one of the ideas I carried home was simple, a nation’s power isn’t measured by the size of its military arsenal and I  spent my post-presidential years traveling to places that most presidents would consider off-limits, North Korea, Cuba, the Middle East but I have to mention the elephant, or the orange, in the room.
I’ve never been one for naming and shaming I prefer gentle persuasion, soft-spoken reason, and a steady hand on the plow but when a president turns the presidency into a nation’s version of The Jerry Springer Show, I can't stay quiet.
When I first saw Trump’s campaign rally (a sea of red hats and a man with a hairdo that seemed to have been designed by a wind tunnel), I thought this is a man who sales himself as a sack of peanuts that’s golden, buttery, hand-roasted only to discover that they’re actually raw, unsalted, and have been sitting in a warehouse for three years.
You might think that life after presiding over the free world would be a perpetual carnival of speeches, memoirs, and endless applause but in truth the fact that I never added Bomb Maker to Peanut Farmer on my resume is my highlight and the way i treated my Presidency like a Peanut Harvert, I sowed ideas, watered them with dialogue and weeded out the misinformation, and eventually reaped the results whether they’re sweet or a little salty.

Special Guest Blogger: Wayne Osmond

If you’ve ever heard a teenage boy in the 1970s belt out One Bad Apple while wearing a jumpsuit that could double as a parachute, you probably already know me.
If you’ve never heard a teenage boy in the 1970s belt out One Bad Apple while wearing a jumpsuit that could double as a parachute, you’re about to get an exclusive, behind-the-curtain look at the wild ride that was my life.
I was a singer, a brother and the unofficial family spokesman of a family who grew up in Ogden, Utah, the fourth-oldest of nine kids. Our house sounded like a choir rehearsal that had been left on repeat for 24/7.
The bathroom was our first studio. The tiles reflected my voice back at me with the enthusiasm of a supportive audience (or a cheap echo chamber, depending on how you look at it). I remember my first performance which was  a rendition of He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands that left my mother clutching the sink for dear life. She later told me that if a baby had been born that day with that voice, it would have been put up for adoption. I take that as a compliment.
Fast forward to eighth grade and I had discovered the power of a good hair flip and in 1970, I was 15, still figuring out how to tie a tie and me and three of my brothers (Alan, Merrill, and Jay) began singing as a barbershop quartet when our family signed with MGM Records as a white version of the Jackson 5. Suddenly, we were the answer to every parent’s prayer for wholesome entertainment. We were on TV, on tour, and on every family’s ‘70s mixtape.
It’s hard to separate family from business when you’re the Osmonds. We’re basically the musical equivalent of a Swiss Army knife where there’s a tool for everything, but you sometimes end up cutting yourself on the fork.
After the family’s massive commercial in the early 1970s performing a variety of pop genres as teen idols, we transitioned into rock music for several albums and then we split and while some of my brothers went into putting out country music but I decided it was time to step out of the shadow of the Osmond brand and into my own. I recorded Wayne Osmond in 2002, a collection of songs that ranged from heartfelt ballads to a surprisingly catchy disco-rock number called Disco Inferno.
The album didn’t top the Billboard charts but it gave me a chance to sing my own songs, and not have to coordinate choreography with eight other family members but in  1997 it all came to a screeching halt when I was diagnosed with a brain tumor which was successfully treated at the expense of my hearing, leaving me deaf.
I may not have been able to hear it properly but I still played the guitar until 2012 when stroke took away that away and then another fatal one in 2025 which took away everything.