A friend once remarked that I tend to use the phrase “I’m not the kind of person who…” when I start to argue why I am not very interested in, or a big fan of, a given subject only to follow that with examples of just the opposite.

In practice this works like this: I’d say “I am not the kind of person who likes horror films” and when you ask me which films I’ve enjoyed recently, I’ll follow up by sharing three of my favourite films last year were Nosferatu, Sinners and Frankenstein.

I am also the kind of person who believes personal taste shouldn’t dictate our choices because good stories happen across all genres, even the ones we’re not the kind of person who is usually interested in them.

Which leads me to science fiction and Ryan Gosling and more specifically to the modern classic in the making that is Project Hail Mary, the screen adaptation of Andy Weir’s best selling novel of the same name and which Gosling carries on his shoulders with effortless interstellar charm, vulnerability and a very rewarding payoff.

It’s hard to talk about a film I want to encourage more people to see without spoiling it but I’ll do my best to make my argument on why you should all see Project Hail Mary without revealing too much and why only Ryan Gosling could do the job in a career-defining performance that may finally see him win a Best Actor Oscar.

If I am honest with you Project Hail Mary had all the ingredients for me to pass on it both as a book and a film adaptation because, you see, I am not the kind of person who is into science fiction, especially heavy on science as it’s the case of Weir’s novel, and particularly when it is set in space and includes aliens. I prefer my stories to be a bit more grounded in reality.

Although considering that in the span of two weeks I have seen Project Hail Mary five times and read Weir’s novel, the credibility of this statement went out of the window after I typed ‘reality.’ I’ve made my peace with my contradictions because we all contain multitudes of them.

The one thing that Project Hail Mary did have that I am a big fan of is Ryan Gosling and in him I trust to lead me to great stories despite any reserves I may have because he’s proven time and again he can deliver great performances even in the most unlikely of roles.

And yet in the summer of 2023 I had no idea whatsoever what Ryan Gosling had been in and I definitely couldn’t understand all the hype around him because, despite not having seen any of his films, I am the kind of person who never lets her ignorance get in the way of her arrogance.

I had heard about The Notebook but I had never been curious enough to watch it because it seemed rather soppy and I am not the kind of person who enjoys those types of films1. I had also heard of La La Land, but at the time it came out I was not the kind of person who went to the cinema nor watched films everyone was obsessed about. I had also heard of Drive, which sounded rather intriguing and most crucially I didn’t have enough information about it to have any preconceived ideas, so this was my pick for my Ryan Gosling initiation.

To say Drive was a wild ride would be too easy of a pun so let’s say it did not disapoint and it shattered all my unjustified qualms about Gosling, the man and the actor, who punched me in the face with his undefeated coolness and impressive performance. Few people have the ability to be so magnetic saying so little and yet carry with such panache a film that relies as much on what’s not being said as it does on its visual aesthetics. To this day, I still think of the elevator fight scene, which was mind-blowing.

By the time the credits rolled, I had converted to the Ryan Gosling cult but I still struggled to see how this man, an actor who seemed so at ease in the realms of contained emotion and detachment, could play a doll no one gave a damn about. This role would certainly demand a very different set of acting skills. My curiosity had been sparked and since I am the kind of person who can’t rest until I have satisfied it, I booked my ticket for Barbie.

To make a long story short I couldn’t stop thinking about Gosling’s absolutely bedazzling rendition of Ken for days after watching the film for the first time2. Not many people can pull off a relatable self-acceptance journey as a plastic crotchless 70-year old doll and make you care about him. He proved his critics wrong and in the process showed everyone he was Kenough and secured a well deserved Oscar nomination by embracing so wholeheartedly a role that dangerously bordered the ridicule and could have ended the career of a less capable actor. And he did all that at the Oscars too, with a hell of a performance of that modern anthem that is I’m Just Ken, which also received an Oscar nomination for Best Original Song.

After Barbie, I caught up with on Gosling’s filmography quickly3 until one day I finally gathered the courage to see La La Land, which broke my heart in so many ways that I can’t think of that film without crying.

I still can’t believe Gosling didn’t win an Oscar for his portrayal of Sebastian, which was so full of everything that makes the heart flutter yet is so heart-wrenching in the end. It’s not easy to play an endearing cool loser that gets the girl with effortless charm and makes falling in love look as the most natural thing in the world. This is a very specific range that only Gosling can pull off successfully.

Despite it didn’t win Gosling an Oscar, La La Land marked a departure from his previous darker, more psychologically twisted roles, which the actor himself acknowledged was a conscious choice to shift his career towards more fun, luminous acting territory after he became a father.

Along with La La Land, one of the best films that belong to this more joyous Gosling era is the highly underrated The Nice Guys, a gem of a buddy comedy that sees a terrific Russell Crowe and Gosling in a 70s action comedy. Gosling plays Holland March, a recently widowed morose private investigator at a low in his career with a young daughter that isn’t very impressed by his devoted but incompetent father. The tone of the film allowed Gosling to show his physical comedy chops and excellent comic timing. While fans have asked for a sequel on account of the chemistry between Crowe and Gosling, he would remind everyone who is brave enough to advance such request that the movie tanked at the box office because Angry Birds was released at the same time.

Had I watched these two films instead of Drive to get educated on Gosling’s range, my reaction to his performance as Ken would have been much less of a delightful surprise and much more of a “Of course he would smash this role” as this was a natural progression of his new acting choices. Which is what Greta Gerwig must have thought because when Gosling received the script for Barbie it already had ‘Ryan Gosling Ken’ written on it.

It stands to reason then that when Andy Weir started writing Project Hail Mary he too had in mind Gosling as his Ryland Grace for a potential adaptation of his new sci-fi space novel. So much so that he gave his protagonist the same initials and sent a copy of the manuscript to Gosling before it was published to ask if he would be interested in bringing the story to the big screen. Considering the previous success of The Martian, and its humorous undertone, this was probably not too big of an ask as it aligned with Gosling’s new career path. In fact both Weir and Gosling are producers in this film and have been very involved in bringing the novel faifhfully to life.

Which is perhaps why the role of Ryland Grace feels like it is the crystalisation of all those acting choices Gosling started to make years ago, including Lars and the Real Girl, in which Gosling falls in love with a doll, or Half Nelson where he also played a teacher, albeit one with a crack addiction and for which Gosling received his first Best Actor Oscar nomination. Gosling has admitted in press interviews for Project Hail Mary that that his previous roles have been helpful to prepare for his character.

In Project Hail Mary he has distilled years of some of his best performances and fine-tuned them to perfection in a character that fits him like a glove. When you watch this film you can’t think of anyone else who would be able to play Ryland Grace with the same levels of credibility, emotional vulnerability, unassuming charm and comedic timing that are synonymous with Gosling’s acting trademark.

Sebastian, Holland March and most importantly Ken walked so Gosling could run wild towards a brave new acting ground. With these roles he proved he his extraordinary ability to take a character from cool loser to relatable unintentional hero in the span of two hours.

Which is of course why Gosling is the perfect actor to bring to life a former scientist with a PhD in Molecular Biology turned nerdy school teacher and who personifies the truism of how being very good at your job can actually ruin your life as Grace becomes humanity’s last hope to save the planet and in the process befriends a sentient alien that looks very much like a rock. Only someone who has brought to life an inanimate character that was regarded as an accessory at best, and succeeded in making him the real highlight of Barbie, understands what’s a stake with a plot and co-start like this.

Gosling’s Kenergy is stellar throughout the film, in particular when he finally embraces who he is and his purpose on space, accepts his alien friend into his life without judgement and shows him what a beach is, a very Ken-coded detail. Sebastian’s idealism and relentless belief in pursuing his dream distills into Grace’s commitment to fight for what he believes in and find a way to do what he enjoys the most. And like Holland March, Grace’s cowardice is finally transformed into practical heroism when he realises he has someone worth being brave for.

For Gosling fans it’s the universe aligning to give us at once a satisfying ending to La La Land, an unexpected sequel to The Nice Guys (sorry Russell Crowe but you have competition) and the best Ken spin-off we could have dreamed off.

Gosling not only keeps you interested in watching him talk to himself for a big part of the movie (he in fact spent 100 days filming on his own) as he figures out who he is and how he has ended up stranded in space, but more impressively he also succeeds in making you deeply invested in his unlikely yet wholesome bromance with an alien rock, a relationship full of exhilarating and multiple laugh-cry moments. Put this man next to a stone, have them look at a few stars and he’ll break your heart in ways you couldn’t even imagine. That’s a rare talent.

It’d be forgivable if you mistake the character of Ryland Grace for just Ryan Gosling being Ryan Gosling, which is perhaps rather ironically the ultimate praise one can give when acting feels this effortless. That’s when you realise someone has mastered their craft.

It is safe to say Project Hail Mary will mark yet another new era for Gosling, who in the span of less than three hours is catapulted from actor with extraordinary range to movie star status. After barely two weeks in cinemas Project Hail Mary has become Gosling’s best ranked film to date, which confirms the seismic shift this film is in Gosling’s career.

This was bound to happen sooner or later given the choices he’s made over the past 10 years and it has arrived at a time when he doesn’t need to prove himself to anyone, even less so as Project Hail Mary soars at the box office, where it became the highest-grossing non-franchise film in the US, surpassing Oppenheimer (that Kenergy is still holding strong after all these years).

Gosling’s space buddy comedy has even beaten Avatar: Fire and Ash, which had dominated the box office for the first three months of the year. For those of us who have a special place in our hearts for his SNL Papyrus sketch (one of Gosling’s finest performances if I may add) this feels like a personal (and very funny) vindication.

While we’re on the topic of the box office, Ryan Gosling recently surprised the audience at a New York screening of the film and stated that it’s not their job to save cinemas but his (and that of the industry at large) to make things worth coming out for.

After having watched Project Hail Mary five times (including on IMAX) I can confidently say this is the kind of film you want to go to the cinema for. It has a certain nostalgic quality that reminds me of films like Back to the Future, which seamlessly blended comedy, action, high stakes, and an overall satisfying viewing experience full of memorable scenes and lines and iconic soundtrack.

However, Project Hail Mary is much more than a film.

It is the film equivalent to the Oasis reunion (minus the piss pints) as it has brought back the magic of experiencing something for the first time in the company of strangers who are equally delighted to be there and reacting to it in real time, which amplifies your own experience and helps you build a core memory of it. It doesn’t reinvent the wheel but neither did Oasis with their tour and yet they delivered one of the best feel-good collective experiences we’ve witnessed since the arrival of social media and the ensuing fragmented way of enjoying culture in the XXI century.

The first time I saw this film was at a preview and that moment would remain etched in my memory as one of the most special experiences at a cinema. I had no idea of what to expect as I had only seen the trailer and read about 60 pages of Weir’s novel at that time so there was genuine curiosity and anticipation to finally find out what this film, which looked so different from what Gosling had done before, was all about. When I noticed the audience was as involved in the story as I was, and expressed their reactions as one, I felt an inexplicable sense of belonging that is hard to replicate at home.

I’ve now seen people laugh, cry, and laugh-cry (why choose when you can do both, right?) at every single screening and with each of their reactions, often not dissimilar to my own, I felt an invisible thread connecting me to the person who wiped a tear in the dark or the one who snorted after a joke that caught them by surprise.

I am not usually the kind of person who bets but I am confident Project Hail Mary will be showered with award nominations because it is what films that shaped us used to be made of. It carefully blends and successfully assembles the different parts that turn movies into instant modern classics.

A nomination for Best Adapted Screenplay is in the bag for Drew Goddard, who also adapted The Martian. At risk of offending fans of the novel (which I’ve also read) the film does a superb job of capturing the essence of the book, streamlining the copious amount of science in it to a level that makes the lay audience follow without getting lost or confused by making adjustments that make the story work on the screen much better than it does on the page.

I belong to the Denis Villeneuve school of thought and agree with him that cinema is a visual medium above all. Project Hail Mary has achieved the often challenging task of respecting a very detailed, science heavy source material while understanding the medium it was being adapted into and the concessions it has to make for the story to flow and convey a lot of ground visually.

Greig Fraser’s cinematography is absolutely stunning and he will receive a nomination for his excellent work on this film, which Fraser has described as his most challenging to date. It’s even more impressive when you learn no green or blue screens have been used for the film, which relies on the use of ingenious practical effects.

Another nomination that is on the bag is for the always excellent Sandra Hüller for Best Supporting Actress for her portrayal of Eva Stratt, who brings the gravitas that counterbalances Gosling’s character aloofness, imbues the film with a sense of urgency and ultimately delivers the plot twist that explains how Grace has arrived where he is and why.

It’s pretty safe to say that the film’s production design will receive multiple accolades for his outstanding work on the practical sets they created. I’m not sure in which award category James Ortiz -who did an outstanding job bringing Rocky to life- would fall but having a rock puppet outcharm Ryan Gosling is no small achievement4.

And it’d be a crime not to acknowledge the costume design team because there is some serious cosy knitwear game on this film, including a viral fox cardigan that has inspired Tom Daley to knit his own and gift it to Gosling. Further confirmation that we’re witnessing a modern classic in the making because why would you copy the way a character dresses on a film unless it is iconic? Or affordable, that is also a possibility. You won’t see me wearing anything out of The Devil Wears Prada but the kind of jumpers shown in Project Hail Mary’s are right up my styling street and budget.

I anticipate a plausible win for Daniel Pemberton for the excellent score he has composed. One of the things I love about Project Hail Mary is how it makes music instrumental (no pun intended) and very effective to convey emotion and tone throughout the story and sound acts as a link between two different realities and languages, as Pemberton has explained in an interview discussing his creative process. I’ve been listening to the score on repeat and Amaze Amaze Amaze is an instant favourite as it captures the uplifting and hopeful tone of the film so beautifully.

Both the original score by Pemberton and the songs that have been included in the soundtrack are an integral part of the story and each of them serves a specific purpose and evokes a particular emotion.

One of the best additions to the film is in fact an improvised karaoke scene5 where Hüller’s character delivers a moving rendition of Sign of the Times, which comes at a pivotal time in the plot and acts as a very effective device to show us a hidden side of Stratt’s personality and how underneath her diligent armour there is a person who fully grasps the extent of the sacrifices she’s asking everyone to make.

There is also a Maori girls choir that will have you fight off your tears when you hear it. Hopefully by the time the notes of Two of Us by The Beatles start playing you’ll be grinning ear to ear, tapping your feet and most likely shaking in a mix of laugh-cry that has already spread across the audience at the speed of the best covid strain in its heyday.

I am aware of and very excited about the incredible films and performances to look forward to this year, from The Odyssey to Dune Messiah. I am also sure Project Hail Mary will land a nomination for Best Picture and Best Direction for Phil Lord and Christopher Miller in their first non-animated feature regardless of the strong competition ahead. For those who felt the movie drags a bit be thankful it’s not the 3h 45 minutes first cut.

Last but never least Ryan Gosling better receive accolades left, right and centre for his interstellar performance. With the permission of Rocky (which can’t be nominated yet but it’s great to see more Eridian actors represented on screen), his endless reserves of charm, ability to make his character relatable no matter the circumstances you put him into, and ultimately his seamless and almost inevitable transformation from school teacher into a man you’d trust to watch you sleep and save not one but two planets while wearing goofy t-shirts, lopsided slutty little glasses and chunky sexy cardigans are what power this film into the stratosphere where modern classics live.

Besides, having Gosling as a lead in such a big budget film -that is full of hope rather than apocalyptic fear about the future- playing a character who is both emotionally vulnerable and openly affectionate, incredibly smart, capable of great bravery when the occasion demands it, selfless, curious about what he can learn from others and how they can work together despite their differences, and underneath it all is a bit of a goofball is such a great example of what real positive masculinity looks like in these crazy times.

If Project Hail Mary feels somewhat familiar yet fresh is because Gosling nails the classic 80s big blockbuster hero, offering a revised and updated version for XXI century audiences while managing to carve an almost intimate performance against such a mammoth of a story. His Ryland Grace is to Gen Z what Michael J. Fox in Back to the Future was for younger generations. Give this man his flowers and long overdue Oscar at once.

It’s perhaps fitting that Gosling finally receives a Best Actor Oscar in 2027, exactly 20 years after his first nomination for his role in Lars and the Real Girl in 2007 and 10 years after he was robbed for his role in La La Land in 2017. He also received a nomination for Best Supporting Actor for his role in Barbie but Gosling is Best Actor material and the Academy knows it. I’m positive Ken would never be jealous of Gosling for conquering the golden statuette in a leading man’s role he’s nailed thanks to the expansive wave of the Kenergy.

A Best Actor Oscar would be a nice way to send Gosling off to his upcoming movie star era as he will be soon treading into franchise territory with Star Wars: Starfighter (an original story within the Star Wars universe directed by Shawn Levy) and it’s been confirmed he’ll also be starring in The Daniels’ new film, which is rumored to be a sci-fi action comedy.

I am not the kind of person who makes assumptions but it seems Gosling may have found his sweet spot in roles and stories that allow him to show everything he’s capable of as an actor while bringing soul and credibility to the most unlikely of scenarios, and science fiction may prove to be a good vehicle for Gosling to do that in his new movie star era.

Who knows, maybe the next Ryan Gosling iteration is the soulful leading man that will convince studios that well-made, big budget films based on original ideas such as Project Hail Mary can be the solution to the franchise fatigue audiences have been bombarded with. The future of the industry can’t depend on Tom Cruise alone and Gosling’s immediate choices seem to align with his commitment to make movies people want to leave the house for.

Personally, I enjoy this version of Ryan Gosling immensely, not the movie star per se, but the savvy and talented actor/producer who is more intentional about the films he wants to make. Barbie, The Fall Guy and now Project Hail Mary are recent examples of how he’s picking projects and collaborators that feel exciting to him and align with his strengths as an actor and vision for the future. I wouldn’t mind if he also made an incursion every now and then into darker subjects and broodier characters, as he did in Blade Runner 2049, because he is just as excellent in them as he is in more lighthearted roles.

In the meantime, I look forward to seeing him in space again when the time comes. Watching Gosling discuss his interactions with beings from another planet has always put a smile on my face long before Project Hail Mary. I guess I am the kind of person who actually likes this particular combination of space science fiction and Ryan Gosling after all.

Abroad is an independent publication on culture, life in London, creativity, and being human in the age of artificial intelligence.

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It never stops to amuse me that the UK celebrates World Book Day on a random date, which happens to be this Thursday 5th March.

In Spain World Book Day takes place on 23rd April, a date that commemorates the death of both Cervantes and Shakespeare. It has literary gravitas, you see. Although to be fair, the fact that the UK has decided yet again to go its on way on this matter means I can celebrate my love for books on two different occasions1.

One thing you must know about me is that I’m the happiest when lost inside a book.

Whether is fiction, non-fiction, poetry, a play or a memoir, as long as I’m fully immersed in whatever I have between my hands, I will lose track of time and nothing will make me part from the book I’m holding and the world it has taken me to. My sister has often remarked and wondered at my ability to detach myself from the outside world when reading to the point I would forget to eat, drink, pee or go to sleep. This admittedly happens more often with novels, where I have always found it extremely easy to obliterate reality and disappear into their pages.

Having nothing to do but read has always been my goal in life. If money were no issue, I would gladly spend most of my waking hours in the company of books, oblivious to the outside world, whatever is left of it anyway. Along with writing, reading is the one activity that makes me reach a state of flow, where my mind is fully focused on the words in front of me and the only thing that matters is the fictional universe I am inhabiting, which for a brief moment in time feels as real as the one I am physically bound to.

I confess that as a child I thought, very naively I must add, that would be what adulthood would be like. A time to be finally free from the obligations of school and the expectations other adults had for me and where I could finally spend my time without anyone telling me what to do, where to be, when to leave, or telling me off for always having my nose stuck inside a book.

However, one the best well-kept secrets of adulthood is that once you start working you become a slave to money, and then you die. Richard Ashcroft had figured it all out long before I did. Capitalism and its exacting power over the individual leave little time for indulging in a bit old reading. There are exceptions of course.

You may get ill and be forced to stop working for a bit, in which case you may be able to have extra time for reading2. Which is what happened to me over Christmas as I caught a stomach virus followed by a rather stubborn cold, both of which required me to take it easy for a few weeks. Arguably, leaving the house only to buy food so I didn’t starve meant I suddenly had a few extra hours in the evenings and over the weekend which I could spend languishing at home.

Leaving aside envisaging the worst, what does one do with extra time, terrible weather outside and barely any energy to go beyond one’s front door? You’ve guessed it: Read. I could have easily fallen prey to Netflix in such debilitating circumstances, and it wasn’t for lack of trying3, but one of the ironies of modern life is to have the embarrassment of choice at your fingertips and yet nothing is enticing enough to lure you and your frazzled attention in.

As luck would have it, I was taken hostage by The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mister Hyde, which I hadn’t read before. I was pleased to discover Robert Louis Stevenson was just as good company as I remembered from the days of reading Treasure Island and The Black Arrow. A very suitable choice for my period of convalescence, too, as the darkness inside his novella matched perfectly the gloominess outside. Stevenson’s tale of moral degradation pushed me back to life. Reading life to be precise. It was so good indeed that it left me reaching for another novel almost immediately, which is the highest praise I can think of for a book. It not only satisfies your appetite while you’re reading it, but it makes you hungry for more and guides you towards the next thing you can sink your teeth into, metaphorically speaking.

The magic happened again and despite all my coughing and sneezing, and the odd temperature at night, I was immersed in my third book in a row. I can’t remember the last time I had felt so carefree and been able to abandon myself with such utter delight to books. Funny it had taken been sick to go back to reading and subconsciously I wished this momentary bliss could never end. And yet the convalescence set in motion an unstoppable chain reaction for once I recovered, I was desperately carving out time from my routine to get back to the pages of a book. I’ve turned into a book junkie craving one more chapter before I’m forced to return to the real world.

One of my finest hours indeed and yet an extremely rare occurrence in this age and time of short attention spans and screen entertainment. This relapse into reading, and feeling all the better for it, has reminded me of my teenage years, a time when I used to do nothing but read. It’s unbelievable how energised, focused, optimistic, wittier and smarter I felt as a result. Almost unstoppable one would say. Who would have thought it’d be books and not drugs to have such effect on me? Getting high on reading is definitely cheaper although the withdrawal symptoms are as devastating.

The summers of my teenage years are indeed some of my happiest reading memories. I started to appreciate the power of literature to ignite the imagination and help me envision a different path than the one my circumstances dictated. Being a native of La Mancha I’ve always felt like a modern day Don Quixote as books infected my brain with the thirst for adventure, and since real life was rather lacking in that department, I got my thrills from the fictional worlds books transported me to.

July was usually peak reading time as the school usually finished in late June and I didn’t start my summer job until August so I had a full 31 days to do absolutetely nothing but read. One year I managed to get through 20 books in that month alone. My mum would always say that my brain would melt from so much reading, as if the scorching summer heat, which had us covered in sweat from 9 am, couldn’t manage to do the job on its own.

Summer back home can only be compared to being slowly roasted inside a stone oven for the best part of four months. With temperatures easily reaching over 30 degrees in the evening, it was impossible to go to bed at a decent hour, which it was never before midnight anyway, so a book was usually my inseparable companion to get through the endless summer nights in La Mancha, which will have any Finnish sauna enthusiasts gasping for air after five minutes.

I’ve long thought whether spending the night following Sherlock Holmes around his investigations in foggy and rainy Victorian London, which helped me dissociate from my scorching surroundings, planted perhaps a seed in my subconscious that eventually led me to live in a place with terrible weather. A compensation of sorts for all those nights spent twisting and turning in bed fending off the merciless mosquitoes, which seemed to be the only living creature energized by the heat.

Associating the arrival of the burning summer with the freedom to read as much as I wanted for as long as I wanted, at least for a month where I had no other obligation than to make it through the day, or night, made the prospect of another four months of sweat and mosquito bites a bit more bearable. As the saying goes, what doesn’t kill you, equips you to stay sane during a heatwave.

On the rare occasions the temperature rises and we experience a glimpse of proper summer weather in London4, I wish I could go back to those never-ending sticky July nights where my only care in the world was to get lost into the pages of a book until the distant sound of a cock crowing marked the arrival of dawn.

So much has been said about how smartphones have isolated people into their own worlds -even when they’re in a room with others- and the many dangers social media and easy internet access pose in particular for children and teenagers, a reality captured in the excellent and highly recommended Adolescence.

However, no one has ever questioned what I or my sister were exposed to while quietly reading in bed. On a particularly unbearable sticky summer night, I reached for a book that from its external appearance seemed serious and boring enough to send me to sleep fast because it was too hot even for reading. Imagine my shock when it turned out to be a play about a son who killed his father and then slept with his mother without knowing who either of them were until it was too late, and when he eventually found out, he blinded himself out of guilt.

Needless to say my plan to go to sleep fast was out of the window by page 10. I had to read certain passages twice to make sure the heat wasn’t making me hallucinate what was happening. All I can say is that Oedipus Rex still haunts me. You never forget your first Greek tragedy, I suppose.

I wished more people around me growing up loved reading so I could have shared my puzzlement with them.

But the moment my mum saw me with a book she fired me her standard “your brains are going to melt” and carried on with whatever she was doing, relieved that I was at home with a book -if only she knew what people did to each other in those books- instead of playing out on the street far from her vigilant eye. Most friends from high school weren’t very keen on books either, which I blame on the school curriculum for imposing a ‘one size fits all’ compulsory reading model that put many of my classmates off from opening a book in years, if not forever.

So I was left alone to figure out what the actual fuck play writers in 429 BC were on about to decide that a play about incestuous relationships would be just what the noble people of Athens, the cradle of Western civilization, would go mad for. Maybe they too had to endured very long summers.

A few months later I took Greek and Latin at high school and learned that Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex was only the tip of the iceberg. If tragedies were shocking, Greek mythology was completely mental. That’s what happens when you have a bunch of entitled Gods with plenty of time to kill and no boundaries whatsoever. Zeus, for instance, would transform into the most outrageous things if that meant he could impregnate anything that breathed.

Did anyone check whether I was ok after reading Ovid’s Metamorphoses? Of course not because it was a book I had been told to read for class. At best people thought I was studying and ignored me, at worst they rolled their eyes like a Vegas slot machine gone feral and thought I must be dying of boredom. If only they knew that I was reading about a mythological man-whore who had decided to metamorphose into golden rain just to make Danae have his baby whether she wanted or not, I bet they would have reacted differently.

When people around you don’t like to read, or think it is boring, you get away with a lot in plain sight.

For the first time in my life I was relieved that La Mancha was such a dry region because that bloody Zeus -who goes by Jupiter in Ovid because the Romans copied stole every single story in Greek mythology and thought that if they changed the names no one would notice- was a hazard on a rainy day.

The only possible explanation to come to terms with the string of deranged characters and impossibly dramatic turn of events that are the bread and butter of classic Greek literature was, of course, that summers in Ancient Greece must have been really hot and long for writers to systematically come up stories that make Wuthering Heights a child’s play in comparison. It was their survival mechanism like reading was mine.

Either every writer was delirious as a result of too much nectar drinking and the extenuating heat and found solace in making up bat-shit crazy tales that outdid each other as a way to pass the time, or they thought in earnest that people would love to see a play about a spurned mother who decides the best way to take revenge on her husband is to kill her children. I’m sure Euripides was rather pleased with himself when he thought of that plot twist for Medea. When Sophocles saw it at the Amphitheatre he no doubt must have thought “Hold my nectar.”5

Examining the past through the lens of the present is always a mistake, but I can’t help but wonder how for the people of Athens ‘amphitheatre and chill’ meant spending the evening watching revenge-fueled narratives. Netflix shows may have received a lot of criticism for the Netflixplain effect, that is having characters repeat the plot every five minutes, but a Greek chorus served a similar function. “And now this character is also thinking of how to inflict a violent death to his brother” begged repeating every now and then in case anyone in the audience thought there was still hope.

It’s no wonder centuries later Freud too looked at the past to make his fortune. Any problems people came up to him with had surely been already discussed in a Greek play The traumas of his patients were probably nothing when confronted with the average arch development of most characters in a classic tragedy.

But excuse me, I digress.

I was telling you about how as a result of illness -and the analysis paralysis Netflix puts you in- I seem to have found my way back into reading with the same gleeful enthusiasm and ability to lose myself in a story I possessed when I was a teenager and books had me in a state of trance that blurred the lines between the pages and the real world.

I owe it to Robert Louis Stevenson - trust a Scotsman to get the job done is my motto from now on- and its classic tale of double personality. Reading Jekyll and Hyde has reminded me of the part of myself that finds immense pleasure in undisturbed reading, oblivious to the world and its demands on me, and which will happily ditch any social commitment to spend time with a good story but which I had suppressed and kept hidden under a veneer of sociability and professionalism once I started working and became a slave to the whims of capitalism (and everything it demands of you just for existing) instead of the written word.

Unfortunately in a city like London the possibility of being destitute is never equal to zero and you need both a job and people who can give you a hand in times of need, and as a result I am required to work and nurture relationships, both activities that are highly distracting and steal a lot of time I can’t dedicate to the one thing I’d rather be doing.

For all their merits, books can’t yet pay rent or bills, which is a disgrace, if you ask me. I can’t believe we are living in the most technologically advanced society and no one has yet solved this issue. Is this the future we truly want?

The bright side, of course, is that I’ve reconnected with my true essence and core identity, which is being a reader and a book lover, someone who can live a thousand lives among the pages of a good story and is energised by time spent in the company of words digested in silence without rush or agenda. Someone who, if money was no object, would do nothing but read. At home for sure but also outside at the park, or at the bookshop, perhaps at a local coffee shop if it’s not too noisy.

Although I may need to think twice my choice of place as well as book as apparently the noble art of reading, especially in public, is now seen as as a pose, a performative act that is more an aesthetic (the intention is to be seen reading a certain kind of book) than a simple act where the imagination takes charge and we are transported to other places and lives as the material world around us dissolves into ether.

Respectfully, Gen Z needs to stop making up shit.

Fifteen years ago, in a 45 minute flight from Palermo to Naples in a hot July afternoon, which gives sets the scene for the average passenger and their state of mind, my ex took out Diary of a Seducer by Søren Kierkegaard. Ten minutes into the flight he had fallen asleep, the book lying by his side face down. Performative reading has been around for a while. We just called it being a bit of a twat back then.

I believe I enjoy so much visiting Paris because people are unapologetic about reading in public anywhere they happen to be. And you can tell they’re really reading because they simply get on with it, whether is for 20 minutes during their lunch break at the park or seated at a terrace with un petit café or un verre, they relish that alone time with their book. It’s refreshing to see people of all ages choosing a book instead of a screen when their on their own.

I miss that time when you’d get on a tube carriage in London and everyone would be reading One Day at the same time. A single moment of communion among strangers before each has to go on their separate ways. The sight of a familiar book can connect us to those around us without the need to say a word. Besides, does no one in London know that Callum Turner and Dua Lipa clicked after they realized they were reading the same book?

In fact, I am intent on fighting back the lack of people seen reading in public and with the first glimpses of spring already showing in London, I shall endeavor to engage in a lot more reading outside the house, performative or not. Who am I to discriminate?

I shouldn’t be too difficult as I always carry a book with me and the only reason I don’t read more outside the comfort of my humble abode is because it’s impossible to find a place that is quiet and comfortable enough and doesn’t require you to spend money just to enjoy your book. Coffee shops, one of the obvious options to retreat with a book, are the most performative of settings, at least in my neighborhood. There is no way you can concentrate when someone around you is casually discussing their open marriage arrangements over a cinnamon bun. Some people probably think that holding a book in public makes you automatically deaf.

I wonder what the Ancient Greeks would have made of this very modern tragedy that is the demise of reading in public.

I wouldn’t rule out that Zeus himself is behind the rise of the performative reading trend. If there’s someone who would use books as props if that can in any way help him lure innocent women and impregnate them when they least expect it, it’s definitely him. Which anyone who has been transfixed by the many delightful and implausible scenarios of the Metamorphoses, not only carried them around for show, would agree with.

The next time you spot a man with a tote bag, organic oat milk coffee in hand and a copy of anything by Simone de Beauvoir on full display, I suggest you run in the opposite direction if you want to avoid growing a demigod from your thigh6. The exception to this rule is Jacob Elordi, who despite being the walking image for the above performative male definition does love reading indeed and is always keen to offer interesting book recommendations whenever he is given the opportunity.

If you must by all means be impregnated, choose at least someone who has great taste in books. Men, like trends, come and go but good writing and stories stay with you forever and can nurture you back to life.

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Book Challenge

Years ago I started writing down on a notebook the books I bought each month as well as the books I read, which extensive notes. This habit helped me fixed them in my memory and it’s no coincidence that I remember better books I read years ago than a few months back.

I have recovered that notebook, which contains a mix of book lists, reviews, and reading goals, all invariably unachieved. However, psychology tells us that the best way to set yourself for success is to share with people what you aim to achieve so you can be held accountable of your progress.7 Apparently so does having a goal, so to honour both World Book Day and the fact that the UK has declared 2026 The National Year of Reading, I’ve decided to set a little book challenge for the year ahead, more as an encouragement to keep on reading than as a hard target I have to hit. I’m not trying to surpass Jack Edwards and the 137 books he read last year. Reading, after all, should be a pleasure not a chore.

To make it easier on myself I have also established that one book can tick two different categories at once. This will encourage me to carry on when I face the unavoidable reading slumps that assail the modern day reader, which has more good intentions than actual time or focus.

Below are the books I will aim to read this year. Feel free to take the below as inspiration to set your own reading challenge.

My (performative) reading list for 2026

1. A book you own but you haven’t read

2. A book that was made into a movie

3. A book you picked solely because of the cover

4. A book by an author you’ve never read before

5. A book by an author you love

6. A book with a color in the title

7. A book set somewhere you’ve always wanted to visit

8. A book you started but never finished

9. A book with animals in it

10. A book with a female heroine

11. A book set in the summer or at sea

12. A book of poetry

13. A play

14. A comic book or graphic novel

15. A collection of essays

16. A memoir or biography

17. A book “everyone” but you has read

18. A book with a great first line

19. A book with pictures

20. A book from the decade you were born

21. A book based on a true story

22. A book that is more than 500 pages long

23. A book that can be read in a day

24. A banned book

25. A book with a number in the title

26. A gothic or horror classic

27. A romance classic

28. A Russian or French classic

29. A book about time travel

30. A book set on a different planet

31. A book mentioned in another book

32. The next book in a series you’ve started

33. A book about death or grief

34. A book about a villain or antihero

35. A book borrowed or that was given to you as a gift

36. A book with an ugly cover

37. A book that involves a bookstore

38. A book with an LGBTQ protagonist

39. A book about music

40. A book you love. Reread it

Abroad is an independent publication about London, living in between cultures, creativity, and being human in the age of artificial intelligence.

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2026 is delivering above expectations on the book to screen adaptations.

We’re only in February and we’ve had half the internet getting their knickers on a twist over Hamnet, Heated Rivalry and the first four episodes of season 4 of Bridgerton. The stakes have been significantly raised with the release of the much anticipated adaptation of Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë’s only novel, by Emerald Fennell, the posh woman in the cottage of British cinema.

Or if you really want to be pedantic “Wuthering Heights” because in case you have been lucky enough to miss the discourse, rivers of virtual ink have flowed debating whether this sui generis adaptation should be called at all like the novel it is very freely based on. Hence the inverted commas.

I personally believe people have a lot of free time in their hands if this is something they are losing sleep over.

As someone with a soft spot for book adaptations, after having just finished the novel and watched the film last weekend, I have no issue with how this particular adaptation departs from the original or the liberties it has taken with the story. After having being sorely disappointed in the past, I now treat screen adaptations independently from their source material and sleep better.

All adaptations -especially of classic novels that deal with intergenerational stories and complex social issues- do that to a certain extent as they need to condense hundreds of pages into a reasonable length film our frazzled attention spans can endure.

Each interpretation may help a new generation of readers to approach for the first time the original work that has inspired it and refresh the story, as it happened with the latest adaptation of The Count of Monte Cristo with Pierre Niney released in 2024, which can only be a good thing.

In fact, sales of Wuthering Heights have skyrocketed in the UK although I suspect they’ve been motivated by a desire to partake in the hot takes discourse judging from the amount of pieces that have appeared in record time dissecting every minutia of this film.

Having said all the above, I do struggle to envision how the messy pastiche that is Emerald Fennell’s final product, which looks like the output of a two-hander between a drunken Wes Anderson and a drugged Yorgos Lanthimos working under duress to bring to life a script written by a 14 year old who spends her days daydreaming about her crush and watching Kate Bush videos on MTV will inspire people to read Wuthering Heights.

However, I don’t want to presume my experience of this film has been the same as yours. The only thing I can say is that by all means go to the cinema and judge by yourself but proceed at your own risk. I have enough on my plate already trying to forget I’ve watched this film of my own free will.

If you are in search of a serious and in-depth analysis about this specific adaptation and the source material and the complexities that Fennell’s film doesn’t address, then I highly recommend reading this piece by

general observations on eggs

this is not an essay about Emerald Fennell's "Wuthering Heights"

The cover image for this piece is Cloud Inversion in the Hope Valley from Surprise View by Yorkshire landscape photographer Dave Parry and you can buy prints of it here…

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2 months ago · 731 likes · 60 comments · Heather Parry

If, on the other hand, you only want to see whether it’s possible to lead a normal life after the shambolic assault on your senses that watching Emerald Fennell’s adaptation is, then please stick around because I am going to put an end to the debate on whether Wuthering Heights is just one maximalist hallucination dressed as art too complex for us to understand or simply a terrible film deprived of any depth and no one wants to be the first to admit it.

Spoler alert: It’s neither, but people can’t see it because they’re looking at it from the wrong perspective. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

In order to fully understand the significance of the revelation I am about to make you need to bear in mind that Wuthering Heights, a story that happens in Yorkshire, of all places, has two Australian actors as leads. The link between these two corners of the earth is as thin and brittle as my trust in British train schedules.

My only observation on this is that if you cast Margot Robbie and Jacob Elordi, two of the most attractive people currently alive, to portray doomed lovers make sure they at least understand their job is to pretend they’re into each other in the film. I don’t want to get ahead of myself because even their lack of chemistry, as well as their being Australian, has a well founded raison d’être.

However, we don’t need any PR antics to manipulate us into believing there might be something between them when we know damn well Robbie is a producer in this movie (and she’s produced every Emerald Fennell film to date) and wants her money back. We can all understand that - it’s not our first Anyone But You PR rodeo.

When they’re not pushing the marketing machine, Robbie and Elordi are a delight to watch and radiate lovely siblings energy. Maybe that’s why I can’t see any romantic spark between them despite how easy they’re both on the eye.

And now it’s time for the big reveal that will blow your mind about Wuthering Heights and why it’s turned out the way it has: Margot Robbie used to live in Clapham and was a regular at Infernos.

I know, right?

I’m aware this mind-blowing revelation may only be appreciated in London so let me elaborate.

For those unfamiliar with London topography, Clapham is an area in South London (usually referred to as the wrong side of the river by those of us who live North) and known for two things: Its impressive concentration of Australian and New Zealand population and Infernos, where said populations can be found in the wild.

You’d be seriously mistaken to think that Infernos is just another club. Infernos is the club. A rite of passage that anyone who lives in London, regardless of their postcode, must visit at least once in their lifetime. It’s the layman’s night out Mecca. A Saturday night there is an experience that can either scar you for life or make you immune to anything you witness thereafter. As the saying goes, “What doesn’t kill you, makes you return to Infernos.” Heathcliff would have loved it there.

Such is its gravitational pull that the first time I ended up there I can’t even remember how it happened. One moment I was having a very quiet Christmas lunch with my old colleagues in a Portuguese restaurant in Stockwell and the next thing I knew my former boss was getting us our third round of tequila shots at Infernos and everyone was dancing. I got home at around 3 am, my phone had been long dead, and my ex boyfriend was about to call the police when I finally opened the door to our flat. He didn’t speak to me for three days. I still smile when I remember that night.

So when Margot Robbie recently talked about the reason she and her husband Tom Ackley (who at the time was her flatmate) lived in Clapham was to be close to Infernos, it reframed my viewing experience of Wuthering Heights and gave it a whole new meaning. Or to be precise a meaning. Any.

After this revelation it is obvious we’ve been looking at Emerald Fennell’s adaptation from the wrong angle. I too have believed the lie that this is her interpretation of the novel she read when she was 14 and which includes things she wished had happened but didn’t. Utter bollocks. Fake news. Complete rubbish.

People who are losing their minds over Fennell inserting herself into the story are wasting their precious time.

Wuthering Heights, the Emily Brontë novel, is the product of a woman’s imagination crafted during her nights in. Wuthering Heights, the Margot Robbie film, is the natural result of a woman’s lived experience during her nights out at Infernos, which in case you haven’t had the privilege of visiting is one of the best places where you can bring to life your own gothic dreams as you’re bound to experience a mix of horror, romance and melodrama intertwined with elements of the supernatural in a truly eerie and decaying setting. That carpeted dance floor has seen things we humans can’t even imagine.

Once you look at Fennell’s film through that lenses it makes complete sense why certain choices have been made. It’s all a throwback to Margot’s happy days in Clapham.

Nostalgia is a big driver in the entertainment industry and not only. Suffice as an example how everyone seems to have started 2026 reminiscing about 2016. And you know what Robbie was doing that year? Probably the same thing as me: Having a blast at Infernos.

The opening scene in Wuthering Heights where people get aroused at he sight of a hanged man? Isabella being transformed into a kinky submissive wife? Cathy sneakily enjoying a bit of self-pleasure in the moors? People putting their finger inside a fish? Light BDSM when you think no one is watching? I couldn’t make head or tail of any of it until I remembered Margot Robbie has surely seen worse on a random Tuesday night out at Infernos and this was just a collection of her treasured memories from that time.

Besides, if there is a place where the Cathys and Heathcliffs of this world gravitate towards each other effortlessly is a London night club, where they’re a dime a dozen. Whatever their toxic souls are made of, at Infernos they’re all the same. Plus they also communicate in Australian (and New Zealand) vernacular, their words coming out in a wandering accent when they approach their preys with the alcohol-fueled delusion that will make them see passion where there is mild annoyance at best.

Exactly what Robbie and Elordi have skillfully conveyed in their performances. The attention to detail, when you have this context in mind, is impressive.

In fact, the only way I could see any hint of attraction between Cathy and Heathcliff in the film would be with a few drinks myself that would distort my interpreation of reality, which is probably a clever way Margot Robbie has found to replicate those sweaty night outs when everything gets a bit blurry and she’s watched her share of fellow Aussies sloppily hooking up with people who’ve rather be in the comfort of their own bed (perhaps all the way back in Australia) than been tampered with by strangers in South London to the echoes of Riptide.

The critics who have complained Fennell’s Wuthering Heights is a two hour long videoclip aren’t completely wrong. This is Margot reliving the time of her life, dancing the night away, gothic Barbie style. What did you expect it would look like?

There’s a reason there is a red vynil floor in this movie: Muder on the Dancefloor, which I bet has unleashed hell at Infernos in more ways than one, needed to be referenced again. Why do you think that song is the end of Saltburn?

Even the tonal mismatch of this adaptation makes sense under this light.

The campy, Wes Anderson-inspired set pieces are probably a memory of a good night out without any morning-after regrets. They capture that natural high you feel when you’re in your 20s and you’ve just had the time of your life and wake up exhuberant and full of energy. Your head is not banging and your body isn’t aching despite you’ve slept 2 hours. They could also represent how you feel when you’re high on drugs, but let’s not always assume the only logical explanation and keep an open mind for a change.

The darker, Nosferatu-like scenes, are quite clearly the ghosts of the situationships past accrued in the pursuit of fun fueled by terrible judgment. The “I wish I could be anywhere but here” energy that Elordi and Robbie exude during their sex scenes feels so real because it’s what happens after you bring home someone you met at Infernos. The shame is yours to live with.

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When I think that the marketing around this adaptation has revolved around Fennell’s experience of reading the novel and that great love story she imagined (hence the inverted commas) I feel like a fool.

The reality has always been there for me to see but carefully disguised as Fennell’s vision.

Margot Robbie has produced all of Fennell’s previous movies through Lucky Chap, the company she and her husband created back in 2014 with Josey McNamara and Sophia Kerr. The four of them got drunk after the London premiere of The Wolf of Wall Street and as a result decided to share a house in the Clapham. Their production company materialised within those four walls and was a vehicle for Robbie to design her own work and support other women-led projects.

As the savvy businesswoman she is, she is not only producing but starring in what she knows. And what she knows -and everyone in her production company- is a good night out in Clapham.

Of course Margot was going to cast herself and ask Jacob Elordi, a man who by virtue of his nationality is premium Clapham and Infernos fodder, in a film she and her husband are producing about the time when they met and where -under the license of the inverted commas- she can go wild and relive her best London years in plain sight without anyone being any wiser about it.

Let them write hot takes and buy tickets, she must have thought watching the opening weekend figures as she and her husband laughed out loud during the scene where Nelly visits Wuthering Heights to take Isabella back home.

“Can’t believe Jessie started barking at the bouncer when he wanted to kick her out. And you said ‘But this is Infernos, you can’t kick us out’” “Oh yeah, that was fun.” “Remember when Chris got so drunk he said he wanted to paint his room the colour of her girlfriend’s tits? You’re a savage to have included that!”

Ah ah ah.

What a time to be young and alive!

How Margot, her husband and their flatmates, turned production company partners, must have enjoyed planting Easter eggs while everyone else is loosing sleep over the use of inverted commas or all the ways the film strays from the source material, when it is dead obvious this adaptation is nothing but a homage to Robbie’s Infernos weekends, when the horrors of life consisted on being haunted by the memory of another sloppy Aussie kisser in the morning or the lyrics of Riptide before going to bed.

Abroad is an independent publication about London, living in between cultures, creativity, and being human in the age of artificial intelligence.

PS: If you enjoyed this post, feel free to hit the little heart, share a comment, and share this post with others who may enjoy it as this will tell the algorithm it has to inflict my thoughts on a greater number of people, which has been a childhood dream of mine.

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Over the past few days Bad Bunny’s NUEVAYoL has been playing on repeat.

It has been my way to distract myself from the gloomy British climate, both political and real, not to speak of the latest revelations from the Epstein files, which by now include more characters than War & Peace and require their own dramatis personae chart to keep track of who’s who.

While Bad Bunny kept reminding me that I had to visit Nueva Yol in the summer if I wanted to have fun, I was also trying to make a dent on Wuthering Heights1 before Emerald Fennell’s adaptation hits screens this weekend, and carving out time -and sleeping very little as a result- to rewatch Heated Rivalry before my subscription to the platform it is on expires.

In case you have been hibernating and your internet access has been down for the past month, Heated Rivalry has become a global phenomenon in record time and a second season is already in the works.

Based on Rachel Reid’s Game Changers gay romance series about rival ice hockey players Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander, the story has been adapted for the screen by Jacob Tierney, who discovered Reid’s books during the pandemic and was instantly hooked. Some people have said Heated Rivalry is what Challengers would have been without Zendaya and I can’t say they're wrong.

Such has been the impact of Heated Rivalry that Episode 5 “I Believe in Anything” scored a 10/10 on IMDb, breaking the record of Breaking Bad held for over a decade as undisputed top-rated content from a tv show for its season 5 episode “Ozymandias.”

It’s almost impossible to open social media without seeing an interview with Hudson Williams and Connor Storrie (who look like younger versions of Keanu Rives and Patrick Swayze), the latest meme, parody or fan fiction. In fact, Saturday Night Live has brought to life, in a delightful tie-in, the wildest Harry Potter fans fantasies. It’ll be interesting to see the follow up to this when Connor Storrie hosts SNL at the end of the month, perhaps the freshest face to host a staple of US television.

As this past week we’ve been held hostage by hosting our annual staff conference at work, I’ve been trying to identify who among my colleagues across the globe may be equally bewitched, bottom and soul2, with this ice hockey romance as well because I can’t bear this obsession alone any longer.

Unfortunately, since I can’t go around asking colleagues if they’re also into a Canadian smutty gay show so we can fangirl the shit out of it together without landing in the turbulent hot waters of HR, which unfortunately does not stand for Heated Rivalry but Human Resources, I am afraid I have to feed on memes and live with the suspicion of my true nature until my next pop culture fixation takes over and unleashes a new identity crisis.

When you think about it, it is nothing short of miraculous that Heated Rivalry, a small budget Canadian gay sports romance, has managed to become a global hit that has been referenced by Zohran Mamdani, caused a spike in NHL ticket sales and inspired a professional ice hockey player to come out. In the time of monoculture it has united not only the LGBTQ+ audience and the female viewers but more surprisingly the straight men of the world. That was something only US shows and the Epstein files have managed until now.

But of course I forget there is another event that has restored the faith of the world in American culture this past week. I am talking about the excellent performance of Bad Bunny during the Super Bowl half-time show3, which was viewed by 129 million people live and which has received a record 4 billion views on social media after the first 24 hours.

To understand the historical relevance of this moment it’s important to bear in mind that Bad Bunny is the first US citizen -because Puerto Rico is a self-governing US territory- performing in Spanish at the this event. If we want to be strict, he is more American than the US First Lady but I give you their level of English is roughly the same.

If it’s taken so long for this to happen in a country where one in three people will speak Spanish by 2050 the explanation can be found in the pervasive linguistic imperialism at play in today’s world and which derives from the cultural and political influence of the US in the global stage in the XX century.

In the same way the West decided that being white, straight and male was everything anyone could ever dream of, linguistic imperialism established English, first through the British Empire and then through the rising influence of the US in global geopolitics after WWII, as the language everyone should aspire to mispronounce, whether they wanted or not. Because as Orwell would have said all language are equal but some are more equal than others. That is why no one ever expects English-speaking artists to make the effort of singing in any other language, regardless of whether we can understand them or not.

In fact, the common use of the word “American” to define anything that came from the United States, whether ideas or people, was never more widespread after WWII, with anything American considered inherently superior by default. The term was appropriated by the United States to signify its culture, citizens and even language exclusively instead of reflecting on the wider continent and its diversity.

In the current state of the world, however, calling yourself American may no longer be linked to the same positive associations it once did and an increasingly polarised world, where words are being weaponised to divide people, how you define yourself and in which language you do so matter.

The outrage that some manifested when Bad Bunny was announced as the performer for the halftime show, and which was based on the fact that he would perform in Spanish, a language spoken by a significant part of the US population, was a reflection of the damage that narrow cultural appropriation the term American has caused over the decades.

The failure of many English speaking US citizens to acknowledge that Spanish4 is a language spoken by many of their fellow US citizens and demanding they speak English and English alone goes on to show the workings of linguistic imperialism at its best and which is also exemplified in the running joke “What’s trashy if you’re poor but classy if you’re rich? Speaking a second language.”

Apparently even though Spanish is the second largest language in the word by number of native speakers after Mandarin, some US citizens don’t think it is as deserving of the global stage as English.

Attitudes like that remind us of how colonialism operates, where establishing the invaders’ language as the dominant one is the fastest way to devalue in first instance the local culture and ultimately erase it by depriving the natives from the tool that helps them understand its heritage and pass it on to future generations.

When you devalue and take people’s language and culture away from them you rob them of their identity and history, forcing them to adopt your own culture, language, values and history as their own. And when you can rewrite people’s history and past in that way you have a foolproof recipe for a yummy totalitarian regime.

Eventually those who have been robbed of their cultural heritage and past want to reconnect with it through the languages they were separated from and which they were forced to give up or abandon because they were sold the lie that that they had less value.

There is a reason why more people than ever are learning Welsh or are interested in the Irish language (in no small part thanks to Kneecap) and Gaelic, which along with Scots has been recently recognised as official languages of Scotland.

The choice of Bad Bunny to headlight the halftime show is the crystallisation of a new shift in the global paradigm, where the US no longer represents an ideal people feel inspired by and English is not the only language with the capacity to influence and shape culture globally, especially since social media has democratised access to a wider range of information and content that is more relatable to our personal experiences and cultural backgrounds.

This shift was apparent when Spotify revealed that Bad Bunny had been the most streamed artist of 2025, making this his fourth time since 2020. When Bad Bunny won the Grammy Award for Album of the Year for an album entirely in Spanish this was the confirmation of a cultural shift that had been slowly unfolding before our eyes.

When in 2023 Spanish Rosalía won 5 Latin Grammy’s for her album Motomami, including Album of the Year, music critics noted how the artist had been snubbed by the Recording Academy by not including the album in their general awards nominations and flagging the lack of musical appreciation beyond the English language.

Something has clearly changed in those three years that went beyond the quality of the music and reflects a deeper generational shift where a new generation of Latinos in the US who are no longer immigrants but US born citizens are challenging the status quo and driving a seismic cultural change.

One manifestation of that shift can be found in Saturday Night Live. The team has been fast to secure one of the stars of Heated Rivalry because they need to attract a new generation of viewers to remain culturally relevant. In fact, the arrival of Marcello Hernández, a member of this new Latino game-changer youth challenging the US cultural status quo, to the team of SNL has been a breath of fresh air in a very English-centric comedy show.

He has brought not only a humour infused with culturally acute observations from his vantage point as a US citizen with a Cuban and Dominican heritage but also the GenZ vernacular and their understanding that we should celebrate what makes us different. His skits on everyday aspects of the Latino community life in the US with household names such as Pedro Pascal and Bad Bunny have resulted in some of the show’s most iconic and viral moments.

With this context in mind, Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl halftime show in Spanish was perhaps a logical next step in US history and a successful lesson in cultural representation.

He has shown it is possible to include everyone in a significant moment while paying homage to your roots in your native language.

There are three moments worth highlighting from his performance which focus on being proud of one’s heritage and the positive difference that people can make when feeling included rather than excluded from the continent they are living in.

The first was Ricky Martin, a fellow Puerto Rico native, singing in Spanish “Lo que pasó a Hawaii” a song about the dangers of colonialism at a sports game that is quintessentially anchored in US culture. This must have felt like a long overdue vindication for him.

Because Ricky Martín is the artist that best simbolises the explosion of Latin pop music in the world and his international success, first in the Spanish-speaking world and later globally, opened doors to many other artists across Latin America, from Shakira and Juanes to Maná and later in the early 00s the first wave of reggaeton singers which paved the way for the global phenomenon of Luis Fonsi’s Despacito.

Latin American artists that wanted to make it in the US and English-speaking markets however had to sing in English and Ricky Martin was no exception. Adjust to us and erase any trace of being different or be ignored. The reverse, I can’t repeat this enough times, has not happened with (nor ever been expected from) English-speaking artists who have achieved widespread recognition and success beyond English-speaking countries.

Cast your mind back to 2020 when Shakira and Jennifer López did the halftime show to celebrate Latin culture in the US. While they put on a terrific show they sung in English. Again linguistic imperialism at work.

The second key moment of the evening arrived with Lady Gaga singing in English a salsa version of “Die With a Smile.” Unlike Ricky Martin when he wanted to make it in the US as an artist, Lady Gaga wasn’t asked to erase herself to be part of the Spanish Super Bowl party.

What this performance said was that while English demands of people that they stop sounding like themselves and erase their heritage and culture, Spanish accepts everyone just as they are without making a big deal of it. You want to sing in English? No problem, let’s give the song a Latin arrangement and you’re good to go.

And the third moment of the evening, and perhaps the most significant, was what Bad Bunny didn’t say.

Given the opportunity to design a show the world would be paying close attention to, especially after having stated his clear opposition to ICE when he won Album of the Year at the Grammys, there was a lot of expectation about whether he would make any political statements.

And he did although not in the way people expected.

In fact, he was extremely clever and used English, a language that is being used to separate and divide people in the US, and transformed it in a tool to bring people together across nationalities, political ideologies, race or even dance abilities. Of all the things Bad Bunny could have said, he decided his message should be one anyone could easily understand given the pervasiveness of English in the world.

Together, we are America.

A short and clear statement that reminded the world, lest we had forgotten, that being American is not only the privilege of the citizens of the United States but a shared identity for everyone in the continent from Punta del Fuego to Nova Scotia. Under that light it is possible to dismantle even one of the most ominous slogans in US political history ‘Make America Great Again’ and turn it against those who have use against people to separate and divide them by transforming it into a message that symbolises the power of union.

Because America -like the English language- should be a term that includes, rather than excludes, everyone under its umbrella and represents a continent whose true greatness relies on its extraordinary diversity. As a member of the Latino game changer youth in the US, Bad Bunny reminded us that culture is not something to be tolerated. It’s something to be celebrated.

Those who didn’t watch the Super Bowl outraged by the fact the music will be in Spanish missed out the opportunity of a having a great time. Bad Bunny chose to throw a party where everyone, regardless of language skills, was welcomed. He used his moment on the spotlight to send a message of love and unity, reinforced by the presence of a Puerto Rican sign language interpreter, proving that his show was truly intended for all to enjoy.

The impact of Bad Bunny’s performance has gone well beyond the US as he has made it to the UK charts and may have achieved the impossible: that British people think Spanish is now the world’s coolest language. Benidorm is crying with gratitude.

His performance has brought to mind a novel by Laurent Binet, Civilisations, a counter-narrative on the discovery of America and how events could have unfolded if instead of my ancestors colonising America, Atahualpa, the Inca emperor, had landed in Europe and taken control of Spain. It is a very clever and provocative look at how global power dynamics are sometimes the product of chance events that could have easily been different.

What if Spanish had been the global language of power and the US had never existed? Who would be complaining today about Bad Bunny’s performance if Spanish had been established as the hegemonic language?

While we don’t know what the world order would have been in that case, what we do know is that when citizens that have been at the receiving end of oppression and cultural erasure are given the opportunity to take the spotlight they often create opportunities that celebrate our differences and remind us of the things that unite us.

Take Canada, for instance, the big forgotten in the North America/Lating America, English vs Spanish, cultural divide in the continent.

The shoutout to Canada from Bad Bunny at the Super Bowl made its people very happy to the point that Canadians are now calling themselves snow Latinos. That’s one for the history books and I absolutely love how Canadians have embraced their inner sabor and are showing it to the world with pride.

In fact, we should be thankful to have Canadians as another example of what being American is and looks like, for they are keeping an eye on their neighbours in the south and holding them accountable while being themselves rather chilled people. And if there’s anything the world needs right now is chilled people.

Canada has been on the international spotlight quite a lot lately thanks to Justin Trudeau and Katy Perry’s high-flying romance, which seems straight out of a Richard Curtis script: A former Prime Minister who hits it off with a pop star/astronaut.

Heated Rivalry has proven Canada’s cultural output can be as significant as that from the US and definitely more interesting as it is less afraid of taking risks. I doubt this show would have been the same had it been made in the US, where certainly a lot more compromises would have been made in order to attract the biggest audience possible by making it as bland as the human intelligence can tolerate.

Besides, where else can you create a show that features ice hockey, a young version of Keanu Reeves in love with an arrogant Russian that is secretly a soft toy while fighting toxic masculinity? Only snow Latinos could have made that happen.

And let’s not forget Canada has also given us Ryan Gosling, the man who proved everyone wrong when he was cast as Ken in Greta Gerwig’s Barbie. He mbraced his Kenergy so proudly that he gave us the best Oscar performance in history. If any Canadian deserves to be the proud bearer of the snow Latino title is Gosling, whose marriage to Eva Longoria qualifies him instantly for the honour.

More importantly Canada’s current Prime Minister Mark Carney has reminded us that not all American political leaders are angry orange men.

Carney gave everyone a glimpse of hope during his speech at Davos last month, which the NY Times defined the most important foreign policy speech in years, where he called middle-power nations like Canada and European countries “to act together because if we’re not at the table, we’re on the menu,” and fight for democracy in a world where rules seem to no longer matter in the exercise of power.

His speech was a wake-up call for many attendees who may have already forgotten that Trump referred to Canada as the 51st State and threatened to join the country by economic force.

Like Bad Bunny and his native Puerto Rico, Mark Carney knows what it is to feel the overwhelming presence of the US at your doorstep and like Bad Bunny he chose his message carefully and avoided any mention of the US president during his Davos speech to make sure people focused on what really matters.

In doing so he offered a lesson on how a political leader can use the opportunity to speak at a global stage to send out a message that urges for collaboration and unity instead of fueling further fear and division in an already fragmented world where people look at anyone who is different as the enemy to fight instead of a neighbor they can rely on.

The integrity and pragmatism that transpire from his words are not only refreshing but arguably more powerful tools in the long run than tantrums and threats. He doesn’t need to slap any ‘Make Canada Great Again’ slogans anywhere for people to see this is the kind of American leader that has the power to inspire, something the US has been lacking for a while.

More importantly a straight white man in power who can stand up to the bullies in his speeches without even naming them, has a sense of humor and is a fan of Heated Rivalry, and proud that a Canadian show has inspired people over the world to stand against homophobia, is the kind of American we wouldn’t mind associating the word with.

I have no proof but also no doubt that since last Sunday Mark Carney has embraced the snow Latino energy and been listening to Bad Bunny’s music like the rest of us.

That a Canadian and a Puerto Rican have made the most for world peace in recent times than anyone from the US is hardly surprising. It’s people like them who can actually drive the necessary change that will make the world, not only America, great again. Perhaps with a little help from Heated Rivalry.

Abroad is an independent publication about London, living in between cultures, creativity, and being human in the age of artificial intelligence.

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Friday 16th January

Yes, I admit it. I have mid-January birthday privilege and I’m here to exploit it. That’s why, on this cold and sunless London morning I’m getting on a train to embark on what has become a tradition: celebrating my birthday with a trip.

My destination is none other than Edinburgh, a city that invented the term glow up when it went from being known as Auld Reekie to becoming the Athens of the North. To say that I have been looking forward to this journey with sky high levels of excitement would be quite the understatement. Right now I could defeat an army of dementors in my sleep.

While I may be in what you could call a marriage of convenience with London, Edinburgh is actually the first place I lived in the UK and you never forget a first love, nor stop idealising the life you could have had with it.

Back in 2008 I spent a month living with a really nice and welcoming young family during a summer job. Two things were obvious to me as soon as I arrived. The first one was that I couldn’t understand a word of what anyone said. The second was the incredible similarity between Scottish and Spanish character and how friendly and chatty everyone was. I felt right at home, except for the understanding what people said to me part.

During that month I also experienced every weather condition known to man (a good summer according to locals), I attended the hen party of the lady who was hosting me (it was an absolute blast!), and miraculously survived eating my first (and hope last because I doubt I’ll survive that ordeal again) haggis, which my work supervisor had taken great care in preparing when she invited me to her house for a farewell dinner.

By the time I took the plane back home I could still not understand much of what was being said to me but I realised I had fallen in love with Edinburgh, Scottish people, and their incomprehensible and wonderful accent. Who knows, maybe it wasn’t haggis after all what I ate! Anyway, I am happy to live with that doubt and in no rush to repeat the experience.

I returned to Edinburgh in 2018, for a glorious May bank holiday, where the city looked its absolute best, like an old flame that is excited to know you’re in town for a few days and makes a display of charm without reserve. While everyone kept reminding me it was rather unusual to have sunny dry skies for three days in a row -which I already knew- I couldn’t help but fell a bit deeper in love with the city and the way its people are and sound.

This time there is another reason I have been looking forward to this trip beyond taking back to London more good memories.

This third visit comes at a crucial time in which I’ve been forced to think about national identity and what it means to become a British citizen, something I had never been particularly interested in but which I may need to unwillingly embrace to enjoy the privilege of paying taxes here in peace.

My issue is not so much becoming a citizen of another country -I don’t think I’ll have so many reservations were a Scottish passport available, although I doubt Scottish people would have put me in this situation in first place- as much as becoming British, which is nothing but an extension and imposition of Englishness, the default and only acceptable setting for a certain group of people who as of late happen to be intent on kicking out of the country those who don’t adhere to this narrow definition and even narrower representation.

My predicament is actually not very different to the options Scotland faced when the Act of Union of 1707 was put on the table and the country had to choose between the pragmatism of becoming one with England and being part of a bigger commercial and trade union to recover from the Darien disaster in exchange of its independence, or the pride of keeping its own identity and governing bodies although with an uncertain economic future ahead of it. Eventually the union, while it removed autonomy and didn’t prevent a few attempts to restore the exiled Catholic branch of the Stuart monarchy, catapulted Scotland to the global arena, transforming the country into an economic, cultural and intellectual powerhouse in record time, while successfully keeping a distinct national identity.

Perhaps this trip can shed some light on how I could pull off an equally successful Act of Union without regretting it later or losing my sanity in the process.

Arrived at Waverley station, I head to my hotel and I discover with great joy that my room overlooks the Scott monument. Here is a monument built in homage to a man that put Scotland in the map again for the wide English public. The Scott monument is perhaps the world’s biggest monument ever erected to a writer, a concrete symbol and tangible reminder of the power of writers and the written word to shape reality and change perceptions for the better to bring people together.

While I’d love to sit in my room and do nothing but stare out of the window as the sun sets over the city, I need to unpack and change because as part of the birthday festivities, I’ve booked a whisky tasting this evening. Two hours later, I am seated next to a man from Brazil who is traveling across Scotland with his wife. She doesn’t like whisky, so he’s come on his own but they’re meeting later for dinner. He is also telling me they’ve just spent two weeks touring the Highlands.

“You’re very brave to go up there in January,” I say as I take a sip of my dram while he tells me about their trip and how much they’ve loved the quietness and the winter landscape.

“It was ok. We’ve been to Alaska before and spent 45 days there, so I guess we’re used to extreme cold by now.”

“What does one do 45 days in Alaska???”

“Ah, well, we’re YouTubers and our work is to create travel content,” he says with a smile as he proceeds to show me a picture on his phone of him and his wife in an all-white landscape in front of a tattered van. “We built this van ourselves, back in Brazil, and drove all the way up across America to Alaska. It was a dream come true,” he says with a twinkle in his eye and I can tell he’ll be reminiscing about that trip with his wife when they meet later for dinner.

We raise our drams and toast to the freedom of live on your own terms.

Didn’t Burns write something about whisky and freedom?

It’ll come back to me later.

Saturday 17th January

The celebratory exploits of yesterday (three whiskys and a bottle of hot sake over dinner) have miraculously not caused any serious damage.

For good measure I decide to order a substantial breakfast that can fight off any delayed hungover symptoms. Not having to prepare your own food, especially after a night of drinking, is one of the greatest luxuries in life. Having the newspaper delivered to your door is probably the other and thanks to mid-January birthday privilege I am able to enjoy both.

Although Edinburgh castle remains one of the few cultural sights still on my bucket list, today the weather is marvelous (this city enjoys teasing me) and it would be a waste of sun to spend the morning locked inside a walled up place designed to prevent attacks from the outside world. I can always enjoy that experience at my flat in London for free.

Instead, I decide to explore places I didn’t get to see properly in previous visits, such as The Writers’ Museum. One doesn’t come to a city that was appointed Unesco’s first City of Literature, which has a train station, a bridge, steps, and a market named after a novel, and the biggest monument ever dedicated to the writer who wrote said novel, without at least paying your respects to the Holy Trinity of Scottish letters: Walter Scott, Robert Burns, and Robert Louis Stevenson.

Out of the three, I am more familiar with Stevenson, having read Treasure Island and The Black Arrow in my late teens, and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde right before Christmas, which I found fascinating. I’ve brought with me in this trip a beautiful edition of a collection of his writings on Edinburgh because a bit of method reading never did anyone any harm.

As for national bard Robert Burns -a fellow January baby as per the unmissable reminders of the upcoming Burns’ Night celebrations on 25th January- I first learned about him and his significance for Scottish literature through the excellent Diary of a Bookseller by Shaun Bythell, although I felt a bit intimidated until now to explore his work. I’m determined to acquire a collection of his poems in this trip because I love buying books in a place that has a connection to them. Last time I was here I bought The Lost World by Arthur Conan Doyle, another famous Scottish writer, and it’s one of the best memories I have from that trip. So what better place than Edinburgh, whose literary salons made Burns a XVIII century pop idol, to finally get a copy of his famous verses? If a poet has an annual event dedicated to him that has carried on for 200 years there must be a good reason.

As for Scott, I must confess that I considered him a dated author and have read more about him than by him. Blame this on the fact that I didn’t get to study him properly (nor Burns or Stevenson for that matter), while doing my English degree1. I have now educated myself enough to appreciate Scott’s literary output had a tremendous impact not only on other European writers (would War & Peace exist as we know it without Waverley?) but also on shaping Scotland’s national and cultural identity.

With permission of Diana Gabaldon and her best-selling historical time-traveling romance Outlander set in the Highlands at the height of the Jacobite rising of 1745, few other people have done more than Walter Scott to engineer a successful marketing campaign to sell the world a highly romanticised version of Scotland that not even Queen Victoria could resist to fall for. If Scott lived today, he’d be an Instagram influencer pestering our algorithms with reels on “How to choose your clan tartan for summer” and “Best inns in Prestonpans for a victory dram.”

I’m not leaving this city without Waverly in my suitcase.

After a massive fish and chips that I fear may have single-handedly infringed fishing quotas, I make my way to the National Museum of Scotland where I go straight to the area with the Jacobite rising exhibits2. I head then to the sixth floor dedicated to contemporary Scotland from post-WWII to our days.

It’s here that I learn about the multi-award winning play Black Watch by Gregory Burke, the first work commissioned by the National Theatre of Scotland and which premiered at the Fringe in 2006 to rave reviews as it explored the question of national identity through a group of soldiers deployed in Iraq belonging to the elite infantry regiment of the Black Watch before it was incorporated into the Royal Scottish Regiment.

I make a mental note of the title to search for it at my next stop, which is another institution both in England and Scotland: Blackwell’s, Edinburgh’s oldest library. As luck has it, there’s a few copies of the play, which includes pictures of the original production as well as the revival of 2010 which features, low and behold, a babyfaced Jack Lowden and Richard Rankin before they became household names.

I also make sure to get a collection of Robert Burns’ poems. Surely Scots can’t be more incomprehensible than reading Shakespeare. Besides, now that Scotts and Gaelic have been recognised as official languages of Scotland, it’s seems the perfect time to tackle Burns’s work.

Talking about Shakespeare, time to head back to the hotel as I’m going to see Hamnet at the hotel’s cinema.

Being in bed within 15 minutes of watching a film on a cinema and not having to leave the building you are in has unlocked a level of privilege I didn’t know existed. And all because the powers that be decided I should be born at a time when everyone is too broke or too miserable to go anywhere other than bed (which I assume is nowhere near a home cinema), so I am the unexpected beneficiary of the deals hotels throw out in desperation to catch someone in their net during dead season.

Sunday 18th January

After another delicious breakfast that I don’t have to cook and reading a newspaper I don’t have to buy, today I’m off to a laywoman’s place of worship: the National Galleries of Scotland.

The last time I was here I remained mesmerised by John Signet Sargent’s portrait of Lady Agnew of Lochnaw. For some strange reason, a few months after returning to London, perhaps as a result of all the sudden changes that took place in my life, my mind decided that this painting had magically relocated overnight to Tate Britain and created an alternative reality in which I had seen it there for the first time. It took a few visits to finally shake off that misconception and put Lady Agnes back at her rightful place of residence.

This time I’ve come to see a very specific painting. Blame it on The Crown season 3 and its Balmoral Industrial complex for my presence in front of it but there is no turning back now. If Outlander and The Crown have taught me anything is that if there is a propaganda I am more than willing to fall for it’s an idealised Highlands lifestyle, with its Baronial style castles, dashing Jacobite rebels, and elusive red deers roaming free against dramatic landscapes. Not to mention Tobias Menzies serving stellar performances as both a sadist English Captain Jack Randall in XVIII Scotland3 and the best Prince Philip ever. Actually, seasons 3 and 4 have the strongest overall cast and storylines it shows.

All this to explain why I am admiring a majestic royal stag that has been used in anything from biscuits to whisky with the same fervor others reserve for religious images. The Monarch of the Glen, no less, by Sir Edwin Landseer, a painting that the National Galleries of Scotland could finally acquired in 2016 thanks to the support of the public. An unmistakable symbol of this country that I am certain even my fickle memory would resist to place anywhere else than here, where it belongs.

After a dose of art, the girl about town is in desperate need of treats, which is my cue to hit Stockbridge’s market first and the many charity shops in the area next. I am already salivating at the potential book findings.

As I take in the atmosphere and vibe of this side of the city I remark that it looks very similar to Kentish Town if Kentish Town were cleaner, people dressed better and the high street were less run down overall. Which probably means that Stockbridge is actually more like Hampstead if Hampstead were a bit edgier, the people were less posh, and the high street wasn’t full of overpriced French fashion brands and overpriced everything in general. While this may not be very useful unless you’re familiar with those areas already, the important thing is that Stockbridge is the bricks and mortar manifestation of my heart’s desires and in the same way Lady Agnes and the Monarch of the Glen at belong to the National Gallery of Scotland, I belong here.

I venture inside the Oxfam bookshop and in the self to the left of the door a pristine copy of The Outrun by Amy Liptrot catches my attention. I watched the film adaptation with Saoirse Ronan (produced by Jack Lowden) when it came out last year and it was beautiful. I take the book, open it and I find a receipt inside. Bought in July 2024 in Orkney. Someone else shares my method reading/book buying approach.

I interpret this as a sign and head to the counter. I ask for a receipt so I can put it inside when I’m finished reading it. That way, when I take it to the charity shop in London, someone will have an extra piece to imagine the journey this book and the people who have read it may have embarked on.

Monday 19th January

No hint of blue Monday this side of the border, quite the opposite in fact. It’s a glorious crisp and sunny day, perfect to head all the way up to Calton Hill and observe Edinburgh from the top.

An extraordinary effort considering the early hour and the frosty temperature that I reward with a visit to a place that I’ve been dreaming of visiting since I knew I’d be coming back to this city: Topping & Company.

Is this bookshop my idea of a dream home? You can say that. Rooms after rooms filled to brim with books, with a few scattered tables near the windows for cosy reading. And those ladders are pure class. I leave with a nice edition of Catriona by Robert Louis Stevenson and to my delight with another volume by Conan Doyle featuring more adventures of Professor Challenger. While I am a massive Sherlock Holmes fan, after reading The Lost World I became quite fond of the obnoxious know-it-all Challenger and I wish Conan Doyle had written at least one story in which him and Holmes met. The explosive character of Professor Challenger would have put Sherlock Holmes’ composure to the test and that would have been quite fun to read.

En route to the National Portrait Gallery to admire a few portraits of Bonnie Prince Charlie (a man born and raised in Italy who had barely set foot in Scotland and yet somewhow managed to raise a small army to reclaim the crown of England is the epitome of the British imperial mindset and for that alone he deserved victory), I walk past a statue of Sherlock Holmes. Very fitting, dear Watson.

Actually, it is a statue in honour of Arthur Conan Doyle representing his most famous and enduring creation. I’m not sure how he would’ve taken this homage considering Conand Doyle had to reluctantly bring back to life Holmes after killing him in order to be free to explore other genres, such as sci-fiction.

For me, on the other hand, Sherlock Holmes is a beloved character who will be forever associated with my earliest and fondest memories of reading and being completely absorbed in and enthralled by a story. I first encountered him at the age of 8, maybe 9, in The Hound of the Baskervilles, a book I’ve read five times in three different languages and which is probably responsible for planting in my infant mind the idea that one could embark in very exciting adventures when living elsewhere, even if in this particular case that meant narrowly escaping being fatally mauled by a massive hound while running across Dartmoor.

Could perhaps the dog phobia I developed around that time be tracked back to this book? Elementary, my dear Watson.

Tuesday 20th January

For my last day I order pancakes with streaky bacon and maple syrup, which are pure scrumptious perfection. I do not think I am mentally ready to go back to having avocado on toast after this.

The newspaper informs me that King Charles was at Holyrood Palace yesterday, hosting a roundtable with Scotland’s First Minister John Swinney and a group of Scottish businesses to celebrate innovation. More interestingly, attendees discussed their concerns about the impact of further US tariffs on Scottish goods such as salmon, textiles and of course whisky, which would force many distilleries to scale back production even more -and putting jobs at risk- following the existing 10% tariff already in place for one of Scotland’s leading exports.

The minister for business and employment, Richard Loch­head, is quoted calling for alternatives that work for everyone. “I urge the US to focus on dia­logue not tar­iffs and all coun­tries need to send that mes­sage to the US admin­is­tra­tion.”

The encounter was followed by a whisky tasting, the article concludes.

Freedom and whisky gang thigether, tak’ off your dram!, that’s what Burns wrote. He got it right from the beginning.

After breakfast I visit the Scottish National Library, where I spend the morning admiring the highlights of its collection. Among other things, these include a first edition of Pride & Prejudice, a first edition of Burn’s poems, and the handwritten letter that ordered Captain Robert Campbell of Glenlyon to kill any member of the clan MacDonald under 70 in punishment for having failed to sign an oath of allegiance to William III within the set deadline. The massacre of Glencoe, as it would be referred to, was made the more tragic as the perpetrators’ army had benefited from the hospitality of the MacDonalds, which was considered by a later Scottish Parliament Commission inquiry “murder under trust.”

My last moments in Edinburgh are dedicated to visiting the John Knox statue at New College. It is very quiet except for two girls who are taking pictures of each other. As I look at the statue, I can’t help but think of David Tennant, who played Knox in Mary Queen of Scots where Saoirse Ronan interprets the leading role while Jack Lowden (post Black Watch but pre The Outrun production credit) is the treacherous Lord Darnley. This is also the film where Ronan and Lowden met and fell in love and now they have a baby and live in London happy together.

Who would have expected such a happy ending from a film about high treason where both their characters are murdered in the name of the intrigues and power struggles for the fight for the crown of England while religious turmoil boils in the background?

When I’m brought back from my recollection of useless trivia, the girls have switched to selfies. I may be missing something here but how someone can take 150 pictures of their face in the angle and against the same background and still not be satisfied is a mystery to me. As I too would like to capture the courtyard and the ongoing photographic session seems to have no end in sight, I do the unthinkable and ask if they can please move to the side for a moment.

Barely 30 seconds after managing to deploy the girls out of the frame for a picture, a heavily accented American voice startles me, “Can you move? I’m only here for a few minutes.” The exasperation in the tone is not commensurate with the few seconds that must have separated the arrival of its owner from my taking of position.

As I make my way to the stone portico to leave, the man wastes no time and I hear his voice, loud and clear, echoed once again against the walls.

“Ladies, this ain’t no Vogue special, so can you please get out of the way? I’m on a bit of a rush here. Thank you for your cooperation.”

All things considered, there are definitely worse things in life than becoming British.

Wednesday 21s January

After the initial shock of having to make my own breakfast and not having any newspaper delivered at my door this morning, the Scotland withdrawal symptoms are hitting hard.

I may be wrong but perhaps my ultimate Act of Union is to finally visit the places that have lived rent free in my mind for the past two months and become one with them.

Willing to put this theory to the test, I've booked a trip to the Highlands.

Meanwhile, I’m aghast with the lack of Burns’ Night treats in any supermarket in my neighborhood. We’re being robbed.

Thursday 20th January

I decide against reading on the train because at almost 1,000 pages Dragonfly in Amber, the second volume of Outlander, is not precisely convenient to handle on one hand while trying to not trip over other people in a packed train.

As I look around in vain to double check for any available seats, I catch a glimpse of a familiar face and my heart skips a beat. I look again with all the nonchalance and poise of someone who until very recently has had her breakfast made and the newspaper delivered to her door and a clear visual confirms my initial assessment.

Tobias Menzies (alias Prince Philip, alias Jack Randall) is standing in front of me in all his glorious, dashing and impeccably dressed self. Very nice suede shoes I notice.

While I am dying to tell him I have been watching a lot of him since Christmas and how an amazing actor he is, a packed train which offers zero privacy is neither the time nor the place for this type of unsolicited fangirling.

We get off at the same stop so I assume he must be going to the rehearsing space next to my office, which means he may be soon on stage. Because I’m slightly ahead of him, I could easily catch him off guard at the turnstiles, the most strategic point for a surprise attack as he surely doesn’t expect to be approached in the open after having made the train journey without being recognised. I decide to put this terrible idea aside because my motto when fate puts a famous person in my path is “Be the fan you’d like to have one day,” which means I make my way to the office as if I hadn’t spent my commute with Captain Randall himself.

I can’t help but wonder what this encounter means at a time when I need clarity and answers about my future.

Of all the people I could have bumped into today it had to be an actor who has played two roles that represent the dichotomy of my current predicament. A man who has tasted the impositions England places on you and the freedom Scotland bestows.

Should I stay in a place I feel it will never accept me fully and which demands I become something I am not to survive, like Prince Philip in The Crown, or is it time to go somewhere else where I am allowed to be who I am without reserve, like the sadist Randall acting in total impunity in Outlander?

An image of the layout of the rehearsing space next door appears in my mind. There is a cafe open to the public and, to the best of my knowledge, it is the only entrance from the street to the building.

It seems I may need to spend the lunch break stalking after all. Like Prince Philip did with deers and Jack Randall with the Jacobites.

So much for inconspicuous and unsolicited fangirling.

Abroad is an independent publication about London, living in between cultures, creativity, and being human in the age of artificial intelligence.

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By the time you read this I’ll probably be enjoying an ear-piercing teething baby serenade, I’ll most likely be annoyed at the glacial speed at which people put their belongings away, and will be definitely rolling my eyes every five seconds at anything that moves and anyone whose breathing is too loud. There’s something about being shoved into a very self-contained space like sardines in a tin at 10,000 feet of altitude that unleashes my absolute worse instintcs.

Popular wisdom says that the first step towards solving a problem is to acknowledge its existence but that doesn’t seem to be particularly useful when my problem is precisely the existence of other people. This is usually an issue in general but I feel it’s impact on my wellbeing particularly more acutely when I’m feeling overwhelmed and at my wits’ end but I need to be brave and endure the next ten days as best as I can.

Because, dear reader, it’s that time of the year when I’m about to travel home for Christmas.

Joy to the world, the anxiety is come.

I think it’s about time we collectively accept without any judgement that some of us have an extreme low tolerance for the outside world and those who live in it, disregard for special occasions, a high level of demand avoidance, severe time blindness (it’s a thing, trust me), and serious challenges around executive function.

A trip back to Spain for Christmas is the least ideal of activities given the above conditions as it implies being at one of the world’s busiest airports at a time when it’ll be full to bursting with very loud Spanish families. Heathrow at Christmas makes Oxford Street on a Saturday afternoon look dead by comparison. Considering that I describe meetings with more than three people as massive gatherings, it’s no surprising the sheer amount of humanity that assembles at Heathrow every year headed towards warmer climates and dispositions feels daunting.

Add to this the mounting anxiety that overcomes me every time I need to take a plane in the morning as a result of all the reverse maths I have to do to calculate when I need to set up the alarm and leave the house to be able to complete all the different steps of the journey, each of which is a demand on my energy I’d rather avoid than execute. No matter that I always take the same flight at the same hour, I am still incapable of understanding how much time I need.

Being an introvert1 at Christmas is a recipe for disaster, especially when your idea of a break is to have uninterrupted alone time. Good luck explaining that to an extrovert mother that for weeks has been reminding you she is really looking forward to seeing you, which translates as “I want to spend every waking hour you stay here glued to you.”

In an ideal world, I would spend the two weeks preceeding any flight back home -but in particular the one at Christmas- in complete isolation and silence in order to gather the necessary energy I need to survive the experience, which to begin with is more akin to a crossing of the desert than the beginning of a holiday.

I live in a remote area in Spain and it takes about 13 hours to get there door-to-door if everything goes according to plan, including me setting up the alarm correctly. If any of the multiple means of transportation I have to take is delayed, what was already an stressful journey turns into a choose your own adventure immersive experience, except that the choices I’m faced with are “go to the bus station and pray for a last minute bus ticket when everyone is trying to get home for Christmas and embark on a three hour journey that will make you sick” or “sleep at the train station until tomorrow and pray there’ll be any train tickets availabe. If not, go to the bus station.”

If you have an adventurous disposition, the sound of this can be quite thrilling and add a bit of excitement to what for outsiders is just a rather uneventful London-Madrid flight. Ignorance is a such a bliss sometimes.

For me, however, the Christmas trip is like the Russian roulette of trips and it’s nothing short of a miracle I haven’t had a complete meltdown in all these years and started sobbing in desperation while saying to anyone who cares to listen “I only wanted to be left alone to read, I never asked for any of this! Why did you have to make me Spanish, god, why?”

The things that can go wrong at Christmas range from a fire alarm going off at my tube station as I am about to head to the airport (don’t recommend), an overnight cancellation of the train I was planning on taking to avoid the temperamental nature of the tube, or the flight being delayed for a few hours or cancelled last minute (not uncommon this time of the year). Of course, everything can run smoothly and once at the airport I’ll realise that I have left my passport at home (which has also happened).

The Christmas trip is a dementor that sucks you dry and requires you to be fully alert, like a gazelle in the open plains of the wild savanna constantly tuning in for signals of a predator and ready to run for its life at the twitch of a leaf. Except that the predator is time and the one usually running is me towards the next tube/train/flight/train I need to catch if I don’t want to be left stranded halfway through my journey of the ten circles of transport hell.

Travelling home is not always this stressful. There are other times of the year when, while still subject to multiple mishaps, the levels of anxiety of this trip are more manageable. In a random week in May, for instance.

However here is the truth of living abroad, especially if you are from Spain: Like a tragic heroine, you have no alternative but to face your destiny and go through the trials that are sent your way to test you. So whether you want it or not, god forbid you aren’t home for Christmas because hell had no fury like a Spanish mother scorned during the festive season.

And because with age comes wisdom, I’ve learned to pick my battles and choose the path of less resistance, which in this particular situation means taking five different means of transport, one of which will probably make me vomit all over myself at the end of a long day of unpredictable travelling.

The alternative is enduring a string of voice notes from my mum stating her imminent death (despite being in good health and being a very active person) and how selfish I am for depriving her of my presence on such special occasion when she has so little time left on earth -in case this didn’t sink in the first time- when I as much as hint at the possibility of going home at a different time of the year.

The pandemic was the only time where I had a valid excuse not to be home for Christmas and even then I was chastised for not being available whenever she wanted to videocall me.

“Where were you? I’ve called you three times and you weren’t picking up. You’re not supposed to leave the house over there either, aren’t you?,” she said when I called her back.

“I was in the shower.”

“The three times I’ve called?”

“Well, yes, because you’ve called three times in five minutes.”

“You could have picked up and say you couldn’t speak. I was worried thinking something had happened to you.”

“I’m at home, what possibly could happen to me? Also, how was I supposed to respond from the shower?”

“You should have taken the phone to the bathroom. What if you slip in the bathtub and hit your head and you don’t have the phone with you and can’t call anyone and die there alone? I can’t believe you’d do something like that to your own mother.”

I don’t know if this is true for other Southern European mothers but for mine tragedy can strike any minute on a foreign land and you’d better be ready for it if you don’t want to be told off for your lack of preparation to face your own demise.

Perhaps my travel anxiety has not so much to do with my own sensory and executive challenges as much as with the pressure of keeping myself alive throughout the whole journey, or at least until I touch Spanish soil.

No wonder that with so much to worry about, by the time I get home I feel more like a battered piece of meat than a functioning member of society. My capacity to articulate full sentences usually disappears after I board the plane at Heatrow, by which point I’m three to four hours into my journey and already exhausted by all the potential pitfalls that I have avoided in order to be there. This is when I go into airplane mode to manage my energy levels as best as the crying babies on their way to meet their grandparents for the first time allow.

When I get home and feel I can finally relax after running on adrenaline for hours, the only thing I want to do is lie down and sleep. According to my mum this too is outrageous behaviour because she only gets to see me twice a year and who knows if she’ll be still around for the next one, but sure I’m welcome to sleep all I want, she’s only been waiting months for me to be home again, but she understands that at almost midnight I prefer my bed to her company. In my mum’s book a sprinkle of fatalism never did anyone any harm. Probably also no good but I don’t dare telling her because anything that can prevent me from embracing my bed is not worth the fight. I’m very zen these days, you see.

This is the real challenge of every trip back home at Christmas: The mismatched, perhaps slightly unreasonable expectation placed on how I must spend my time there. As an introvert my idea of a wonderful time is being left alone with a book. Obviously my extrovert mother, who loves being around people at all times, has a different view. Being home is always a regression to my younger self, a girl who naively thought that being an adult would be amazing as I would be finally able to spend my time as I pleased instead of having my mum repeating every five minutes “your brains are going to melt if you keep reading.” I inform you that nothing has changed.

Don’t get me wrong. I love having time off work and seeing my family during this time of the year, especially for our big Christmas’ Eve dinner, but spending Christmas as home is far from a relaxing experience and definitely NOT a holiday. This can’t be stressed enough and it’s true for any Southern European I know who lives in London.

If the weeks before flying have been busy with work, like this year, and I have been unable to spend enough time on my own getting mentally ready and building the necessary energy reserves for all the socialising that Spanish Christmas and my mum require, I’m running on a depleted tank and the opportunities to recharge it are slim.

I think for next year I’ll tell any company who wants to have a call or meeting in the two weeks before I am due to travel home that I have very limited availability as I am focusing on averting a serious family crisis. Because I don’t know about you but I don’t want to be haunted by my mum’s ghost should she die unexpectedly carrying out an errand for which I have refused to accompany her while I am at home for Christmas because I had to rest. No, no, no, no. With nothing to do but remind me that she may still be alive had I gone with her, her after-life would make my during-life insufferable.

I was actually considering staying in London this year to have an proper and much needed break until my sister and I decided that this year it’d be nice to spend a couple of days in Madrid before going home, which sounded like a great way to fill up the cultural tank and enjoy some time together as we both live abroad.

Because here is the other truth about living abroad: You rarely get to be a tourist in your own country. When you travel home, you travel home home, not home elsewhere because it is an open inviation for your mum to guilt trip you for failing to visit her when death is fast approaching, least you forget. Which means that the last time I spent a full day in Madrid that didn’t involved a transfer from the airport to the train station to go home or vice versa was in 2007, when I had to go to the US Embassy for my J1 visa appointment. Happy days.

As I type these lines I still have to face the analysis paralisys of what to pack (the dream of every person who struggles with demand avoidance and executive dysfunction) as well as triple check all the alarms and that my passport is indeed in my handbag and not on the bedside table drawer. I won’t be the cause of my own downfall again.

I feel marginally more relaxed compared to previous trips as once I land in Madrid I don’t have to worry about the next step of the journey for a few days, and then my sister and I will head together to the bus station for the dreaded three hour bus trip home. Fingers crossed I’ll manage to keep everything inside but three hours is a long time and anything can happen. Including the bus breaking down when you’re only ten minutes from getting home. At least we finally came to a halt when I was about to let it all out and that seemed to contained the situation. There’s always a silver lining.

“When you get to Madrid, send me a message to let me know you’ve arrived,” my mum says to us at the beginning of the week, our trip to the airport still days away. You bet that when we get off that bus she’ll be anxiously waiting for us at the station.

And then, when we’re finally home, the real Christmas endurance test will begin.

“Do you want to come with me to…?”, she’ll ask as the textbook extrovert she is.

“Actually, I’d like to stay home and rest a bit,” as the introvert I am.

“Have daughters, they said. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong in life to deserve this, but I won’t be around forever, just so you know. Anyway, I’m off now, you do what you want, but honestly I don’t understand why you prefer to stay here instead of coming with me and see people. You can always stay at home and read in London2.”

By this point, my patience will have worn so thin, and my need for alone time will be so wide, that I’ll snap and swear that this is the last time I’m coming home for Christmas if every time it’s going to be like this.

The thing is that deep down in my subsconscious I know damn well that, for better or for worse, this is exactly where I’ll be in a year’s time, possibly having the same conversation, because after all you truly never know when it can be the last.

Home anxious home, here I come.

Happy Christmas everyone!

Abroad is an independent publication about London, living in between cultures, creativity, and being human in the age of artificial intelligence.

PS: If you enjoyed this post, feel free to hit the little heart, share a comment, and share this post with others who may enjoy it as this will tell the algorithm it has to inflict my thoughts on a greater number of people, which has been a childhood dream of mine.

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To say the weather has been miserable these past few days in London is an understatement. Suffice to say that 50 Shades of Grey could be a fitting title for the colour palette of the London sky, which like the protagonist of E.L. James novel has a fetish for inflicting pain on naive people who wake up everyday hoping for a shred of affection in the form of a blue sky.

When the miracle happened today, I couldn’t leave the house fast enough for a much needed dose of vitamin D, which to me is synonymous with a fix of vitamin C so I made my way to my coffee stand of trust. While I waited for my caffeinated tipple, arms stretched out, eyes closed, face up towards the skies à la Jacob Elordi in Frankenstein, my ears tuned in to the song that was playing on the radio. Nice one, I thought as I recognised it.

Before my brain could process the external stimulus and register the title, my feet were already happily tapping away and I was singing the words. For you see, this is one of those songs I fell in love with the first time I listened to it decades ago, when I couldn’t understand the lyrics because my English was very approximate but I could relate to its melody. I’m not surprised my senses are usually quicker than my reason when it comes to how I experience music.

As I paid for my coffee and walked away, I hurried to get my phone and search not for the original I had just listened to, which I love, but for the 1999 version that made me discover a theme that has become part of my life soundtrack and which, without exaggeration, is probably one of the best covers ever made.

It helps that the voices of George Michael and Mary J. Blige blend perfectly and add an extra layer of sultriness to what was already a soulful song penned by the musical genius of Stevie Wonder. I’m of course talking about the excellent As.

Because the sun and the song put me in a very good mood, and because I’ve had a post in my draft folder since June 2024 about music covers, I thought this was a perfect time to lose a few readers by writing about the topic. Apparently music is a subject that doesn’t seem to resonate well with some people, which is baffling given a) that I don’t write so often about it for people to unsubscribe instead of simply ignoring a post and b) my superb musical taste.

Anyway, I try not to take it personally because I’m also humble enough to accept that not all geniuses are recognised in their own lifetime and maybe my destiny is to be a misunderstood leading light in times of vapid cultural takes and increasing AI slop.

So without any further ado, today I bring you ten music covers that did justice to the original songs that inspired them.

This is where our paths may separate forever depending on whether you decide to carry on reading to discover a selection of songs that may have gone under your radar or vanish in the shapeless ether of the cyberspace by clicking unsubscribe.

However, as we don’t have enough music in our lives I’m of the opinion we can always do with a few recommendations that are 100% certified human and contribute to support real artists. So to use a Måneskin cover that has refreshed the original I’m begging you to join me for a musical ride.

It’ll be fun, I promise. Besides, you can always unsubscribe after you’ve liked this post. No hard feelings, seriously.

Sophie Ellis-Bextor covering Do You Remember the First Time?

A couple of years ago I was afflicted by that malaise that eventually catches up with all of us and convinces us that there is no time like the past. In my case, my bout of nostalgia manifested in the firm conviction that nothing could top 90s music. Which is how I ended up going down a Britpop rabbit hole that led me to Sophie Ellis-Bextor superb cover of one of Pulp’s best songs.

I listened to nothing else for the next few days, alternating the original with the cover, such was the effect discovering this song had on me. How funny, I said to myself as I sang the lyrics at the top of my voice while doing the dishes, taking a shower, or going for a walk, it has such title because I’m sure I’ll always remember the first time I listened to this song. As would those who had to suffer my ghoulish vocal rendition as I passed them by on the street.

If the voice of Jarvis Cocker makes this track sound quintessentially 90s, Sophie Ellis-Bextor’s clear cut porcelain vocals and acoustic version gives it a contemporary edge that fits like a glove, most notably by subverting the love triangle in the story when she sings the lyrics “Jesus, it must be great to be straight.”

Someone please offer this woman to make an album of 90s covers. She’d do a very fine job.

The Struts covering Supersonic

Staying on the topic of 90s nostalgia, the summer of 2025 will go down in history for giving us the Oasis Live Tour. An event whose emotional tsunami caught me totally off guard because I wasn’t even a massive Oasis fan back in the day. While their music has been somehow on my radar over the years, before this summer I would have only been able to name a handful of their songs. How the tables have turned!

Supersonic, however, wouldn’t had made the list despite being a song I have listened to multiple times before this summer. The reason? I first listened to the cover The Struts did of it a couple of years ago and it remained etched in my brain as theirs ever since. No small feat considering that attempting to cover an Oasis song producing something decent that is recognisable yet fresh without imitating Liam’s vocals or a copy-paste of their trademark wall of sound is not as easy as it seems.

Unless, of course, you happen to be one of the most talented British rock bands around today and have a frontman with a voice and attitude that can pull off anything. To the point of brilliantly taking to their musical territory one of the most iconic songs of the 90s by one of the most successful groups the decade produced and making you forget it is not actually theirs originally.

David Garrett covering Smells Like Teen Spirit

Sometimes the best way to a great cover doesn’t involve having to sing a note. Cue to David Garrett, a German classical and crossover violin artist, with the aura and charisma of a rock star.

It was difficult to pick one of the many songs he has covered over his career, but Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit, which introduced me to his music, is perhaps one of the best examples to showcase Garrett’s ability to make his violin sing like an in tune grunge idol.

His cover of Bohemian Rhapsody, from his Rock Revolution album, reinforces my belief in how it is impossible to like rock music without liking classical music at least a tiny bit (and vice versa) as the two are a match made in heaven. Queen knew it and so did David Garrett when he set on reinterpreting some of the world’s most recognisable rock anthems in a classical key.

Ben L’Oncle covering Seven Nation Army

In July of 2007 I found myself looking after a group of hormonal teenagers in the basement of an Edinburgh club. The second they tuned into a song that was very popular at the time, they started pogoing in unison and singing like hooligans. Smell Like Teen Spirit it was not, which would have been superior in any of its versions, but I realised every generation needs its own age-defining anthem, which in the case of these teenagers it turned out to be Seven Nation Army by the White Stripes.

Fast forward to some point between August 2007 and May 2008, when I was in the United States for a teaching stint and a fellow French tutor introduced me to Benjamin Duterde, in art Ben L’Oncle, a French artist whose funky take on a song I hadn’t thought much of totally blew my mind. The brass section and the soulful voice of Duterde gave this song the swagger it lacked in its original iteration and took it from underage club fodder to Ronnie Scott-worthy material.

I haven’t looked back ever since and to me this is the only acceptable version any person is allowed to listen to. Which is probably how French people feel about it too judging by my last trip to Paris, where it played while I was at Carrefour. I was so excited to hear it that I let out a loud “Ah, ça c’est Ben L’Oncle, j’adore!” as I reached out for a wedge of Comté, which earned me nods of approval from a couple of discerning Parisians that overheard me.

There’s a possibility they were praising my cheese choice instead of my musical taste and knowledge but it’s as slim as me playing again the original of this song.

Loi covering Blinding Lights

Is Blinding Lights by The Weeknd one of the best songs to have emerged from that collective blip that was the pandemic? Without a doubt.

I may be particularly biased because I have a soft sport for songs with an 80s vibe and which manage to be both nostalgic and timeless at the same time, of which Blinding Lights is a fantastic example.

Just when I thought I couldn’t like this song more, along came German singer Loi with an angelical voice and piano cover that transforms a psychedelic trip into a spiritual journey. The trepidation of the original is transmuted into a balm for the nervous system; the excitement and anticipation conveyed by the lyrics take a 180 turn towards a ballad that soothes the senses and pacifies the soul.

For maximum effect I strongly recommend listening to Loi’s cover on repeat while you take a hot bath, with the lights out and the candles on. You are very welcome.

Teddy Swims covering Cruel Summer

I am, by no stretch of the imagination, what you could describe as a Taylor Swift fan. Yet at the end of 2024 Spotify Wrapped would have made you question such categoric statement as Cruel Summer made it to my top 5 most listened songs of the year.

A clear outlier whose presence can be explained by the inescapability of a song that was not only an accurate description of the weather conditions between June-September in the UK, but which also became the unofficial soundtrack of every bloody rickshaw, restaurant, coffee shop and any place equipped with a music system within the M-25. As Taylor Swift descended into London for her Wembley shows in July and August, so did Cruel Summer.

I was one random playback away from developing PTSD when I found Teddy Swims and his excellent cover, which made Swift’s original a bit more bearable to endure out in the wild.

While Taylor’s voice makes this song sound playful and breezy like the best summer nights, Swims’ take on it gives it a depth that makes it perfect to listen to as you consider every life choice you’ve made while the heavens open up and rain falls upon London for the seventh day in a row in the middle of July. Cruel summer indeed.

Mina covering Oggi sono io

Italian songwriter Alex Britti may have won Sanremo (in the new comers category) with Oggi Sono Io, a reflective theme about finally meeting someone you want be your true self with but with whom you don’t even know how to find the right moment to strike up a conversation without feeling self-conscious. In his voice and musical arrangement, this is a candid pop song full of hope in front of the possibility of new love and being accepted for who we are.

In the powerful rendition of Mina this track ascends to new heights and is catapulted to the top of the pyramid of the Italian songbook.

Recorded from her studio in Switzerland, in the music video you can see Mina effortlessly hitting impossibly high notes at the tender age of 61 as she propells the song into a crescendo of majestic dimensions. Her voice was really out of this world and Oggi Sono Io is a testament to how her vocal prowess transformed a good pop song into a little piece of art that leaves no one indifferent when they hear it for the first time.

Seu Jorge covering Rebel, Rebel

Can a cover be still keep the spirit of the original song even when it changes language? Of course it can, and if you don’t believe it you only need to listen to Seu Jorge’s take on David Bowie for the soundtrack of Wes Anderson’s The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou.

With the exception of Ralph Fiennes in the role of Gustave H in The Grand Budapest Hotel, Jorge’s covers are the best thing to have ever come out of a Wes Anderson film. The acoustic and heartfelt renditions of Starman, Life on Mars?, Changes or Lady Stardust bring Bowie’s sound back to basics with a bit of saudade sprinkled here and there.

Whether you can understand Portuguese or not, you’ll be mesmerized by how great Rebel, Rebel sounds in Seu Jorge’s deep voice infused with a hint of bossanova. If you had to bottle a sunny spring morning in a song, this is as close as you’ll ever get.

Bruno Mars covering Valerie

The first time I listened to Amy Winehouse I was waiting to get on a train at Naples central station. I didn’t know who she was as Rehab played through the tannoy, only that I hadn’t heard a voice like hers in a long time.

Understandably few people have attempted to cover an Amy Winehouse song and fewer still have succeeded. Her unmistakable raw vocals gave her songs that extra touch that made them unique and notoriously difficult to imitate by anyone not as vocally and extraordinarily musically gifted as she was.

Luckily for us Bruno Mars ticks both of those boxes and he did justice to Amy when he interpreted Valerie as a tribute to her at the 2011 MTV Video Music Awards. His musical talent, sway, and showmanship brought out all the doo wop and cheerfulness out of the melancholic lyrics with a performance that elevated one of the most upbeat jazzy themes Winehouse recorded without missing a bit on the spot on vocals.

Oasis covering I Am the Walrus

If it’s difficult to think of anyone successfully covering Amy or Oasis, imagine how hard it is to find someone successfully covering The Beatles. Yes, even when Yesterday is the band’s most covered song by a pop act.

How fitting then that the most successful British band of the 90s covered the most successful British band ever as the Gallagher brothers, who have admitted how heavily influenced by The Beatles their music is, decided to splurge on horns and strings for a terrific cover of I Am the Walrus to close their historic Knebworth shows in 1996.

Who else better than two brothers who have never hidden their admiration for the Fab Four, to the point one of them thinks he is the reincarnation of John Lennon, even though John Lennon was still alive when he was born?

While there’s a lot uncertainty about whether the Oasis reunion would lead them to record new music after their victory lap tour is finished, I think I’m not alone in wanting them to make a new album. Perhaps, to begin with, they could do one where they cover Beatles songs and give them the Oasis treatment.

Liam’s vocals are certainly up for the task and he’d do a very fine job with Lennon’s songs while Noel could take on McCartney’s and Harrison's compositions. It’d be such a fantastic full cycle moment after Sir Paul went to see their concert in LA this summer and the band reprising Octopus’ Garden as the coda to Whatever during this Live 25’ reunion, as they did at Knebworth 30 years ago.

Bonus cover

The Fratellis covering Yes Sir, I Can Boogie

During the traditional family gathering for Christmas Eve last year, at some point that must have been close to one in the morning (because we had already finished dinner but not yet embarked on the traditional game of cards that keeps us going until 7 am1, at which time those of us still standing usually head for churros with chocolate), my aunt Lidia made a casual comment that marked a before and after in my musical knowledge.

The tv was on, playing one of the usual Christmas specials that focused on music, when a clip of Yes Sir, I Can Boogie by the duo Baccara played. “I love this song,” I said as I started humming. To which my aunt, who has been one of my main musical influences growing up, responded, “How funny that Mayte and María were both Spanish and were made to sing in English, don’t you think?”

And with that remark I discovered that one of my favourite 70s dance songs was made an international hit by two fellow citizens, a fact unbeknownst to me until that moment. I knew there was a reason I liked that song so much, and it couldn’t be only because my aunt used to play it all the time when I was a child or because The Fratellis, one of my favorite bands -and a criminally underrated one if I may add-, had recorded a wonderful cover of it. Which I had the luck to sing and dance to when I saw them live for the first time with the same ecstatic abandonment as those teenagers back in Edinburgh did all those years ago.

If it’s difficult to cover a song by Oasis, Amy Winehouse, or The Beatles, covering a 70s disco/dance song is almost an impossible task because they are already musically perfect. However, as Braveheart taught us, Scottish people aren’t easily intimidated by a challenge and so The Fratellis have brought new life and a contemporary spin to a favourite song. The versatile vocals of Jon Fratelli, the addition of a brass section, and the Scottish band rock touch give the song an extra dose of sparkle.

If Baccara’s original was the perfect dance floor song, The Fratellis have created the perfect festive anthem to get everyone in the mood for a good time, dance floor or not. It has even got the thumbs up from the song composers if not from Mayte and María.

Maybe I should attempt a Spanish cover to honour the duo that gifted this classic of disco music to the world. Definitely a task I can engage the support of my aunt in at the upcoming Christmas Eve dinner this year. One thing is for sure: We’ll have plenty of time to boogie as we try to come up with the right lyrics.

Abroad is an independent publication about London, living in between cultures, creativity, and being human in the age of artificial intelligence.

PS: If you enjoyed this post, feel free to hit the little heart, share a comment, and share this post with others who may enjoy it as this will tell the algorithm it has to inflict my thoughts on a greater number of people, which has been a childhood dream of mine.

And if you find yourself here regularly, consider subscribing to receive updates and support my writing.

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Just when I was pondering what to write about, modern pop culture has come to the rescue with one of its absurd, most likely outdated, clearly useless although arguably entertaining tenets, which for a change doesn’t involve commenting on a woman’s appearance.

I’m talking about People’s Magazine sexiest man alive announcement, an honour which this year has been bestowed upon Jonathan Bailey.

Highly deserved, if I may add, as well as long overdue even though this is nothing else but a PR exercise aimed at giving a boost to whatever projects an actor1 is about to release and can promote the hell out of thanks to his newfound appreciation as a global stallion, which like most things in this life is both a subjective consideration as well as a very ephemeral status. But any opportunity to shine a light on Jonathan Bailey and let the people finally catch up with his talent must be cherished.

If you believe for a second that this recognition, for lack of a better word, is awarded based on objective sexiness levels, suffice to say that last year’s incumbent was John Krasinski, which by all means comes across as a highly likeable guy but I struggle to picture him as the man I’d want to rip my knickers off. Same with his predecessor, Chris Evans, who to me is just kryptonite in the lust department, especially after seeing him in Materialists.

In a move that has probably surprised even those involved in the election process, this year People’s Magazine have actually managed to choose someone who, unlike the previous winners, is very welcome to step into any naughty mental scenarios of half of the world’s men and women alike, mine included. He may already have, if we are being honest.

You must know Jonathan Bailey is the first ever openly gay recipient of People’s Magazine distinction, and his appointment has been one of the few moments of collective joy and union (on account of the very inappropriate thoughts he conjures up in both women and men alike) we have experienced this year2. That tells you a lot about how rubbish these lists have been so far and how they’ve failed to award those truly deserving regardless of sexual orientation.

I am very well aware that in a capitalistic patriarchal society your main driver of consumption is desire, whether for material things or for someone else’s body. Therefore, being sexually available to the gender that has been historically manipulated into wanting things that they don’t need in order to feel better about themselves (aka women) is paramount.

Hence, the sexiest man alive can’t be gay because otherwise you’d be shooting the system in the foot.

Or can he?

Maybe they were so blinded by Bailey’s obvious talent in any role he plays that they forgot he was gay until it was too late, hence the need to state his sexual orientation so insistently?

In the not so distant past being openly gay would seriously damage an actor’s career. No one would cast him in a romantic lead role and even if he did land the role, no woman would found him plausible or convincing if they caught wind he was gay. Women wouldn’t be able to see the actor, only the gay man, or so executives thought, and therefore bye bye to ticket sales and revenue profits.

For what it’s worth, a whole industry being so dependent on someone’s bedding preferences seems somewhat silly. Our Johnny has managed to escape such limiting beliefs through sheer passion for his craft and talent.

That’s the only plausible explanation for why the media are making such a fuss about Bailey’s sexual orientation. I’m not yet sure if this is meant to convey a positive message (look, you can be gay, a great actor, and sexiest man alive all at once!) or a bit of a covert shock (people, he’s GAY!!! I repeat, he’s GAY!!!!).

If anything, headlines should be remarking he is the first openly sexy and talented recipient of the decade and in a long while, but if this has served for mass media to catch up on a truth universally acknowledged, that is women having a crash on Jonathan Bailey since Bridgerton premiered on Netflix on that remote Christmas of 2020, so be it.

On that note, let’s please hold a minute of silence for Shonda Rhimes and Julia Quinn in respect for how they gave us what we craved in a very dark time: Highly unrealistic male leads obsessed with female pleasure.

And let’s not forget that Andrew Scott’s3 Hot Priest walked so that Jonathan Bailey’s Anthony Bridgerton could run4. Anyway, I’m glad People’s Magazine has mended the wrongs of the past and that, as Bailey himself stated on receiving the news, this has finally gone to someone who can appreciate a sexy man. Oh, Johnny, you slutty little bitch.

Being crowned the sexiest man alive is, with all due respect for Jonathan and any previous winner, a bit of a joke. The aim is to keeping people entertained (possibly by writing about it like I’m doing and reading said pieces like you’re doing), getting social media traction (I doubt People’s Magazine do this to sell any actual magazines), and crucially putting bums on movie theaters when the latest release from the sexiest man alive eventually comes around. Which in the case of Bailey is Wicked: For Good where he’ll reprise the role of Prince Fiyero at the end of November.

Therefore the recognition should not be taken too seriously. In fact, the appropriate reaction is that of Benedict Cumberbatch when he received the same distinction back in 2013 at the height of his fame as Sherlock.

Kudos to Jonathan Bailey for channeling that spirit, having a good laugh about it, and using the media attention to share his passion for acting, encouraging people to embrace who they truly are, and championing causes he cares about. Which is what he’s been doing before being named the sexiest man alive anyway.

Having said that, and because we’re here already and I don’t know about you but I have no better plans for the evening, in that same spirit of lightness, let’s discuss how Jonathan Bailey has got here and, while we’re at it, let’s take a look at Jacob Elordi, who could be his worthy successor in 2026.

Jonathan Bailey, (first openly gay, lest we forget) Sexiest Man Alive 2025

Long before the staff of People Magazine woke up to the facts, Jonathan Bailey was, if not the sexiest man alive (because that’s a continuum and it fluctuates), at least among the top 10. Easily.

In fact, he took sexiness to stratospheric highs with one sentence. To be precise this one: “You are the bane of my existence and the object of all my desires”

Rumour has it the incessant replay of this scene across the globe provoked a ripple effect by which thousands of female viewers reported their knickers magically went down to the floor as soon as Bailey finished the sentence. The laws of physics probably can’t explain this phenomenon in a rational way but luckily for you, dear reader, I can.

It’s what happens when you have not only a great male lead written by a woman but a highly charismatic and openly talented actor delivering the seduction goods as if he couldn’t wait a second longer to get a mouthful of them. Few straight actors, not to mention regular men off screen, have managed to pull off something as remotely as exciting as this. So much for being implausible as a heterosexual romantic interest when you are an openly gay actor.

We witnessed the magic unfold in Season 2 of Netflix’s record-breaking show Bridgerton, where Jonathan Bailey played the emotionally restrained Anthony Bridgerton, a man consumed with burning desire for his future sister-in-law Kate Sharma. So far, so forbidden love. Bailey’s portrayal tells you what a phenomenal actor he is in first place but also how charisma -in his case on and off screen- is the greatest asset at your disposal to seduce your audience regardless of your sexual orientation.

Because , you see, that’s the word that comes to mind when Jonathan Bailey’s name is mentioned. Charisma. A very rare and intangible quality that it’s hard to bottle but which you can immediately notice when it’s present as well as lacking in someone.

It’s what makes all the difference when delivering a sentence than in the lips of a lesser actor, no matter how attractive and openly heterosexual, would sound cringey and pronounced by any other man outside of a film set would prompt a call to 911 and a kick to the balls. However, Jonathan Bailey transforms a potential recipe for romantic disaster into the epitome of longing and unresolved sexual tension in a way that any woman couldn’t wait to see resolved asap.

Surely that’s where his talent as an actor shows but also his undeniable magnetic charm carries the audience away from the actor as a man and into the character he is playing in the blink of an eye.

Unlike the clothes-averse Duke of Hastings (portrayed by Regé-Jean Page in season 1 of Bridgerton), Jonathan Bailey carried the whole season 2 on his shoulders without barely showing any skin until the very end, to the exasperation of many fans myself included. Instead, he had to rely on a mixture of pursed lips, frown eyebrows, shortened sideburns, hushed irritation, half-finished sentences, stolen moments, and deathly stares that spoke louder than words to show the all-consuming fire that burnt inside him every time he locked eyes with Kate Sharma, played with exquisite grace, matching longing, and contained desire by Simone Ashley5.

The chemistry between the two of them was so electric that even if this was one of those instances where any real spark between co-stars was off the table, you couldn’t believe it. But that’s the JB effect. He lights up the room, lightens up the mood, builds rapport with anyone in no time, creating the illusion of a genuine (I’m not saying it’s not in that moment) deep bond and sparking romance rumors with every attractive woman he kisses. Oh well, that is charisma, a very powerful tool in an industry where everything is smoke and mirrors and pretend is the name of the game.

While Jonathan Bailey had been a well established and acclaimed actor with an Oliver Award6 under his belt before Bridgerton, the show has put his acting talent on the global radar and he has been on an acting roll ever since, showing his versatility in a wide range of parts, including the acclaimed Fellow Travelers, where he played opposite Matthew Boomer in this forbidden love story between two homosexual men in McCarthy’s America. Boomer, by the way, has already congratulated his fellow co-star on his latest achievement.

Contrary to what the industry may have you believe until very recently, the recognition Bailey received for this role, including an Emmy nomination for Best Supporting Actor, didn’t prevent him from landing the role of Prince Fiyero in Wicked, who is the love interest of Elphaba (played by Cynthia Erivo), the future Wicked Witch of the West.

A role, in fact, Bailey sent an audition tape for during his five minute call in the West End play Cock, where he starred opposite Taron Eggerton. Because at the end of the day that’s what any openly talented actor does regardless of their sexual orientation: They convince you they are whoever they are playing, whether a gay man in a doomed romance/ long-term partnership, or a prince charming in a magical world with a penchant for singing and dancing through life mid-conversation.

With Wicked: For Good coming to cinemas on 21st November, we have a lot of press interviews to look forward to where the fact that Johnny B has been crowned sexiest man alive will be no doubt brought up. Jeff Goldblum is already having a great time celebrating his co-star. And with a new season of Bridgerton fast approaching in early 2026, get ready for a double dose of Bailey’s cream, Jeff Goldblum words not mine.

It is worth mentioning that charismatic actors like Bailey are very dangerous because they will drag you to the mud with them and will make you do things you would have never imagined capable of.

For instance going to the cinema for a screening of Jurassic World Rebirth, the latest installment in a franchise I didn’t even know existed because I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to watch again the same movie after 1993 let alone produce it. I blame it on Jonathan Bailey’s charisma. He decided to put on some glasses for his character and all of a sudden he’s no longer playing a nerdy paleontologist in a totally unnecessary franchise I can live without seeing but a man that has single-handedly kicked off the slutty little glasses summer of love and I want in. Charisma, as you can see, is a bitch that force you to watch terribly forgettable movies and won’t even say thank you when you’re done.

But it’s not all dark and gloomy.

On the bright side, Jonathan Bailey’s magnetism is the reason I have finally gone to see my first Shakespeare play this year, Richard II, where he played the lead title.

However, when it comes to Shakespeare, of whom I’m not a big fan, charisma will open the door but you won’t get me into one of his plays without having some serious acting game going on, on top of your chiseled good looks. Unfortunately for me, Jonathan Bailey possesses both in substantial quantities so I had to oblige.

Did I understand anything of what was going on? Not really because when you’re not an English native speaker there is a big divide between Shakespeare’s spoken vs written English. Who would have thought? Anyway, Jonathan Bailey walked past me a couple of times as he made his way back and forth to the stage and I didn’t need an interpreter to appreciate his talent nor why he is the fair winner of the sexiest man alive this year.

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Jacob Elordi, aka The Creature, aka Sexy Beast with a soul

Jacob Elordi has been a usual suspect of the sexiest men alive rankings for a bit.

It goes with the job: as an openly straight young actor with an imposing physique it’s a rite of passage. It is surely flattering but it can get in the way of being taken seriously beyond playing the tokenistic eye candy hunks in whatever script that gets send your way. Which for Elordi has been the norm until now.

In fact, I hadn’t really cared much for him either as a representative of the masculine gender or as an actor, not even after Saltburn. While I didn’t hate Emerald Fennell’s shambolic tale of privilege and homoerotic desire gone very wrong, when I was confronted with Elordi’s sun-kissed, indulgent, patrician beauty, it didn’t move me nor provoke in me the desire of wanting to drink his bath water or dry thump the soil that covered his grave with quiet desperation. I’m cold-hearted like that apparently.

However, I have found him extremely alluring and affecting as the creature in Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein adaptation, which I saw a few days ago at the cinema. His interactions with Oscar Isaac are a delight to watch as they masterfully navigate with ease the cloudy waters that push them from the purest form of father-son love to the dynamics of an abusive relationship or the desire to dominate something you are secretly afraid of and wished you had never created. For in the hands of Guillermo del Toro, Frankenstein is not a horror film but a family drama.

Elordi’s portrayal of the creature melted the iceberg where my heart is usually held. I was moved watching him bring to life what is a composite of human existence in such a gentle and exquisite way. The most surprising aspect of his performance is that I found myself also slightly aroused by it. It turns out I am not alone in thinking that Jacob Elordi’s hot monster may be one of the year’s best performances.

For all her attempts at capturing Elordi’s attractiveness in suffused ambient lighting and moonlight excesses, Saltburn presented too perfect a blueprint of a young man for me to be interested in him. His Felix was bland, boring, and lacking any real depth as a character. Elordi’s natural beauty and talent could do nothing to ingratiate me with a poorly written role that was an excuse to set the story in motion and did little for Elordi to avoid being typecast as eye candy. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t warm up to him as an actor until a few days ago.

Under the tight script and carefully designed prosthetics in del Toro’s film, Elordi appeared to me for the first time as a man worth of my attention. Or more precisely, his character did once Elordi disappeared into it after the 10-hours it took to make him look like that. It is the invisible wounds he carries, I realised when I left the cinema, what makes him the most compelling character in the film. The contrast with the unblemished existence of his character in Saltburn is what makes this performance interesting. Like Emma Stone in Poor Things, Elordi is able to convey with credibility the extreme marvel he feels at his surroundings despite his imposing physique.

Being attracted more to the creature than to any other human character in the film didn’t catch me by surprise. I started 2025 watching Nosferatu and being totally mesmerized by it, to the point I went back to the cinema three times. So there was already a gothic imprint in my mind that perhaps predetermined me to enjoy the much more human-adjacent creature incarnated by Elordi, who unlike Nosferatu is full of life to the point he can’t barely contain it within himself.

The other thing I remarked is that Elordi, a man blessed with a body and face not often seen around since the days when the golden ratio dictated the measurements of perfectly chiseled Ancient Greek sculptures, was perhaps an unusual choice to portray a monster. And yet one of the things this new adaptation of Mary Shelly’s classic does very well is not to hide his delicate features and instead use them to infuse humanity into a character that could have otherwise verged into the grotesque without offering any space for real depth. The result is the most beautiful monster I’ve ever had lucid dreams about.

Forget Saltburn and that infamous bathtub scene. Frankenstein is where Elordi is a true sexy beast, literally. His deep and strategically syncopated voice infuses soul and warmth to his character while his delicate facial features are allowed to mesh with the patchwork of stitches that adorns his skin all over his Herculean body. The Greek sculpture emerging underneath the wreckage, a gothic version of the Winged Victory of Samothrace, incomplete and damaged yet movingly delicate and strikingly impressive to anyone who has the chance to contemplate it.

His Felix lacked everything his creature in Frankenstein ozes: pathos, rawness, pureness, despair, the ability to feel deeply for those around him and, most surprisingly, the effortless innocence that one can only find in children and which is the more affecting for being hosted inside such a gigantic and frightening body. And yes, charisma, which pulls you close to keep your eyes on him at all time and care about what happens to him.

The justapoxition of the internal and external elements Elordi plays with to bring the creature gradually to life as we learn about his own experience of the world shows his intelligence and sensibility as an actor, which have filtered through to his character. A reminder to never judge a book by its cover, however beautiful or ugly it may appear to us at first glance.

One cannot be horrified by nor repelled by Elordi’s creature because it is a vessel to contain all that is pure in the world, even though it doesn’t get noticed on first sight. Once again the external appearance and perception clouding what lies within. Removed from the safety net of his usually lovely external shell, Elordi has to dig deeper to seduce us as spectators so we can side with him and understand his plight, which he accomplishes thanks to the excellent work of the design team, a solid script and a nuanced performance that captures the fragility that even the toughest-looking among us are capable of hiding under layers of steel armour. The Australian actor has revealed that his sensitive golden retriever inspired his performance.

Nominations for major awards will surely be raining on him for his role and I’d be surprised if Elordi doesn’t walk out of award season with an Oscar under his belt. Not as exciting as being crowned sexiest man alive but if he times his future projects right for 2026, he may be in with a chance to bag that one too.

It’s not lost on me, however, that I’ve been converted to Elordi’s dramatic and physical charms right when he looks the least like his usual self. But I have a soft spot for talent, in whichever shape it presents itself. If it comes in the haphazardly assembled prototype of a meta-human, so be it. I can’t be worse than sitting through a Shakespeare play of which I barely understand a word.

However, I stand by my statement that openly talented actors are dangerous creatures and one should keep their metaphoric distance as continuous exposure to their work, especially when it’s of a high standard, can make one change their mind about the most obnoxious things.

Such as considering watching Priscilla or, brace yourselves, tremble with anticipation for what Emerald Fennell’s upcoming Wuthering Heights adaptation has in store for us despite initial screenings with test audiences delivered mixed reactions.

Because here’s my prerogative: After having seen Elordi’s masterful performance in Frankenstein, I have no doubts his physicality will definitely make of him a dashing Heathcliff, but also the fact that he is an openly talented actor with a wide range of tools to survive being pushed inside the closet of hunk territory once again in what can potentially be another missed opportunity for Emerald Fennell to allow him to show us his acting chops, not only his toned abs.

As a suggestion, perhaps following the “bane of my existence and object of all my desires” school of contained longing teachings couId yield excellent results. If it was good enough to make us swoon for a full season and has catapulted Jonathan Bailey to (first openly gay) sexiest man alive in 2025, it should do the trick to keep us glued to the screen for Elordi’s and Robbie’s doomed romance.

Although a glimpse at the official trailer reveals that unbridled desire to the thumping beat of Charlie XCX tunes seems to be the name of the game. In case there were any doubts about the direction of travel, Emerald Fennell has shared she wants her adaptation to provoke a primal response, similar to what she experienced when she first read Brontë’s novel. No chance Elordi’s golden retriever gave him any pointers this time around. Better this way.

For Jacob Elordi’s talent I’m ready to weather whatever unhinged Brat Summer storm Fennell throws at me in her Wuthering Heights adaptation as long as it comes wrapped in a vehicle that gives Elordi’s Herculean frame, subtle emotions, clear intelligence, and charismatic presence room to maneuver and take the audience along with him and Margot Robbie.

Here’s hoping for a good screenplay that does justice to everyone involved and limits casualties because at the time being this looks messier than Victor Frankeinstein’s operating room. As Elordi shared recently during the press for Frankenstein, there is no need to suffer when making a film.

On the other hand, no one said becoming People’s Magazine sexiest man alive in 2026 would be an easy road. Look at Jonathan Bailey. It took him to be openly gay to get there.

Abroad is an independent publication about London, living in between cultures, creativity, and being human in the age of artificial intelligence.

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The Culture Fix is a regular section where I share the books, films, music, articles, interviews, plays, exhibitions, places, and even food, I’ve enjoyed recently.

Recommendations may refer to content in either English, Spanish, French or Italian (as these are the languages I speak) and sometimes not available in English. But since this is a publication called Abroad written by a multilingual foreigner in London, and hopefully appealing to those curious to explore beyond their own borders, this shouldn’t come as a surprise or be an obstacle to widen your cultural horizons.

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Autumn is already in full swing here in London.

At the time of writing, storm Benjamin has made temperatures drop drastically since Thursday. I’ve said goodbye overnight to the cosy autumn vibes of the past couple of weeks to embrace my inner Artic explorer. Instead of complaining, which I will in due time, I have resolved to make the most of every bit of sunshine and relative dry weather we get from here on. Which may not be much as the clocks have gone back an hour tonight, the cue for London to get ready to enter a long dark night of the soul until the clocks go back forward in the spring.

I can do with the cold, the rain and moderate wind, but the sudden arrival of darkness combined with the perennial pasty tone of the London sky once we enter November is something I find more and more difficult to cope with as years go by.

I find crisp and sunny days very reinvigorating and I love feeling the sunshine and cold at once in the face while out for a walk. Unfortunately the British winter doesn’t offer many opportunities to enjoy this weather combination as it’s dark before you have time to leave the house. That’s why autumn resolution is that if the sun is out, so will I. That vitamin D isn’t going to raise on its own indoors nor pump up the dopamine levels. I need them to be skyrocket high if I want to survive another winter.

In fact, one of said outings in the sun led me to St. John’s Wood library, which sits in the borough of Westminster. I noticed there was a small shelf outside with library books available for purchase, which I hadn’t seen before in any other London library I’ve visited so far.

I spoke to a man who was a member of staff to enquire about a book I wanted to buy, which I suspected I already owned but couldn’t be sure. He was very nice and mentioned I could return it if that was the case and he would reimburse me, but since it was only £1.50 I said it should be fine1. We got chatting about the book itself as he mentioned he didn’t know the author, how my local library in Camden doesn’t sell books, and how I used to live in Westminster but had never visited this library before and how nice the area was.

He informed me that if I wanted, I could join as a member. I repeated that I no longer lived in Westminster so I didn’t have a local address. He very kindly explained they accept anyone with a UK address. “We don’t discriminate here, you know? We have a very big Japanese community in the area and they’re all members. Everyone is welcome!," he said with a big smile and a little wink as, right on cue, two elderly Japanese ladies entered the library and greeted him affectionately. His words were music to my ears so the following day I came back to complete my inscription.

Unfortunately the man I had spoken the day before wasn’t there. Another colleague of his, equally lovely, was very helpful when I explained what I had come for. As he logged into a computer, he delivered more good news: The Westminster library card can be used in any library in Chelsea and Kensington as well. He mentioned that the Hammersmith and Fulham borough used to be part of the scheme until recently. “But one day they told us they wanted to quit just like that,” he said typing in my details into the computer. When he handed over my brand new card, he gave me a knowing look and said “They thought they would be better on their own but I’ve heard they have less people visiting after they left,” which was delivered in a cheeky tone that let on he may be referring not only to the declaration of independence of the Hammersmith and Fulham libraries. I’ve only interacted very briefly with the staff in this library but I can already tell this must be a fun place to work2.

“You’re all set now. By the way, you can take up to 20 books at once with this one so feel free to have a browse if you want.” This feels almost extravagant amidst the wave of cuts in public spending we’ve been experiencing. In fact, we shall seriously worry when even the amount of books one can borrow from a public library is halved. Until that day, let’s make the most of whatever free resources we still have available to keep ourselves informed, educated, and, why not, also entertained.

So now, if you excuse me, I have a very busy autumn ahead of me raiding posh libraries in zone 1. Hopefully that’ll translate into more book recommendations for future issues of The Culture Fix.

In the meantime, let’s get cracking with this one.

On Substack/News/Articles

— At Gail’s, what is the human cost behind a £5 loaf of bread?
— Even Before the Heist, the Louvre Had Been Robbed, a great article by exploring the impact of funding cuts for cultural organisation
— When Do We Stop Finding New Music? A Statistical Analysis
— Jane Austen: The Original Romance Novelist, a wonderful conversation between and Janet Lewis Saidi, aka
— Expats, Privilege, and the Myth of Choice
— Out to Pasture: Why Hollywood’s Animal Actors Can’t Find Work
— Greece accuses British Museum of ‘provocative indifference’ over pink ball*
— OpenAI has unveiled plans to allow erotica content for verified adults on ChatGPT
— Rolling Stone has published a list with the 250 best songs of the century so far.

*I talked about the British Museum pink ball recently and shared the last two news on the latest one on mostly cool things, a weekly dispatch on the bits and bobs that catch my attention across culture, fashion, business, and technology.

mostly cool stuff

Here you speak Spanish

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6 months ago · 6 likes · 2 comments · Cristina Carmona Aliaga

Books

— Patriot by Alexei Navalny
One of the best books I’ve read this year is, without a doubt, Patriot by Alexei Navalny, which I borrowed from the library. If you haven’t read this book yet (or watch the award-winning documentary Navalny) I urge you to do so at your earliest convenience. It is a heartbreaking but also hopeful account about Navalny’s rise in Russian politics as a critical figure that set out to expose corruption and confront Putin’s regime and the consequences it had for him. However, Navalny’s humour and ceasless hope for a better Russia manage to infiltrate most of the book even during his solitary confinement in a high security prison near the Artic, where he eventually died in early 2024. This is a very timely cautionary tale on the risk authoritarian leaders pose to democracy and the terrible consequences of letting them on the loose without a proper checks and balance system that has the means and power to confront them when they abuse the system and threaten citizens’ freedoms and rights.

— Yellowface by R.F. Kuang
I’ve finally got around reading this novel which a good friend had recommended many times. I tend to avoid/ignore any contemporary novel that is showered with PR and media praise as, like the prices of London property, they tend to be overinflated so I prefer to approach those books when the hype has been long dead and buried. Having said that, Yellowface is deserving of all the good things people have said about it. Kuang’s novel eviscerates the insides of the publishing industry in the times of identity politics and social media as a force that can make or break an author. She does so masterfully, balancing a critical, at points cynical, tone with tongue-in-cheek observations and plot twists that will keep you on edge until the very end. As much as some people are asking for a moratory about books about writers being writers and talking about books, I will always have a soft spot for them and Yellowface deserves a place of honour in this category.

— También esto pasará (This too shall pass, English edition) by Milena Busquets. This is a book I read while I was on holiday in Spain this summer and forgot to mention previously. The novel revolves around the death of the protagonist’s mother and the early stages of dealing with life without her. As she sets out on visiting the family home in the coast to sell it, and uses the occasion to bring together friends and exes alike for a last celebration, she embarks on a reflection on the meaning of life, sex as a vital force, and what the future holds for her. Despite its theme, Busquets’ writing flows very nicely and her style is honest and raw but also funny and warm, which made reading the novel a breeze. It has reminded me of Eva Baltasar and her celebrated trilogy (Permafrost/Boulder/Mammouth) which I’ve discussed in a previous edition of this newsletter.

— El Capitan Alatriste. Misión en París by Arturo Pérez-Reverte
After 14 years of uncertainty and doubt, Arturo Pérez-Reverte has finally deigned to publish the new instalment in his Capitán Alatriste series, Misión en París, which I devoured in two days. While the novel is currently available only in Spanish, translations will be hitting international markets soon as the adventures of a XVII century Spanish soldier have a big following beyond our borders in no small part due to Viggo Mortensen playing the role of Alatriste in the (very disappointing) film adaptation. If you aren’t familiar with this adventure series suffice to say that when the first book was published back in 1996 it was a proper revolution and Alatriste soon gained a cult following3. Following in the steps of Don Quijote but with a more grounded grasp of reality, Alatriste is the perfect anti-hero to bring us back to the time where the sun never set in the domains of the Spanish empire. But don’t be fooled because Alatriste isn’t a glossy celebration of the glories of the past. His role, in fact is to remind us that the causes of our downfall are often written in our DNA. Like the Cid, that other mythical soldier in Spanish history, Alatriste often finds himself reflecting on what a great soldier he could be if only his master were up to the task. A thought at times seconded, at times brushed away, by his good friend writer and poet Francisco de Quevedo (one of the leading cultural figures of the time), whose links and good standing within the court often make of him the messenger of new adventures that require the captain’s skills. Which in this latest instalment mean supporting the king of France Louis XIII and Richelieu during the siege of La Rochelle. And inevitably meeting at last The Three Musketeers, an encounter that was bound to happen sooner our later as Pérez-Reverte has never hidden his admiration for Dumas, which led him to write The Dumas Club, adapted into a passable film with Johnny Depp.4

Series

— Nobody Wants This, Season 2
If you’re a fan of Adam Brody and Kristen Bell’s interfaith romantic comedy, you’re in for a treat as season 2 excels in the often difficult task of meeting expectations, which were already high. I loved season 1, which was object of multiple rewatches and produced my most successful post to date full of ruminations about love and couldn’t help but to binge watch season 2. While Adam Brody and Kristen Bell chemistry is electric, there’s only so much you can keep the audience entertained with the will-she, won’t-she conversion question, which I’m sure the writers understood early on. In fact, if season 2 is a success is because it adds new characters to develop the story (Seth Rogen as a progressive rabbi is definitely a highlight) and it brings to the front secondary characters and their own personal quest for love, belonging and self-acceptance, whether inside or outside of relationships. While I still very much have the hots for Rabbi Noah (not very kosher of me, I know), Esther has climbed up many positions in my affections and along with Morgan they might be my favourite characters this season.

Documentary

— The Studio on the Farm
Most of the past couple of months have been spent in a state that I can only describe as musical trance. I won’t bother you (again) with the mystical revelation that Oasis second coming has been for me, but it’s led to this fascinating documentary about Rockfield Studios, the first residential recording studio in the world and legendary place where Queen recorded Bohemian Rhapsody. Founded by brothers Charles and Kingsley Ward, who had a passion for music since an early age and who saw an opportunity in the early 60 to transform their farm into a professional recording studio with the added benefit of having the capacity to host musicians in place while they recorded, providing a unique experience that didn’t disrupt the creative flow. In the era where music technology tools are making it easier and more accessible for people to compose music at home, not to speak of the progressive disappearance of many recording studios, Rockfield is a reminder of the power of the collaborative creative process in an environment designed for it.

Films

— French Lover
If you read this newsletter regularly, you probably know I have quite enjoyed French Lover, a Netflix film with Omar Sy and Sara Giraudeau. In fact, I liked it so much as to write a full post about it reflecting on the way French do romantic comedies5 and whether their more subtle approach may be the way forward. It turns out the film has an enthusiastic fanbase as per the many comments I’ve received6 , so if you haven’t watched it yet, what are you waiting to join our petit French Lover club?

— Steve
Adapted from Max Porter’s novella Shy, the film takes one of the marginal characters in the book and puts him at the centre of the story. Steve (a haunting and nuanced performance by Cillian Murphy) is the director of a reform school in the mid-90s which operates with limited resources and staff in a highly charged environment. Following the course of a day, where a television team is on site to film a segment for a show, we observe Steve and his team, as well as the boys they look after, pushed to the limit as yet another crisis unravels by the hour. I love the work Cillian Murphy is getting involved in since winning the Oscar to support projects he cares about and Steve happens to be a very timely film when the discourse about the importance of the welfare state seems to be changing.

— I Swear
This fantastic biopic about John Davidson, a man with Tourette’s syndrome that received an MBE for his work educating the public on the condition. Played on screen by an outstanding Robert Aramayo, who gives a performance full of honesty and warmth that successfully avoids caricature, we follow John before the symptoms developed and how their sudden manifestation, at a time where there was little information on Tourette, changed his life and that of his family irreversibly. While John will suffer some injustices due to the lack of knowledge about his condition, he will also find people along the way who will see past the swearing and impulsivity and will see the person beyond the symptoms. Be prepared to laugh out loud (the scene in a car with a girl with Tourette is sublime) and shed a few tears.

— Good Fortune
Good Fortune has been wrongly advertised as a comedy, which is not. At least not in a laugh-out-loud kind of way despite Aziz Ansari’s ambitious for his directorial debut. In fact, this is more a critique of our modern way of living which along the way will make you smile here and there. Ansari’s wry humour is a lens that magnifies the absurdity of many of the situations Arj (played by Ansari), a precarious worker in the gig economy, has to face on a day-to-day basis before a mistake of his guardian angel Gabriel (a Keanu Reeves that does a great job delivering dead pan lines) allows him to live the life of a millionaire tech bro he’s briefly worked for (a perfectly cast Seth Rogen). While the movie’s intentions are good and lead us to reflect about the way we live, the narrative remains surface level and fails to pack any real punches that can deliver anything of substance beyond the obvious. Still, it is interesting to see Reeves on screen being hapless and slightly incompetent instead of kicking ass like a pro.

— Hampstead
Based on the true story of Harry Hallowes, who lived for over two decades in a shack on Hampstead Heath, under the light-hearted veneer of a romantic comedy of sorts, this film explores the very timely questions of what a good life is for each of us and whether it is possible to live according to our values in a capitalistic society. While this one won’t knock your socks off, the beauty of Hampstead and a cast led by Brendan Gleeson, Diane Keaton and Leslie Manville will make it difficult not to warm up to it. A perfect comfort watch to enjoy with a hot drink under a blanket.

Interviews/Podcasts/Short bits

— Really enjoyed this interview with Cillian Murphy and Max Porter where they discuss the creative process behind Steve.

— I was sent this clip by someone who knows of my undying devotion for Hugh Grant and who thought I’d appreciate the opportunity to know him more intimately. They were not wrong and my opinion of him has only improved after watching this so now I’m sharing it with you all.

Music

— The Art of Loving by Olivia Dean
British singer Olivia Dean has been a well known act for a bit. In fact, her upcoming O2 gigs are all sold out. Too bad I have just come across her music as otherwise I would loved to go to one of the shows. The Art of Loving, Dean’s second album, was released at the end of September and it has been on heavy rotation for the past couple of weeks because, as a mood listener, I find it has the perfect autumn vibe.

There is something in Dean’s melodies and voice that bring to mind both Corinne Bailey Rae and Kimberose, while and yet they’re original, fresh, and instantly recognisable in their own right. Man I Need, So Easy (To Fall in Love), Nice to Each Other and Lady Lady would put a spring in your step and a smile on your face on a sunny day. If rainy or gloomy, the rest of the album will have you covered, but my top choices to get lost in thought are I’ve Seen It, Close Up, Let Alone the One You Love, and Something Inbetween.

— Lovin’ You by Richard Ashcroft
I shared in the previous issue how I had re-discovered Richard Ashcroft as a result of having been to see Oasis. Well, his latest album Lovin’ You (apparently love is in the air this season) has been the other loyal companion of my autumn walks. Ashcroft is not afraid to venture into new musical territory and as a result Lovin’ You is an eclectic mix of instant classic Ashcroft melodies where he lets his soulful voice power through in Out of This Blues, Oh L’Amour and Find Another Reason, while Heavy News embraces indie rock melodies for lyrics about the state of the world, and Lover provides a more light-hearted contrast to the rest of the album. But perhaps the most surprising track is I’m a Rebel, an incursion into disco/electronica that, contrary to what I would have thought, suits Ashcroft’s voice surprisingly well.

— If you only have time/money for one thing until Christmas, then let it be going to the Lee Miller exhibition at Tate Britain, which runs until 12 February 2026. This excellent retrospective on Miller gathers some of her most iconic photographs and celebrates the extensive career of an artist that reinvented herself many times, from fashion model to muse of Ray Man to surrealist genius of her own right, travel photographer and eventually war reporter. It is in fact this phase in Miller career that the excellent film Lee with Kate Winslet explored and which is a great companion to this exhibition. Likewise, you can read the piece has written about it (Be More Lee) which hopefully will prompt you to book your tickets.

— Fans of Le Carré get your hats and trench coats ready as this stage adaptation is for you: The Spy Who Came in From the Cold at Soho Place, running from 17th November until 21st February. I’ve already bought my ticket and got my hands on the novel, which I hope to read before going to see the play. One can only hope.

— Originally staged at Soho Place and now coming to a screen near you from 27th November is The Fifth Step, a fantastic play written by David Ireland with Martin Freeman and Jack Lowden. Based on Ireland’s own experience following Alcoholics Anonymous’ 12-step programme, The Fifth Step explores with humour, compassion and brutal honesty the idea of trust in a programme, in religion, and in people but also the inescapability of flaws and moral failings in all of them. I was lucky to see this on its final week in the theatre and the performances of Freeman and Lowden were mesmerising.

— Last but not least, a very tempting play for 2026 as Leslie Manville and Aidan Turner will bring to life the Marquise de Merteuil and the Vicomte de Valmont in a new stage production of Pierre Choderlos de Laclos’ Les Liaisons Dangereuses at the National Theatre. Booking is now open and after having watched the promo trailer, I am already counting the days for this.

— Mince pies are probably one of my favourite things about the run up to Christmas. One year I even did a mince pie tasting (the best one was from Konditor) and got a bit sick as a result, which put me off mince pies altogether the following year. I’ve learned my lesson and now I mix things up a bit. At the time of writing, I’ve already eaten a box of mince pies (plus some other treats) and was planning on cutting down, but when gave me the scoop that Sainsbury’s had a half price offer on Taste the Difference, I had to make an exemption because they’re my favourite supermarket mince pies. Buttery, not too sweet, right amount of filling, and not too crumbly. Please send thoughts and prayers because it’s going to be a challenging time until 2026.

Abroad is an independent publication about London, living in between cultures, languages, books, music, films, creativity, and being human in the age of artificial intelligence.

PS: If you enjoyed this post, please like, comment and share as much as you like as that will tell the algorithm it has to inflict my thoughts on a greater number of people, which has been a childhood dream of mine. And if you find yourself here regularly, consider subscribing to receive updates and support my writing.

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Blame it on the fact that the past few weeks I have been involved in a lot of conversations in French, sometimes with more success than others depending on whether champagne was on offer, but I am resolved to master the language of Molière comme il faut.

Ths is not my first French rodeo and in fact for the best part of the past 20 years I’ve been in an on-off relationship with French.

After years of pain and suffering trying to make sense of exchanges that consisted of a string of monosyllabic bah, hein, bref, euh, ouf, and ouais -with the occasional and slightly more elaborate chais pas and du coup randomly thrown in- I now find great pleasure in employing those same words when I want to be part of a conversation in a meaningful way. Because you see, learning a language is not only about the words but also the vision of the world it comes with it. And the way the French have of conveying meaning succinctly is something I find very refreshing.

Much of my linguistic progress in recent years has been in no small part thanks to structured learning at the Institute Français here in London. However, given the astronomic price of in-person language courses, I can’t always afford to part with a small fortune to spend two hours with a group of retired adults with a second home in Provence as we slowly kill the French language one mistake at a time while our teacher is paid to bear witness in silence.

Instead, I’ve decided to go back to a method that allows me to be exposed to French in a wide range of accents, formal and informal settings, and which allows me to listen to any mistakes from the comfort of my home at a fraction of the cost. I am of course talking about Netflix.

As someone who keeps a subscription mostly because it is one of the few platforms which has content in different languages, I’ve learned that the greater the desire to find something to watch in anything other than English, the harder Netflix will hide it from you. This is because when you’re based in the UK you are by default bombarded by British and American content mostly, so while I’d rather ignore Love is Blind, it’s always there on the home screen for me to see when I log in. The irony isn’t lost on me.

The key to finding what you want in Netflix, especially outside its Anglo-centric algorithm, is to be specific and type either the name of a show or an actor and then take it from there. The magic words I go for today are Omar Sy. It turns out I am lucky, or j’ai de la chance as the French would say, as there is a new film with him, French Lover, that was released a couple of weeks ago and of which Netflix has kept me in the dark. Bastards, sorry I mean mais quels cons.

Within the first five minutes it is clear that this is a French take on Notting Hill with Omar Sy playing the role of Abel Camara, a world-famous actor unfulfilled with his career despite being coveted by Hollywood producers, and who at the tender age of 40 also happens to be a bit of a playboy.

Can I just say that casting Omar Sy for this role is a true coup de génie?

If you’re making a French Notting Hill of sorts, he is the only male French actor nowadays1 who can convincingly carry this role, not only because of his actual superstar status or imposing physique, but most importantly because coming from a comedy background, he shines in roles where he can be playful and not take himself too seriously. French Lover, in case its title didn’t make it obvious, allows him plenty of opportunities to do just that.

The opening scene is a very tongue-in-cheek wink, even in the way it’s shot, to a real deodorant ad that was extremely popular2 when it came out a few years ago. I bet Sy had a good laugh shooting it. It is a simple yet very effective way to set the tone and what to expect of his performance as this scene establishes who Abel Camara is and how he doesn’t shy away from showing some skin and turning up the charm to captive the audience.

In fact, this may be the sexiest Sy has ever been on screen. While his debut in such a role may not turn him into a romantic lead overnight, it has given him a chance to show he can be convincing when the part demands a softer but also seductive side to be on display.

So we have our Julia Roberts but what about our Hugh Grant?

I was coming to that if you only let me type.

Sara Giraudeau stars opposite Sy in the role of Marion, a down-to-earth woman who dreams of opening a food truck after having said goodbye to the restaurant business she shared with her ex-husband following their recent divorce. She is an equally inspired choice and a perfect match to counterbalance the overpowering onscreen presence of Sy in a way that doesn’t feel contrived.

Unlike the occasionally helpless and often mumbling Will played by Grant in Notting Hill, who at times was exasperatingly restrained in his affections, blinded by the megastardom of Robert’s Anna Scott, Marion may occasionally dip his foot into self-doubt but ultimately she has clear ideas about who she is and what she wants. Her character brings the right dose of common sense, pragmatism and emotion to the table to keep Sy’s real and fictional charisma in check and dim his mega-watt smile a notch in a credible way.

Despite sharing a similar premise with Notting Hill, French Lover presents a more realistic view of relationships and puts its protagonists on a more level playing field. In part because the French are a lot less celebrity-obsessed and even regard fame with a hint of contempt, as something to be secretly ashamed of, but also due to the maturity of the characters in the film, who are in their 40s as opposed to the late 20s-mid 30s age range most romantic comedies seem to favour.

Personally I consider When Harry Met Sally the genre golden standard and I believe the fact that Nora Ephron, a woman with lived experience, was behind the screenplay has much to do with it. I am aware such gems that manage to capture both the humour and the romance so effortlessly while giving us multidimensional characters are the exception, not the rule, and I often wonder if it is because they lack a woman’s outlook on relationships. Therefore, French Lover being the debut of Nina Rives, who has also co-written the script with husband Hugo Gélin, has managed to infuse a breath of fresh air into a difficult genre to get right.

To begin with because the circumstances of Abel and Marion’s meeting in French Lover are far more plausible than those in Notting Hill or your average Hollywood/Anglo-centric romantic comedy.

In fact, in France, like in most Southern European countries, sociability is engrained in one’s DNA. Therefore, the French national sport is prendre un café/verre, a pleasure often paired with smoking a cigarette as anyone who’s ever been to Paris can confirm. Very conveniently, then, our protagonists meet inside a bar where the character played by Sy enters to find a bit of respite and the character played by Giraudeau happens to be the waitress that takes his order.

Par contre, I have yet to see a significant enough number of Hollywood actors desperate to visit bookshops regularly anywhere in the world they happen to be for it to be a credible meet cute scenario.

If I learned anything from the multiple rewatches of Dix pour Cent (Call My Agent) is that French actors are always delighted for an opportunity to meet their agent at the restaurant or bar, already waiting for them in lieu, or bumping into each other by chance when they go separately so spotting a French cinema legend enjoying un petit café in company or on their own is not an unusual sighting in Paris.

In fact, this is how my sister found out that Laetitia Casta had already had a baby with Louis Garrel3 before the newspapers caught wind of the news.

She happened to take a seat next to her at a terrasse where Casta was already installed with Garrel and their newborn baby latched to one of her breasts. “They’re both incredibly hot, by the way. It should be illegal for people to be that sexy. It’s embarrassing how ugly the rest of us are around them by comparison,” she said in the voice note she sent me when she sneaked out to the toilet to give me the scoop and check her face hadn’t suffered any real alterations after the unexpected collision with a former top model turned actress and his equally genetically blessed actor/director partner.

If French Lover were a Hollywood film, this interaction inside the bar between the main characters would play in an awkward but ultimately nice/sexy/funny manner where we can already see the sparks flying and start rooting for them to get together already.

Something like the beginning of Anyone But You, which I’ve recently got around watching, a film which received much media attention back in 2024 in part for bringing back romantic comedies to the big screen but also due to the speculation surrounding Glen Powell and Sydney Sweeney and which eventually Powell admitted was a clever PR ruse devised by Sweeney to attract viewers4. While Anyone But You is less terrible than I feared, it is nonetheless a very forgettable and insipid regurgitation of Much Ado About Nothing despite the amount of saccharine and spice that has been forced-fed into the script to make it palatable.5

We are fortunate, therefore, French Lover is not such an atrocity and that its premise is grounded in less hyperbolic and in-your-face romantic gestures and anchored in more subtlety and restrain, which reflects how French people and the language itself express appreciation. For you see, in French people don’t openly say something is good, that’d be pretentious, embarrassing almost. Instead they say pas terrible. When something is actually really good, they will resort to the more extravagant vraiement pas mal.

I’m indeed impressed the French cast of Emily in Paris, where the awesomes are a dime a dozen to refer to anything from food to how the job is going or the skills of French men under the sheets, has made it four full seasons without any major health incidents because all that gratuitous praise can lead to serious brain damage over time. I hear season 5 is currently shooting in Venice. I’m sure the Italians will welcome the opportunity of being stereotyped as awesome latin lovers for a change while the French will be happy to take a break from being at the receiving end of such embarrassment.

Given French Lover is not a Hollywood film, after our protagonists engage in a short exchange where their two separate worlds collide they don’t look at each other with starry eyes and silly smiles, ready to spend the next 90 minutes sheepisly frolicking. Instead, they double-down on their Frenchness and proceed to display two of the most French traits par excellence as they quickly engage in a well coordinated exercise where one of them has a rant and complains while the other complains and then has a rant.

The exchanges finishes with Marion quitting her job because at this point elle s’en fout, which is French for she’s ready to move on and do something else with her life. So far so parfait. If there had been someone on strike for whatever made up reason, this could have been sublime but let’s not be greedy.

It’s not even ten minutes into the film and I am already impressed.

Am I watching the romantic comedy of the year? On Netflix? In French?

It may be a bit too early to sing victory, but at least I’m finally seeing a film with two adults where the meet cute is realistic enough as to be something that could actually happen to me. Might already have in fact. Because if I met an attractive and available man at a safe public place who of his own free will engages in neutral or even friendly conversation with me in a non-threatening way, I’ll probably complain about it and then have a rant about how impossible it is for a woman to mind her own bloody business without being bothered by an agent of the patriarchy, no matter how good looking he is and how single I am.

Without giving too much away, the relationship dynamic between Marion and Abel seems rather plausible given their fictional circumstances.

Like any of us if we found ourselves regularly sharing a bed with someone a few places higher up in the attractiveness pyramid and with a bit of a fuckboy reputation, she understandably questions why someone who makes women salivate when he steps into a room is with her, who in comparison to the women he’s dated, including a very attractive ex who happens to be the lead in his new project, isn’t as visually enchanting at first glance. The reality is that Marion possesses buckets of charm in Abel’s eyes precisely because, and I apologise to every woman reading this in advance for what is coming next, she isn’t like any other woman he has met before6.

From the outset Marion is quite unfazed by the whole celebrity paraphernalia that surrounds Abel. Marion’s character shows this clearly during a scene that will act as a catalyst for the events of the film’s third act and in which Abel behaves like a spoilt brat after learning he’s secured only a supporting role, instead of the lead he was hoping to land, in a film with a critically acclaimed director he wants to work with as a way to steer his career into a new direction. Marion is taken aback by Abel’s childish reaction and provides much needed perspective -as well as a good dressing down- into what is a privileged life that is almost never questioned up close by anyone outside that secluded circle and echo chamber that fame has built around Abel.

Her clearheadedness and pragmatism, healthy links with her support network, self-assuredness, and her ability to walk away from situations that aren’t good for her is what makes of Marion the modern romantic comedy heroine we need to see more often on screen. Think everything Dakota Johnson is not in Materialists7 and you get the picture.

In fact, let’s take a moment to talk about Materialists and the massive disappointment it has been.

Perhaps the reason why it was hyped as the romantic comedy of the year is to be found in the success of Celine Song’s excellent directorial debut Past Lives, which while not being a romantic comedy per se explored love and longing with such perfection that many started to look at Song as the breath of fresh air the genre had been waiting for. When the news broke that Song was working on a romantic comedy for which she had also wrote the screenplay based on her own experience working as a matchmaker, the stakes were very high and many expected Materialists would be, without a doubt, a new blueprint for romantic comedies.

Hence the shock of it being a shallow story where a woman with the emotional intelligence and agency levels of a cobblestone is -for reasons that defy human understanding and a rock’s affection capabilities- attracted to two men who would have been far more convincing as romantic leads if only they had been allowed to date each other instead.

Suffice to say Benedict Cumberbatch and Olivia Colman as a married couple who wants to kill each other in the remake of The Roses have more chemistry (and banter) than the apathetic and implausible love triangle formed by Dakota Johnson, Pedro Pascal and Chris Evans in Materialists.

Without giving too much away, I have enjoyed French Lover more than I expected and will be watching it again. The insider’s eye on celebrity culture and the cinema industry and the secondary characters add an extra layer to the way the Abel and Marion move into the world and their outlook on relationships.

After a quick look at the first reviews I can see why some critics (mostly youngish, mostly English speakers whose expectations of romance may have been moulded by the in-your-face swooning Hollywood loves so much) are not convinced by French Lover as a romantic comedy on account of his perceived lack of romance, which I disagree with.

It has it on the right doses if you take into account the characters aren’t your standard bubbly 20 something Anglo-centric leads but two people with fully formed personalities (and emotional baggage) who have a very different cultural outlook on life and relationships and yet are open-minded about what life has to offer in the love deparment. That, believe it or not, is where the real romance is for it’s incredibly hard not to become a bloody cynic when you’re single after your mid 30s.

I’d even say French Lover is perhaps the best romantic comedy I’ve seen this year. Without reinventing the wheel nor subverting too much the status quo, it manages to be both a comedy and have two leads with obvious chemistry who don’t need to be all over each other to prove their attraction to the spectator. Less is always more, especially in French.

The real highlight of French Lover for me is the character of Marion, brilliantly brought to life by Sara Giraudeau’s subtle and natural rendition, an actress I wasn’t familiar with but who I’ll make sure to keep an eye on.

Unlike Will in Notting Hill, who wants to shag Anna just as much as the other men even if he’s better at hiding it under all that mumbling, Marion knows better. She is fully aware that no man, no matter how famous he is or how much it makes you want to send feminism back a few centuries with the filthy thoughts he inspires in you, or precisely because of that, is worth your peace of mind. Especially if what you want in life is going to come second every time.

So when Abel’s career finally takes a new turn -thanks in fact to Marion’s support- and he starts behaving like a little diva, instead of gaslighting herself and making more excuses for him, she says tu me fais chier, putain. Which roughly translates as enough is enough. You can spot the hand of a woman in the script because no man would allow her heroine to willingly leave his romantic hero stranded without consequence.

I may be reading too much into what is essentially just a necessary plot device to keep things interesting and not give away the end too soon, which is as predictable as you can imagine. Marion’s self-affirmation, however, is a step towards a new direction in a genre that, with the exception of Nora Ephron, has been traditionally defined by patriarchal views on love.

And can’t a girl dream with a romantic comedy heroine who isn’t afraid to say j’en marre, foute-moi la paix and chooses herself when things don’t work anymore even when she’s bedding a walking erotic dream? Moi, I think that’s what writers and directors should represent more often on screen in order to keep up with how women’s expectations of romantic relationships, and what they’re willing to sacrifice for them, have evolved.

Who knows, maybe the key to the survival of romantic comedies is to embrace the French understated and more down-to-earth approach to the genre and have female leads with well-rounded personalities (and not only tits8) who don’t lower their standards just to be with someone, no matter how much he thinks he is hot shit. Perhaps this would help us all develop more realistic expectations about relationships and love as a result.

Now that would be vraiement pas mal indeed and Nora Ephron could at last stop revolving in her tomb.

Abroad is an independent publication about London, living in between cultures, creativity, and being human in the age of artificial intelligence.

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As far as online meetings go, there is little I can tell you that most of you don’t know already.

There’s always someone who forgets to mute themselves and you hear them whisper in the background, usually about non-work related stuff like picking up the kids from school or deciding what they are cooking for dinner and which groceries they need to get later on.

There’s that one person who forgets they’re on camera when they shouldn’t and you need to let them know -ideally subtly and via private message- that everyone can see them excavate the depths of their nostrils with a focus worthy of a seasoned speolologist.

There are usually several people discussing the proceedings of the main meeting with other colleagues in a parallel meeting rolling their eyes at the exact same points and which constitutes the backbone on which office alliances and friendships are forged.

And there is of course always someone who is new and is forced, whether they want it or not, to go through a round of never-ending intros.

Lawrence, bless his double-barrelled surname and remarkable skin complexion for someone in his 50s, is new to the organisation. More specifically, he is the Director of Talent, Skills and People Development, which makes of him a member of the senior leadership team by virtue of job title and and one of the top six breadwinners in the company courtesy of the salary that goes with it.

If we were in Southern Europe, we wouldn’t know his name much less see his face until he was approaching retirement and we needed to confirm whether we’d be attending the ‘surprise’ farewell party. That is because in Southern Europe you’re far more likely to be acknowledged and celebrated when you’re leaving a company than when you’re part of it, which tells you everything you need to know about how things work and why so many of us rejected such promising career prospects.

Luckily for Lawerence we find ourselves closer to the frozen winds of the Artic than to the balmy Mediterranean breeze, which means people are always given their moment to shine, whether they want it or not. In fact, as a result of all the other senior directors being away either on annual leave or on business trips, the spotlight has been turned on Lawrence sooner than he may have wished.

Apart from where the toilets are and how the coffee machine works, I doubt he has had time to familiarise with much else in the short time he’s been with us. However, in a classic move reflective of British leadership style, Lawrence has been tasked with hosting a meeting he’s never attended previously to discuss topics outside his immediate area of expertise and in which there are 230 people spread across several time zones, of whom at most he’s met 20 being generous.

Unfortunately, or rather luckily depending on how you look at it, there is no time for introductions today as Lawrence has a tight agenda to go through during the next hour and which is peppered with acronyms that are confusing to the most seasoned among us and, I presume, utterly indecipherable for him judging by how he’s looking at the screen with the expression of someone who is trying to remember which past sin he’s atoning for while he mutters in a clear RP English “What the actual fuck does IDGF even mean?” and which in true British manner we all do our best to pretend we haven’t heard.

Despite this slightly disconcerting start, I have faith in Lawrence.

He is, after all, a senior director and one doesn’t land a job that puts you at the top of the taxpayer pyramid without having done something to deserve it. Besides, when has been a little linguistic hurdle an impediment for a British person to carry on hoping others will understand if only he speaks loudly and slowly enough?

“Right, er… so today we have… uhm, quite the agenda, it seems,” Lawrence manages to say among a surprising amount of facial twitching. “Let’s… uhm, let’s get cracking, shall we? I think the first point today is, and please excuse me if I am getting this wrong but it says here IDGF. Is that correct?” the disbelief in his voice is obvious as he tries to confirm we use this acronym in a professional setting and not something we’ve just made up to test him. “Are we, er, actually allowed to use, excuse me again, IDGF in a work context?”

I have always admired and envied the ability British people have to be effortlessly resourceful, witty, and eloquent at anything that requires a level of public performance. Lawrence, I can see now, is the exception to that rule.

Jim, the colleague presenting on that point, unmutes himself and clarifies in a good-humoured tone that IDGF, despite what it may seem, actually stands for “International and Domestic Growth Forecast” to refer to projects completing in the next 18 months. Lawrence seems puzzled we use an acronym that can be so easily misconstrued for an expression denoting a strong lack of interest in any business, whether international, domestic, or our own.

Which is probably how Lawrence feels listening to Jim speak for the next ten minutes in a series of acronyms for which no additional explanation is offered. While Lawrence’s face remains mostly straight, his eyebrows have engaged in a frantic eye gymnastics routine that could win Simone Biles another Olympic medal and which seems to have been triggered by the increased used of cryptic words. Keyboards across the globe must be fuming as I bet the parallel meeting brigade is as fascinated as I am with Lawrence’s hypnotic eyebrow game.

The next point in the agenda is introduced and it contains yet another acronym but since we’re all familiar with it, the colleague now speaking doesn’t elaborate on what it stands for.

Lawrence has now morphed into a modern Champollion trying his best to decipher the inscriptions of the Rosetta stone that is this meeting with nothing but the AOB1 to go with. His face is contorting in ways I doubt the most experienced members of the Cirque du Soleil are able to pull off without tearing a muscle. It’s quite impressive to witness although I don’t know what to make of it. What if he’s having a stroke while we’re casually debating in the parallel chat whether his superb skin it’s only the product of extreme facial yoga or there’s been any subtle chemical enhancements?

To be fair it’s not easy to look composed while absorbing information that must be all Greek to him while being closely observed by hundreds of strangers around the world, who are judging not only his enviable skincare routine but also which merits have landed someone who clearly belongs in a cottage in the Cotswolds a job where seeing IDGF as an agenda point almost causes him an aneurysm.

Another things we can tell immediately is that Lawrence is not very well versed in online meetings etiquette as he is oblivious to the fact he should turn off his camera if he doesn’t want us to see him curse internally while his eyebrows do it externally. His facial twerking skills are truly unlike anything I’ve seen before. Maybe he’s doing it on purpose to show us it’s all natural? That supple skin tone at 50 doesn’t happen on its own but by the heights the eyebrows reach so effortlessly, almost merging with his well-defined hairline, it’s clear he doesn’t do Botox.

Half an hour into the meeting, we arrive to the point on the agenda where any new starters are asked to introduce themselves. Lawrence, visibly exhausted by the proceedings by now, erupts in a soliloquy that catches us off guard as up until now he has delegated most of the talking to his facial features.

“And now… er… right, new starters. Good stuff. So as you may know I’m quite new myself and, er, I’d like to ask everyone to be patient with new joiners as it can be, well, you know, a bit overwhelming at the beginning.” He has taken off his glasses, his left index and thumb gently rubbing the bridge of his nose where the glasses were resting a few seconds ago. He takes his head slightly back, closing his eyes and pursing his lips a few times as if to prove he’s not a one-trick eyebrow pony.

“It’s kind of, er, challenging, when you join a new place and you haven’t even got time to learn the lingo, I mean, business terms you are all so familiar with and clearly love to use so very much,” he says still with his eyes closed and head back. A silence follows. Then, after a few seconds, as if he had suddenly remembered he’s in a meeting, he erects himself on the chair, puts on his glasses, and resumes speaking in his clear Downton Abbey voice.

“Right, er, well, I trust you all have been through it before and know how to, yes, uhm, just you know, speak in a way we can all understand as it’s a learning curve for many of us. Anyway, over to our new joiners. Can you please introduce yourselves?.”

As soon as the first new joiner mentions her previous role was at “UKTBD, which I’m sure you’re all familiar with”, we see Lawrence’s mouth slowly contour to form the words “Jesus fucking Christ.” Because he has forgotten to mute himself, we also hear them loud and clear a millisecond later, like a thunder following the lightning.

If you asked me to pick someone on the spot who’d rather have a rabid dog lick their testicles than be in this meeting a minute longer, my money would be on Lawrence. From this side of the screen his facial expression presents a significant overlap with that of someone having a mental breakdown and I can only sympathise.

By virtue of his senior job title (and six figure salary, let’s not forget) this is probably the kind of extra responsibilities bestowed upon him on top of his main duties as Director of Talent, Skills and People Development, which for all I know could be limited to being able to contort his face into 50 different facial expressions per hour.

That’s the problem with job titles: they hardly reflect someone’s real strengths and what they’re good at and therefore many people are often professionally mismatched and undervalued, their true talents buried under a pile of meaningless job functions and acronyms they’re forced to learn as a business lingua franca to communicate with colleagues whose job titles are equally cryptic about their actual skills. For instance, perhaps it’s about time that Senior Finance Manager rebranded as I’ll give you hell if you forget to add as much as a comma when you claim business expenses, which immediately offers an invaluable insight into the miserable life that person must lead outside of work to find solace in such an awful role.

With the meeting approaching its end and less than two minutes to log off, Lawrence’s face relaxed into the closest he’s been in the past 58 minutes to something close to relief. For the past hour we have witnessed an individual who regretted the moment he came into the world and followed a path that led him to being in charge of today’s meeting. Now, for the first time, his features seem to be spontaneously arranging themselves into a smile. Although after the extraordinary facial showcase of the past hour this may as well be expression number 48 kicking in.

“So, thanks everyone for joining today, er, hope that was a useful meeting and that next month you won’t have to put up with me again. Take care everyone, bye now.”

Before we have time to unmute ourselves and proceed to chant an echo of “byes” and “thanks,” Lawrence has vanished, his remarkably flexible visage swallowed up by the black hole of the screen, probably to never be seen again if he can avoid it.

As I have twenty minutes before my next online meeting, I decide to make a coffee and catch up with the news. There is something I can’t quite put my finger on about Lawrence and his mesmerising facial expressions, but my attention is immediately diverted to a strange headline the moment I open the website of a national newspaper.

It seems Kemi Badenoch has promised, should the Conservatives reach power under her strong and stable2 guidance, to cap the number of “rip off” university degrees such as English. I would be interested in knowing whether this great idea came to her before or after people from her own party managed to misspelled Britain in some the merchandising they were selling at the Conservative conference. Not that it would make any difference.

It is the utter absurdity of this headline that makes me finally realise what has been bugging me all along about Lawrence’s superb facial performance.

Much has been said about how meritocracy is a myth in the UK, a country ruled deep down by the unbreakable bonds forged within the privilege of class, the connections one makes as a result of their station in life at birth and who will secure a prosperous career path, whichever professional route one chooses to follow, and oftentimes irrespective of skill or merit. Cynics would say that meritocracy in this day and age is an empty shell as the word has been devoid of its meaning over time, condemned to become a verbal fossil, trapped in the pages of the Encyclopaedia Britannica like a prehistoric insect in amber.

However, if one pays close attention, meritocracy is a word often misused to hide a much more disturbing truth and it’s quite sad most of us have become so emotionally numb as to not be able to recognise it even when it’s right in front of our eyes. It really breaks my heart to witness how so many people are forced to waste their potential and lead unfilled lives in positions of power only because they have been born in the wrong circumstances when it is obvious their true talents will be much more valued in a circus. Ideally as clowns.

You will think I’m too naive for believing that being born into riches and privilege should not prevent, say, a young man born in this country from immigrant parents from being able to earn an honest living busking at Tottenham Court Road during rush hour while everyone ignores him at best and wishes he had chosen Bank at worst.

Unfortunately for many people life has been predetermined before they were even born. Life for them will be at best an uphill struggle and at worst a lost battle against a rigged system designed for the few, not the many.

In the case of our hypothetical young man who dreams of nothing else but tormenting commuters at 8 am on a Wednesday with his rendition of Sultans of Swing (lyrics and all), by virtue of his birth he will be unfairly pushed to study PPE at Oxbridge, work as an analyst at an investment bank, join a political party after a while, possibly even do a short stint as PM of his country, and then end his days as a senior advisor to a multibillion tech business, a role is not far-fetched to think he may have secured as a result of being in a series of highly influential positions throughout his life.

Now you tell me if someone whose dreams have been crushed so cruelly by something as arbitrary as how they came into the world can believe in a word like meritocracy at all. To which I add in this economy and in the age of nepo babies.

And yet, for all its flaws, the British system at least provides equal opportunities for everyone to make a fool of themselves regardless of their origin. It’s an embarrassment of riches. Name other country allows this level of personal and public ridicule at such level of seniority without consequence3. You can argue this diverges from the intended original meaning of meritocracy but you can’t deny these people have fought hard, sometimes to unthinkable extremes, to be seen as the most highly incompetent among their peers.

To see so many people in politics waste their potential trying to be taken seriously when deep inside there’s a stand-up comedian desperate to join an open mic night is truly heartbreaking.

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In fact, given the extraordinary capacity that the English language has to coin new words and build on existing ones with a simple tweak, I would like to suggest that we start using a new term to raise awareness about the real victims of the class system and its shortcomings before Kemi Badenoch removes English from the higher education curriculum altogether.

Meritocrazy.

As for its definition, I propose “the government or the holding of power by people selected by their high tolerance for ridicule, capacity for publicly making fools of themselves without blinking and whose skills are far more relevant and appreciated as a Jet2Holiday resort entertainer in Tenerife in low season than in any decision-making setting.”

I’d go even further and advocate for meritocrazy to be chosen as the Oxford English Dictionary word of the year in 2025 as many people have gone truly above and beyond to make extraordinary merits -perhaps the only time in their lives they’ve applied themselves with such dedication to a task- to outdo their peers, at home and abroad, to put the word on the map of global politics.

Or in the case of poor Lawrence on a meeting he would have rather never been part of no matter his privileged taxpayer status.

I wouldn’t be surprised if after being forced to take part in such traumatic event, we received an email in the the next few days informing us that Lawrence has finally got around using IDGF at work and is leaving in order to pursuit other opportunities more aligned with his personal interests.

I sincerely hope that is the case and that he has the courage to follow his dreams.

I’m positive our loss will be the Cirque du Soleil’s win for Lawrence is the most outstanding facial contortionist I’ve ever seen in my life and while competition to join the team will be fierce, I have no doubt this is a role he’ll land on his own excellent merits.

Abroad is an independent publication about London, living in between cultures, creativity, and being human in the age of artificial intelligence.

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Monday 22nd September

I’m on my way to attend an event on the overlap of technology and creativity. This is the bread and butter of every work event I’ve attended in the past three years, although there are sometimes variations and instead of technology and creativity sometimes it is AI and creativity. It barely matters as at the end of the day they all cover the same ground.

A few weeks ago I opened my calendar to forward a meeting invitation to a colleague. She caught a glimpse and asked me why I was attending the same event so many times and I had to explain that, actually, they were different activities run by different organisations but for some weird reason they were all called the same. The AI and Creativity cartel is going strong in London.

Today’s event is a showcase of creators and cultural organisations that are using technology to help them push boundaries and build audiences. Halfway through a presentation from someone at the Royal Shakespeare Company on the future of storytelling, I feel a sudden itch at the back of my throat. Before I have time to grab any water, I start coughing with a violence worthy of Neil Farage’s statement about revoking the indefinite leave to remain this morning.

As the coughing involves my whole body, I need to leave the room and find a place where I can let it all out without scaring people with my convulsions.

By the time I’m done spitting my insides, everyone is out for the coffee break. Someone I know comes to greet me. Noticing my red, watery eyes and general pathetic state, he puts a hand on my arm, looks me in the eye and says to me in a hushed, conspirational voice: “I just want you to know most people don’t think like him.” And with that he makes a beeline to the canapés.

I’m not quite sure who he is talking about or how this is useful information to me in any way in my current state. On my way to get some water I bump into a colleague I didn’t know was also attending this event. “Jesus, you look like shit. You should definitely not be here.”

Now that’s more like it.

Back home I start coughing again and my throat feels very sore all of a sudden, which means the fresh ginger and lemon tea season has officially started. I was perfectly fine yesterday so I have no idea where this is coming from.

Tuesday 23rd September

With the wisdom that comes from listening to your body but also from the objective evidence that I have a temperature, my head feels about to explode, my throat is killing me and I can barely speak, I am regretting having put a call at 9 am this morning. Luckily it is with a very lovely Finnish woman I used to work with before she moved jobs. I give her a heads up about my health condition just in case we are interrupted by a violent coughing fit so that she doesn’t think is a dramatic excuse to end the call early.

My situation deteriorates as the hours pass. I swear my brain is melting away as the watches Dalí painted in The Persistence of Memory. Which is far from ideal as I need to attend another work event this evening and I am not sure my voice is going to survive it. Against any sensible judgement, I get dressed and head off to the event with a mission: speak to a client who has registered and from whom I need to confirm a few details about their London operation. I have one shot at a very brief conversation this evening and I need to use it wisely.

As soon as I step into the room, a colleague who has been following closely the turn to the extreme right in UK politics comes to me with an expression that says “Can you believe what’s going on in this country?” and before he actually opens his mouth I manage to say, very feebly, “I can’t really speak” because I’m trying to preserve the little voice I have to chat to my client whenever she shows up. “Oh, me neither. I am so furious that I have no words left, to be honest.” I would like to clarify the confusion but my throat is itching again so I let the misunderstanding linger as I turn my back to him and make my way to the coffee station for some hot water.

A colleague I haven’t seen in a while spots me and comes towards me with a smile and open arms, ready for a hug. As I don’t want to pass down whatever I have to anyone, instead of reaching out to her and hug her as I would normally do, I dodge her without saying a word and continue towards the coffee station as if nothing.

I am stopped by a third colleague who wants to introduce me to someone and the only thing I manage to say is “Don’t,” putting a hand up to prevent her from touching me, which is witnessed by the person standing next to her and who I suspect she wanted to introduce me to.

I trust I have built a strong enough reputation over the years as a supportive, helpful, considerate, polite, relatively unproblematic, and incredibly witty colleague for anyone to brush aside any thoughts that I’m acting like a fucking twat this evening for no particular reason. It takes a lifetime to build a reputation but a minute to destroy it. Except that right now I am a bit worried I can both destroy my good reputation and build a new one before this event is over.

Halfway through the event I need to leave the room in a hurry as no amount of ginger and lemon tea (which I brought in a thermos) or menthol sweets can’t keep at bay an extremely nasty coughing fit. If by the end of the week I don’t have abs of steel from violently contracting my insides for ten minutes every half hour, I’m going to be very disappointed indeed.

I go back inside once I regain control of my body and on the registration table I spot an uncollected badge with the name of my client.

She had one job.

In a rare moment of clarity, I decide there’s no need for me to keep suffering so I get my coat and leave quietly. On my way back home, as if possessed by the spirit of a pandemic toilet roll hoarder, I acquire fresh ginger and lemons in quantities that grant me a few raised eyebrows, which in this country is as the equivalent to someone asking “Are you sure you need all that?" or maybe “Are you sure you’ve not gone mad?,” I can’t never remember which one it is.

Wednesday 24th September

At the event yesterday it was discussed that the UK is a market of early adopters.

I can 100% validate this claim as a new covid strain, which goes by Stratus, has been going around for less than a week and I’ve already caught it. I feel like Dua Lipa showing off the new iPhone 17 before it’s officially released.

So far Stratus outperforms previous covid iterations (the previous three I’ve been through to be specific) in terms of onset of symptoms (almost overnight), intensity of sore throat, unnecessary violent cough, and the added plus of a nagging headache that makes you feel as if your head was an overinflated balloon and your brains could explode when you least expect it. On the downside, Stratus seems to be lacking in the mucus department compared to previous covid versions.

Overall it’s a 8’5/10 for me, perhaps one of the best variants covid has released so far. Having said that, unless you really are desperate to go through a feverish state for no reason while your whole body cries for mercy, coughing fits are more like mini-training sets and swallowing feels like eating glass, you can probably stick to your usual seasonal cold for another year.

Donal Trump is on fire today.

First, he’s told the UN that London is governed by Sharia Law which is odd because I think I would have noticed as a non-Muslin woman living here if that were the case but maybe the fever has made me forget it.

Then he’s been urging pregnant women to avoid taking Tylenol (which in the UK we know as paracetamol) at all costs. The reason? Apparently it causes autism in children. This statement has been reinforced by the President’s affirmation that in Cuba there is a rumour (sic) that there is no money for Tylenol and there is virtually no autism on the island, which has come as a surprise to Cuban doctors.

Probably by now most people take anything that comes out of Trump’s mouth with a very large bucket of salt. Let’s not forget he is the same person who suggested injecting disinfectant to the body could help fight covid.

Personally I am going to stick to injecting (via small sips) ginger and lemon tea with a dollop of honey and see how that goes. Based on my previous experience, and as Trump himself would say, it can only good happen.

Thursday 25th September

The fever has gone up a bit and I may be reaching my peak in terms of feeling like utter shit.

Congestion has joined the party and now I only have 10 minutes of body autonomy between a coughing or sneezing fit. Luckily the sore throat has massively improved thanks to my concoction of hot water, fresh ginger, lemon and honey. The downside is that I’m drinking lots of it which means I need to pee every 15 minutes, which combined with my other ailments, means I only have 5 minutes of true independence before I need to expell something from any given orifice. I haven’t left the house since Tuesday evening and I am beyond exhausted.

I’ve come across a video of President Emmanuel Macron being held on the street on his way to the UN General Assembly in New York by Trump’s motorcade.

Because Macron had to walk across New York for 30 minutes, the extended footage by journalist Remy Bruisine shows an unlikely scene: the French President being kissed on the head by a passerby, which Macron handled very graciously, pacifying his bodyguards who were ready to intervene. I can’t help but wonder what would have happened had Trump being the one held in Paris by Macron, made to walk for 30 minutes, and touched by a stranger. Better live with the doubt. It could have been the inciting incident of WWIII.

This side of the pond, Nigel Farage has been condemned for falsely accusing immigrants of eating swans from royal parks.

I have to read that twice to make sure this is not the fever messing up with my head and making me hallucinate things as if I were a vulgar ChatGPT generated answer.

The confirmation that this has indeed happened comes from a response straight out of the Royal Parks debunking Farage lies, who seem way firmer in rebuking his outrageous claims than the Prime Minister. You know the situation is bad when you have more faith in the gardeners than in the lord of the manor to keep troublemakers from trespassing the grounds.

By the way, I’m officially adopting swan eater as an insult to call out anyone who is an obnoxious prick and/or insists on spreading false information. It feels both elegant and derogatory enough to leave its recipients completely puzzled and slightly confused about whether I perhaps intended to compliment them in an old-fashioned way. Try and say it out loud. Oh, you cheeky, wide-mouthed swan eater! It sounds absolutely fantastic, almost something that could have come straight out of Shakespeare’s pen.

A friend sends me a voice message to tell me she has really enjoyed a post I wrote yesterday in an attempt to distract myself from everything that hurts. “You’ve really captured that feeling of being inside a feverish dream right now,” she says to me laughing.

“It wasn’t very hard,” I reply.

Friday 26th September

Feeling a lot better today which is a nice improvement.

The cough has almost disappear but unfortunately my abs don’t seem to have benefitted from the extra exercise so it’s all been in vain. To whoever invented the phrase “no pain, no gain,” I want my money back.

By midday an email lands in my inbox asking me to confirm whether I’ll be attending a Christmas’ party at the end of November. This is by far the earliest I’ve received a Christmas invitation in this country.

The early onset of the Christmas spirit in the UK always catches me off guard. The explanation I’ve given myself for it is that this is a way to compensate for how short the actual Christmas festivities are here when they come compared to the two and a half week, full-blown, festive bonanza that is Christmas in Spain, which starts on the 22nd December and runs up to January 7th. In athletic terms, in the UK Christmas is a 100mt race while in Spain is a triathlon and you really need to pace yourself in each discipline (drinking, eating, going out - which are held in singles and doubles competitions as you visit extended family besides your own) to make it alive to the new year.

In what has been a week full of news headlines that have sent people wild for one reason or another, here’s the latest to end the week with a bang: Keir Starmer has announced the introduction of digital IDs, a measure intended to control illegal immigration. This hasn’t been very well received and in fact a petition to against it has already reached over 1.4 million signatures and counting (you can sign the petition here if you’re that way inclined).

Not even Substack and all the absurd changes they’ve made this week alone (please remove that annoying silver flower and the right side bar with trending news!) have found such a strong resistance in so little time.

Now, I’ve never understood why the UK doesn’t have a national ID in place or why people are so reluctant to it.

I say that as a Spanish citizen with a national ID card, which is very common across any European country and it offers an additional form of identification besides a passport, which is considered a secondary ID and is only needed for international travel outside the EU.

Having a national ID card is incredibly useful and before Brexit it was the only document I used to travel. It is done in person at a national police station and the whole process takes less than 20 minutes. You provide a picture, your finger prints, your full name, address, date of birth, parents’ names and place of birth. If you’re a minor, you need a parent to come with you and they verify both identities. It costs less than 20 euros and you walk out with it. Easy peasy.

As I’ve had my documents stolen twice while living abroad (once in Italy and once in London) it gave me great peace of mind to have two IDs with me that I could use in case I lost one or was stolen. Now I have to rely on my passport alone to get in and out of the UK because after Brexit national European IDs are no longer a valid document to get into the UK. The thought of losing or having my passport stolen makes me feel extremely anxious.

However, the national IDs we’re so fond of in Europe aren’t the same as the digital ID Starmer is talking about and the timing of the announcement couldn’t have been more ill-fated so I can understand why people have suddenly reacted against the idea. Based on the news that have been published, it seems more a form of control than anything really useful for the majority of the population on a day to day basis. I struggle to see how this will be an effective method to fight illegal immigration or why it has to be compulsory to have it in order to work in the UK when the National Insurance Number already serves that purpose as it is only obtained after providing proof of identity and proof of employment. I believe after Brexit this has been substituted with proof of right to work in the UK.

Besides, in an age where cyber attacks are on the rise (and a few serious ones have already happened in the UK like this or more recently this) it is important to bear in mind that personal data is extremely juicy for cyber criminals. Creating a digital ID implies that sensitive personal information will be held in a server that isn’t exempt from being breached without having clarity or transparency about who is holding this data and for what exact purpose. It’s worth noting how this has come right after the state visit of Trump to the UK last week, which was followed by the Tech Prosperity Deal and a wave of investment announcements by US companies into the UK. One can only but wonder why digital IDs, a concept first proposed by Tony Blair and then refused on account of the cost and the infrastructured needed for them, are being discussed now.

Speaking of Blair and crazy headlines this week, his name is ringing to run the transnational Gaza authority. If it weren’t because the fever has already disappeared I would think someone has just clicked play on a film called “Colonialism: The Return. Now filmed for IMAX.”

The situation of UK politics this week can be summed up in two words: NOT GOOD.

I’m reading an interview with Greg James where I learn his first gig at BBC Radio 1 paid £80,000 a year (he’s now making £425,000). I like James and I think he does a great job at the Breakfast Show but I’m not sure whether that kind of salary (funded by the public) can be justified. In an exercise of intellectual honesty, I’m also willing to admit that if I made as much money as him I wouldn’t have an issue with that figure.

He is warm, not afraid to be silly, very engaging and good at talking to strangers (both famous and not) and he manages to keep the energy levels up at ungodly hours. To be perfectly frank with you that’s not very different from what I do at any networking event I attend (when not sick) and I don’t get a fraction of the money for my efforts. Clearly I need to rethink my professional future because my outstanding talents are wasted in the vicious cycle of creativity and tech/AI events void I have spiralled into.

The interview also mentions that James lives in North London which confirms my suspicion that we are neighbours.

I already know he walks his dog in Hampstead Heath and he is a regular at the local bookshop as per his Instagram posts. In addition to that, I once bumped into him and his wife on a Sunday while I was on my way to the charity shop. I was juggling a few bags with overflowing clothes and not dressed particularly well as I was not expecting to meet anyone I knew, so this is probably why he gave a little jump when I popped my head from a pile of jumpers to give him a twice over with wide opened eyes (needed to make sure it was really him). Verdict: He is very tall and very attractive.

Before you accuse me of creeping the living shit out of celebrities I randomly cross paths with while going about my business, my reaction was due to a mix of shock at seeing someone famous in my neck of the woods and surprise at realising how tall he actually is in the wild as opposed to his seated self at the Radio 1 Breakfast.

The encounter reminded me to that time when after covid I met a colleague in person for the first time and couldn’t help to remark very enthusiastically he was way taller than his seated online version let on. Apparently I wasn’t the only one impressed by his height (6’2”) and someone had even told him that through the screen he radiated short guy energy. “Whoever said that to you has an obvious height complex.” He didn’t offer names but his laughter validated I had hit the metaphoric (and maybe literal) nail on the head.

Anyway, now that my symptoms are in remission I need to do a bit of stalking to find out where Greg James lives and maybe pop around for a chat on career prospects. After all, we do a very similar job lifting people’s spirits up in times of distress, he on the radio and me at work events and especially on this newsletter, so maybe he has some useful pointers on how I too can join the 1%. It’s not so much about the money, you see, but the power. It’d be nice to stop worrying about being kicked out of the UK just because or being evicted again once I become part of the establishment.

Fingers crossed enough time has passed for him to have forgotten our previous encounter. I’ll try to look a bit more presentable.

I mean, what’s the worst-case scenario if I knock at his door unannounced, completely out of the blue and creep him out for a second time and beg him to please lift me out of poverty and don’t allow the wide-mouthed swan eater to deport me?

It can only good happen.

Abroad is an independent publication about London, living in between cultures, creativity, and being human in the age of artificial intelligence.

PS: If you enjoyed this post, please like, comment and share as much as you like as that will tell the algorithm it has to inflict my thoughts on a greater number of people, which has been a childhood dream of mine. And if you find yourself here regularly, consider subscribing to receive updates and support my writing.

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For reasons that would be too long to explain but may or may not have to do with a certain agent of chaos who shall not be named on this publication but also with the fact that I’m feverish and my body aches as if I had been run over by a truck, over the past few days I’ve been thinking (maybe just being delirious?) about a very important question: Where would I like to be when the world crushes and burns around me?

I’m undecided between Hampstead Heath and Primrose Hill as they both are very privileged enclaves (quite literally) from where to observe London at a distance and from the top of a hill. I have pictured the scene like a convivial gathering, perhaps a re-enactment of those who witnessed the Great Fire of London in 1666 not knowing what was going on but unable to keep their eyes away from the impressive blaze and cloud of dark smoke that formed in the horizon as someone tried to steal their stale bread in the dark or, why not, impregnate them against their will.

I wouldn’t exclude similar behaviours in a modern apocalypse get together because, unfortunately, after the pandemic most people have completely forgotten basic manners and how to behave in public. Suffice as an example that modern crime that is using phones without headphones.

Maybe I am romanticising the situation a bit.

It may be the effects of the fever although I admit I have a tendency to do that even when perfectly healthy and it has been the source of many disappointments when things and events turn out to be far more prosaic than I had envisioned them in my mind, which I feel it’s probably how the end of the world as we know it would unfold in the XXI century. But because my chosen location to see the world collapse is in London, and people in the UK are pretty unfazed by big historical events, I think it’d be a very unassuming affair. After all, this is a country which picked “Keep Calm and Carry On” as a motto while bombs were falling down on them every other day.

Maybe there will be a polite exchange, like when you go to the office kitchen for a coffee and someone you don’t know is already there making tea so the two of you know it’s time for the “You alright there?-Yeah, all good. You?-Not too bad” dance even if none of you really know each other’s names. After that, everyone will descend once again into a polite silence and avoid eye contact at all costs because one shouldn’t forget good manners. And of course there will be someone on a video call without headphones on, who is shouting at the screen as the line keeps breaking, and who didn’t get the memo that this is not another ordinary journey to Seven Sisters on the 29 but a ride towards our final destination. I only wish that whoever decides not to suffer in silence doesn’t end up on my hill. Otherwise their end may arrive slightly sooner than mine.

In all seriousness, I do believe that a special occasion deserves a special celebration. I don’t know about you but I have never witnessed the fabric of society slowly tear apart in front of me before and I would like to remember the occasion. Not that I am going to survive it to tell anyone how it was like, but still it’s nice to have a ritual that signals the end of an era and the beginning of an existential void.

Given the cost of living, I doubt anyone has the budget for a final blast 1666 style. However, London’s MBND club (that is the millionaires, billionares and the non-doms that have spent fortunes turning their mansions into iceberg homes) could definitely chip in to give us some decent fireworks. It’s the bare minimum. Let them eat brioche1 and all that. But by then they will have probably crossed the world in their private jets to hide in their secret underground bunkers and binge-watch I’m a Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here. I wouldn’t be surprised if they find it all rather amusing.

Failing the fireworks, maybe the radio could play some classical music. I have it on good authority that military marches are a big hit when the government is on its knees and the democratic institutions that sustained it and veiled for citizens’ rights have vanished, wiped out by populism and the politics of big, empty slogans parroted by buffoons. In my humble opinion, Back in the USSR would be a fantastic final sendoff, very tongue-in-cheek, but I concede that then The Beatles would remain tainted with the connection to the collapse of Western civilisation and I wouldn’t be able to listen to Here Comes the Sun with the same conviction. That’s probably why military marches are the only acceptable option in these situations in order to avoid spoiling any other musical genre in case a miracle happens last minute.

In more practical matters, when all goes to shit, I assume we would all probably assault businesses and pillage supermarkets as an ultimate attempt to revolt and fight for our rights, an homage to the spirit of the commune in 1871 or the London riots in 2011. Unfortunately I wasn’t around for the first and I remained a bit oblivious to the latter so in the off chance you took part (in the riots, not in the commune, that’d be quite a life achievement), I have an important question: Is it better to secure first needs, like food, or wants, like toilet paper?

On this note, it’d be a good idea to run a survey before it’s too late on how many people still have heaps of unopened toilet rolls at home that they won’t be finishing in this lifetime so that the rest of us can have a fair chance to wipe our bottoms while we shit ourselves with the fear of the unknown.

As for essential energy supplies like electricity, gas and water, given that some of the resources in the UK aren’t controlled by the state but by offshore private companies, I guess service and access would remain unaffected although they may in part depend on the level of tax deductions our eventual ruler, who has probably promised to save billions to the UK taxpayer, has been able to guarantee in his (it’s always a he) ascend to power to those who control our supplies.

I’m no expert in buttering up the rich and powerful but I wouldn’t discard personal affinity as a key factor influencing whether we can afford gas to use the hob for 30 minutes a day (I predict Jamie Oliver’s 15 minute meals becoming quite popular so keep it in mind for your first bookshop rampage) or water and electricity to do the washing machine (short cycle, once a week tops) and shower quickly (5 minutes, cold water of course). If I had to bet, I’d say a shared love for fox/deer hunting, cigars, private jets, and tax havens could pave the way for more competitive energy prices (not necessarily for us), mutual understanding, open avenues of collaboration, and potential synergies. Apologies for the slip of the tongue. When I need to say something absolutely vague but dressed in a veneer of importance I default to speaking LinkedInish.

By the way, I would like to clarify that I am by no means judging anyone here. I’m a ‘you do you’ kind of person.

In fact, tax havens and other means to circumvent paying taxes that may keep basic services for all citizens working regardless of their income (but especially to support those less favoured by the system) are probably a must for anyone intent on sabotaging the state because with the amount of plebs that will start complaining about the cost of living, expecting that you carry out the measures you’ve promised and maybe trying to demand an explanation once you fail to deliver (the cheek people have these days, seriously!), you can’t risk funding a sinking ship with your hard-earned money nor having it in a regular bank that is probably on the brink of collapse -like everything else- due to the instability you’ve brought about.

Better stash it somewhere far and away, easily accessible and ideally untraceable by authorities, just in case you need to quietly slip away to your bunker in your private jet at a moment’s notice if things get too out of control, such as people all of a sudden expecting any accountability from you.

As for our ultimate ruler in power when the world as we know it turns to dust, I picture someone who thrives on bringing about anarchy and chaos, driven not so much by being in government but by the idea of sabotaging it. Because I’ve never held any position of power in my life, least of all the type that has the potential to undermine democratic values and dismantle the state and its institutions just with the use of inflammatory propaganda and empty slogans, I can only speculate how such a person would behave. However, if I’ve learned anything after years attending corporate events, is that it’s all about priorities when you reach the top.

So if I were in his shoes, I reckon that to unwind from the burden of being such a magnetic leader who unleashes heated passions among the masses firing messages of terror, I would escape the world from time to time to hide in my nice little bunker, where I will probably end up watching I’m a Celebrity… because noblesse oblige. Who knows, maybe I am in it and all, blabbing about the wonderful life I do lead and how I wouldn’t have it any other way.

In fact, if I had to guess how I have ascended to power in first place and convinced people there is no other feasible alternative but me, my money is on dominating the media discourse early on and winning people’s hearts by bombarding them with propaganda. If ain’t broke, don’t fix it, you know what I mean? Also, being a media star has never been incompatible with politics. Quite the opposite actually when you think about it. Just make sure to stay away from shows where people disagree with you or insist on challenging you with facts and data and you’ll be fine.

After a few days of bunker and chill, I suppose it’d be wise to avoid taking the ferry on the way back in case those “Stop the boats” slogans actually work. Can you imagine the memes if I got stopped? Better to take the jet again instead. Yes, it pollutes more but honestly, if the world as we know it is in tatters because I’m an anarchist geezer that gets off on seeing destruction around me, am I going to worry about my carbon footprint now that the end credits are about to roll?

Back at my usual place of command, I imagine I’d get down to work at once, picking up agitation and social unrest where I left them, brainstorming new inspiring slogans such us “See it, Say it, Deport it,2” to make it easier to report any suspicious looking person (it is implied non-White, but non-British in general is also fine because you don’t want to be too narrow-minded). A stroke of genius in case people may think I am only a charlatan blurting out nonsense who has led them to mayhem just for the lols and without any real plan to implement tangible measures. There may be some broken families here and there, and maybe it’s a gigantic shitshow from the legal point of view, and most likely it will result in a climate of hostility towards the UK (you may need to give up those holidays in Benidorm, Margaret) but no one said it’d be easy to be me.

After the dust on my victory has settled, I would probably have second thoughts on why I should be deem responsible for how well other non-deportable people (as in non-trustafarians, because believe it or not they not only exist but vote!) do under my rule when my livelihood and that of my dependents is perfectly assured and not dependent on the ups and downs of the global economy and much less on the stability of the government, not even my own.

About six months into government, for lack of a better word, it’ll be time to plan my way out because my job here will be done.

Before making my exit, however, I would make sure to kick off conversations with the highest bidders on how to dismantle services that have resisted the last push of privatisation for reasons quite frankly beyond my understanding, such as the NHS. A selfish thought if there ever was one but, in all honesty, is it my fault to be so charismatic that people -of their own free will I remind you- have put me first on a media and then on a political pedestal and have become so incapacitated to understand what I actually mean when I speak as to bestow their trust on me? It doesn’t sound like a me problem.

Paraphrasing Italian influencer Chiara Ferragni’s famous last words3 “I never wanted to be famous. That wasn’t my goal. I just wanted to do something meaningful,” I never wanted to be a politician. That wasn’t my goal. I just wanted to bring about anarchy and then leave it to you to clean up the mess while I fuck off to my bunker and watch myself being a sexy motherfucker on TV.

When enough time will have passed for you to have forgotten about the chaos I have unleashed, because you will eventually forget, I’ll come back to convince you that I can do more and better, ignoring that I actually can’t because I burnt all the bridges the first time around and now I have no viable escape route for my empty promises. But you see, the thrill of manipulating normal people into thinking I can actually solve their problems is rather exhilarating. When you think they won’t fall for it again, bam, there they go head in. It’s quite amusing to watch, actually.

When this moment arrives, the few among you who for some reason still remember my previous antics would probably be asking yourselves “Are we seriously going to let him fuck us over one more time and do nothing about it?”

The only thing I have to say to you is don’t be a party pooper. It’ll be fun. At least for me.

Right. I probably should stop here.

The fever has definitely gone up now.

Abroad is an independent publication about London, living in between cultures, languages, books, music, films, creativity, and being human in the age of artificial intelligence.

PS: If you enjoyed this post, please like, comment and share as much as you like as that will tell the algorithm it has to inflict my thoughts on a greater number of people, which has been a childhood dream of mine. And if you find yourself here regularly, consider subscribing to receive updates and support my writing.

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The Culture Fix is the place where I share the books, films, music, articles, interviews, plays, exhibitions, places, and even food, I’ve enjoyed recently.

Recommendations may refer to content in either English, Spanish, French or Italian and sometimes not available in English. But since this is a publication called Abroad written by a multilingual foreigner in London, and hopefully appealing to those curious to explore beyond their own borders, this shouldn’t come as a surprise or be an obstacle to widen your cultural horizons.

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There are two kinds of people in this world.

Those who have lived blissfully ignorant of the Oasis reunion tour mania and those who have gone absolutely mad for it and will harass the first with stories of how life-altering seeing the Gallagher brothers has been. Rumour has it this second group is affected by a serious case of POCD (Post Oasis Concert Depression) that prompts them to watch every reunion video made from a shaky phone while people jump up and down to the beat of Cigarrettes and Alcohol on the other side of the pond.

Because yes, the Oasis reunion has also been a resounding success in North America and the official feel-good event of the year. Perhaps because, as this Hollywood Reporter review puts it, in an era of algorithms and digital self-centredness it has reminded us of the power and value of human connection in the here and now.

I don’t mind admitting I belong to the second group of people above. To prove it, I wrote a lengthy eulogy of their last Wembley show in August. I’ve been living in a haze ever since and I feel incredibly lucky to have experienced such a wonderful sense of communion with 90,000 strangers but more surprisingly also a weird sense of optimism about the future.

Thank you to everyone who has engaged online and also offline on that piece and has shared lovely comments on it and how it’s made them feel even when they aren’t Oasis fans themselves. I guess when you’re passionate about something, you just gotta spread the word with other people and tell them what you heard because you’re gonna make a better day. It’s either that or they’ll unsubscribe, there’s no in between.

Since that balmy August evening I’ve been immersed in music, more so than usual, so this edition of the Culture Fix comes full of music recommendations and music-adjacent content, especially since Britpop is back in full swing even if Britain feels a bit less cool this time around.

So without any further ado, here’s what I’ve been reading, listening to and watching over the past few weeks plus a couple of cultural highlights to look forward to.

Ready to be the coolest rentrée conversationalist?

• In the last edition of The Culture Fix I shared how much I had enjoyed Le Perfezioni (Perfection in the English edition) by Vincenzo Latronico, which was a modern take on Les Choses by George Perec. During a trip to France to see my sister I got my hands on a copy of Les Choses (Things in the English translation) and I can see how it has influenced Latronico’s excellent novel on the disillusionment and ennui that afflict the millennial generation in the digital era. While Latronico’s book is of its time and captures the zeitgeist of the moment (those who have been forced to emigrate in search of better jobs abroad will probably feel his words deeply), Perec’s Les Choses is a timeless story, one that will resonate in 50 years’ time in the same way it did when it was published in 1965, when he captured the hopes and dreams, but also the routines and boredom and eventual surrender into the predictable markers of adulthood -and the doubts and questions such realisation arises- of a young French couple in the cusp of a new era.

• Because the Oasis fever has hit hard, I really enjoyed diving deeper into the band’s origin story and influences via Live Forever: The Rise, Fall and Resurrection of Oasis by John Robb. If you’re a fan of the band, you may know many of the behind-the-scenes stories already, such as the fight between Liam and Noel at the legendary Rockfield studios as they recorded (What’s the Story?) Morning Glory. Besides the anecdotical, of which there’s plenty as Robb was a first-hand witness of many of the scenes he writes about, the book’s strength lays on its comprehensive account of the different elements that contributed to the rise of the musical scene in Manchester in the 80s that paved the way for bands like The Smiths or The Stone Roses to drive attention away from London and inspire a new generation that saw themselves reflected in their idols.

• In this same spirit, Don’t Look Back in Anger. The Rise and Fall of Cool Britannia by Daniel Rachel has proven to be beyond entertaining and insightful to understand better the wider context into which the UK rose to cultural dominance in the 90s. The influence of the UK during those years was such that even in my remote town in La Mancha my memories from the mid 90s onwards are linked to British bands, a picture of Kate Moss in a magazine wearing a lovely boat neck top and a white skirt at a party, Hugh Grant flopping his hair and mumbling under the rain (even when I didn’t get to see Four Weddings and a Funeral until many years later), and of course the day the news announced the death of Lady Di, which remains a moment frozen in time. Daniel Rachel, through an impressive exercise in evidence-gathering from everyone who was anyone in the 90s (from Damon Albarn to Noel Gallagher, Tracy Emin to Tony Blair, Irvine Welsh to Nick Hornby) paints a fantastic picture of the undercurrent of excitement of the times, the feeling that things were about to change for the better and the confidence (sometimes verging on arrogance) that young artists exuded and how they weren’t afraid to do things their way and leave their mark.

• You can’t talk about the 90s, music and and not mention High Fidelity, one of the funniest novels ever written. Each time I go back to it, I find something new and these past weeks have created an urge to read it again, this time to focus on all the musical references it is peppered with. It captures perfectly the spirit of that time and the central role of music in many people’s lives, but also the confusing nature of relationships, what we want out of them and, more importantly, whether we’re willing to offer as much. Definitely one to put on your all-time, top five most memorable 90s British novels.

  

Documentaries

• I have greatly enjoyed Supersonic, the 2016 Oasis documentary that tells the band’s ascend to musical dominion and ends with their historic two nights at Knebworth in 1996 at the peak of their fame. Highly recommendable whether you’re a fan or not as it is very well made from the storytelling point of view (A24 is behind it after all). For fans, it also offers previously unseen behind-the-scenes footage from their pre-fame days, when they played in half-empty venues, and great commentary on some key moments such as the first North American tour when Noel almost quit, or how they thought they wouldn’t be able to sell out Knebworth and then five per cent of the British population at the time applied for tickets. The emotional stakes are as high as the musical ones throughout and you feel the excitement of witnessing a band in the brink of stardom, whose members will soon go on to become rock and roll stars, and how everyone around them couldn’t help but take notice. This is a phenomenal and uplifting ride as you watch Liam and Noel bicker, joke, and above all understand each other without words the moment the music plays. Supersonic indeed.

• If Supersonic finishes on a high, As It Was, the 2019 documentary on the impressive musical renaissance of Liam Gallagher, starts on a low: the night Oasis broke up during the Rock in Seine festival in 2009. Unlike other music documentaries that try to present a contrived arch of redemption and talk very little about the music itself, you can feel the passion and honesty in Liam’s desire to make new music after the unceremonious disbandment of Beady Eye (the band the Oasis members formed after Noel Gallagher left), be able to get back on stage, and sing as he used to. There is a vulnerability that shines through as the fear of not being able to do it again makes him reflect on his previous lifestyle and behaviours. It’s quite refreshing to listen to him after watching Supersonic and see that while there is a lot of the confidence and attitude that made Liam Gallagher the frontman that he is and Oasis the band it was, there are a lot more layers to him as he drops the bravado and shows gratitude for and to the people who have helped him come back to the top of his musical game, which was on an ascendent curve as he returned to Knebworth in 2022 as a solo artist. It is argued that his extraordinary musical renaissance and capacity to engage with younger audiences may have been instrumental in making the Oasis reunion happen and become the cross-generational success it has been and watching this documentary you have to agree there is some truth in it. Plus the man is a born comedian so the laughs are guaranteed provided you can understand his accent.

Films

• It’s been a long summer and a bit underwhelming on the cinema front to be honest. Between superhero movies (I quite enjoyed Superman, didn’t see the point of Fantastic Four and couldn’t wait for it to be over), franchises (Jurassic World:Rebirth was as forgettable as unnecessary) and action flicks (F1 was, against all odds, rather good despite being a bit too similar to Days of Thunder), there’s been little space for original content so the stakes were very high when anything truly not belonging to an existing IP ventured into the big screen.

• Cue to Materialists by Celine Song. I wish I had anything good to say about it1 but I don’t and it’s a shame because I really looked forward to it after the beautifully moving Past Lives. It was bland beyond measure and completely miscast. Dakota Johnson may rock a frock but she can’t act even if they paid her (which turns out they do); Pedro Pascal has been so ubiquitous this summer that he’s became part of the furniture and it shows in this movie: you could have a chair acting in his place and it wouldn’t have made any difference; to say Chris Evans was the best thing and he wasn’t even good gives you an idea of how disastrous Materialists, a film with a good premise but bad actors and even worse script, was. The dialogues remained extremely surface-level and presented the characters as a collection of insufferable navel-gazing people with the emotional depth of a lobotomised amoeba. A far cry from the rich subtleties of Past Lives. The only occasion the film has of redeeming itself it’s quickly brushed under the carpet as if nothing when it could have taken the story and the characters into a new direction, hopefully somewhere where they would have made sense. I watched the film in Paris with my sister amid a heatwave and we agreed it left us cold. And not in a refreshing way.

• In a summer where remakes have ruled supreme, two have been notable exceptions and I’m very glad both of them are comedies as this is a wildly unrepresented genre in cinemas and it’s wonderful when you can laugh out loud in the company of total strangers. The Naked Gun with Liam Neeson and Pamela Anderson was delightful and while the jokes and plot faltered a bit towards the end, the first two thirds of the movie delivered. I went back for seconds just for that hotdog scene and the laughter was louder and more hysterical than the first time. Besides, the rumours of a romance between Liam Neeson and Pamela Anderson, whether true or not, have given me life so if felt rude to watch this movie just once. Both very good in their roles and with great comedic timing, so hopefully this won’t be the last time we see them together on screen.

• The Roses is the other comedy that proves not all remakes are bad when done right. In fact, this modern take on the classic The War of the Roses puts a brilliant Olivia Colman and Benedict Cumberbatch face to face at the top of their acting game and it pays off big time. Can we please start a campaign so they do a comedy together every few years for our sanity’s sake? They are clearly perfectly suited for their roles as loved-up couple that slowly becomes vicious against each other in the most entertaining and wicked ways while delivering some witty dialogue at the speed of light as they try to annihilate each other in the process. If you find yourself laughing at things you realise a second too late you probably shouldn’t be laughing about, you’re one of us.

• This summer I’ve finally got around watching Amadeus, a film I was shown at music class in high school and was never resumed for reasons I can’t remember. And for equally mysterious reasons I never thought of picking it up myself and finish it until this year, when a restored version has hit cinemas. I’m glad I’ve delayed it so much as in the meantime I’ve been able to see a few of Mozart’s operas in London and got to appreciate the man’s genius even more so it’s been totally worth it. All the three times. My main takeaway? Mozart was a true rock and roll star even if the term didn’t exist back in the day. A new series based on the original play that inspired the movie is in the making which seems a bit hasty considering I’ve just got around seeing the movie, but I guess if you didn’t put it off for decades this may come at the perfect time.

Coming up

• I’m not sure if the world, or us for that matter, are ready for Emerald Fennell’s Wuthering Heights adaptation, which is coming to a screen near you on Valentine’s day 2026, a fitting date given the poster has already set the scene by giving big 70s soft porn B-movie vibes. A very demure, very mindful image all things considered given Fennell’s previous Saltburn universe with its bathwater drinking and grave thumping in the rain.

  

• The anticipation is real as initial screenings with test audiences delivered mixed reactions, with those disliking the film highlighting its hyper sexualisation and divergence from the original book. I welcome every book adaptation as an opportunity to revisit or read the source material so I can see how much the film deviates from it. However, while I haven’t yet got around reading Wuthering Heights, I suspect a nun getting aroused upon the image of a languid hanged man is a scene I won’t come across on Brontë’s novel. I’ll have to order a big bucket of popcorn for this one both at the cinema and when reading the hundreds of essays this film is likely to inspire.

• Hamnet, on the other hand, is gathering positive reviews at Toronto Film Festival ahead of its official release with critics praising the smouldering performances of Jessie Buckley and Paul Mescal. The trailer looks very promising, to the point it may convince me to watch a movie about a novel I’ve avoided like the plague. After all, if there’s a man who can change my mind when it comes to literary snobbery is Paul Mescal, the king of the sexy sad characters, who single-handedly (along with Daisy Edgar-Jones) converted me to Sally Rooney after I saw him in Normal People. Never say never.

• If you were a fan of Britpop, good news for you as your favourite band (provided is not Oasis) is probably back this year. From Suede’s new album Antidepressants (released on 5th September) to Pulp’s return to Glastonbury and the launch of their latest album More back in June, Damon Albarn debuting a new Gorillaz album at the last of his Copper Box shows in London, or Radiohead2 announcing their first tour in seven years, the saying “Britpop is dead, long live Britpop” has never been more accurate.

• In fact, over the past few weeks I’ve been listening to The Ballad of Darren, Blur’s latest album from 2023 and The Narcissist may be not only one of the best songs in the album, but one of Blur’s top 5. I am now gutted their reunion tour passed me by as funnily enough I have listened to Blur a lot more over the years than Oasis. Clearly the emotional tsunami element that made me buy tickets in the blink of an eye for the Gallaghers was missing somehow. At least Blur is still making great music so there’s always next time.

• And from the band that may have kickstarted Britpop to the band and man that came to ride the wave when the party was over: The Verve and Richard Ashcroft, who has taken a prominent place of honour in my Spotify after seeing him live at Wembley opening for Oasis. I couldn’t think of anyone better given the longstanding relationship between Ashcroft and the Mancunian band (Cast no shadow was in fact about him after The Verve disbanded for the first time) or whose music has been as enduring and anthemic. Few songs at an Oasis gig not sung by Oasis can conjured up the crowd to sing along in the way Bittersweet Symphony did. His new album Lovin’ You will be released in October but until then I’ve been exploring The Verve’s catalogue and Ashcroft’s prolific solo music career. The man is a joy for the ears, that goes without saying. Few musicians have the capacity to create such timeless yet nostalgic and uplifting but hunting melodies and lyrics sung in such a soulful and heartfelt way. Long live king Richard!

• Besides revisiting the Oasis discography (which has been wonderful as I’ve got plenty of new music to enjoy as the last album of theirs I was fully aware of was Be Here Now), I’ve gone down the Liam Gallagher solo career rabbit hole and boy has it been worthy! His comeback can only be compared to Hugh Grant’s renaissance. When you thought all he could do was play mumbling romantics until his looks vanished (is that even possible?) the man did a 180 and surprised us with his best roles, going from strength to strength. Liam Gallagher seems to have taken a leaf out of Grant’s book and ever since releasing his solo debut As You Were in 2017 he’s been on an ascendent trajectory.

• It’s impressive how much he’s worked to recover his voice, which now has a depth that suits his new music very well and adds a touch of gravitas to the sneer in the Oasis songs, which fits them perfectly. His follow up albums Why Me? Why Not? and C’Mon You Know show a man (along with his his co-writers) that while not reinventing the wheel is not afraid to venture into new territory. His debut solo single Wall of Glass being a good case in point. And while Liam may have expressed some reluctance about singing ballads or music that deviates too much from rock, his voice suits slower tempos incredibly well, of which Paper Crown, When I’m in Need, For What is Worth, Once or One of Us are excellent examples.

• His solo music, in fact, offers a better glimpse into what Oasis could have sounded like today had they stayed together and incorporated new influences. Songs like Wall of Glass, Halo, Shockwave, Diamond in the Dark, Everything’s Electric (co-written by Dave Grohl, who is also on drums) or C’Mon You Know would have made a more cohesive Oasis record than Be Here Now, which despite my love and appreciation it is a Frankenstein of an album.

• On top of solo albums, Liam Gallagher has kept busy with acoustic and unplugged recordings, something he was notorious for avoiding. In fact, he walked out mid recording at the MTV Unplugged Oasis did in 1996 which Noel had to carry on his own as Liam heckled him from a balcony off screen. The moment is now a rare gem as Noel performs solo at the peak of Oasis world fame. The funny thing is that as much as he may have despised acoustic sessions in the past, in the present Liam’s voice sounds fantastic when it carries the weight of the song with little instrumentation.

• And if that were not enough, he’s also come around about not collaborating with other artists and has recorded a song with Richard Ashcroft, C’mon People (We’re Making it Now) a new version of Ashcroft’s original song for his Acoustic Hymns album. I’m a fan of the two so telling you I love it and that they need to make more music together it’s probably implied.

• Not happy with that, Liam has also done a full album with no less than John Squire, of The Stone Roses fame, one of the bands along with The Beatles that influenced Oasis sound. An amazing pairing that closes a music cycle that began somewhere in the late 80s in a Manchester club and has culminated into ten songs that bring together the guitar genius of Squire and the unmistakable vocals of Gallagher. The North has musically risen again it seems.

• And of course I haven’t forgotten about Noel. Here’s what I’ve been listening to from him on repeat because this truly wasn’t on anyone’s bingo card and it feels surreal to hear him say he is proud of Liam.

• Have finally visited the new V&A East Storehouse. Despite being a storage space for the extensive and wide-ranging V&A collections, it is a very immersive and entertaining opportunity to explore items at your leisure, which visitors can also order in advance for a more in-depth guided experience.

  

• I've really enjoyed the novelty of not being traditionally guided as you are at an exhibition, where you follow a narrative, or at a museum display, where there's a logic behind why certain objects are grouped together in a space.

  From the Olympic torch used in the London 2012 games to blue plaques, mugs with slogans from the miners' strikes in the 70’s and 80’s or the David Bowie Centre (which is opening in late September), the V&A East Storehouse is perhaps the building that best exemplifies the spirit of London as a city: a seemingly disconnected and extraordinary catalogue belonging to a wide range of people and places that somehow all fit together in the most unique way to create something bigger than the sum of its parts

• Last weekend, under an auspicious sunny afternoon, I visited for the first time in my 16 years in London Abbey Road studios. Well, the outside of it as we mere mortals aren’t allowed inside. But at least we have the gift shop and the zebra crossing, which is a nightmare for any vehicle that needs to get through that road without running over a tourist that is taking their picture Beatles style. I left with a book, a tote bag, some Beatles pins and the feeling of an afternoon well spent as I had previously been snooping around in search of Liam Gallagher’s former home in nearby St John’s Wood3 (which I found)

• On my way towards Marylebone, I walked to the sound of the eponymous Abbey Road album by The Beatles, which contains gems as the exceptionally upbeat Octopus’s Garden, often reprised by Oasis at the end of Whatever4. Gosh, what a time to be alive!

• What better way to end this culture fix issue than the promise of more Britpop in the horizon? Say no more. The Battle, a comedy play by John Niven set in 1995 at the height of the Battle of Britpop, when Blur and Oasis both released singles on the same day. As per the testimonials in Don’t Look Back in Anger by Daniel Rachel, the press loved Britpop because it sold newspapers as everyone wanted to know their favourite band’s antics. A singles chart battle between two of the strongest contenders in British music at the time was a gift that fell from heaven. Apparently, Damon Albarn was the instigator as he kept moving the release day of Blur’s Country House on purpose to go against Oasis’s Roll With It. The press sure had a great time out of it. I am looking forward to seeing how this translates to the stage. The Battle will be touring in 2026 across the UK before coming to the West End. You can bet I’ll go see it and be ready to Roll With It all over again.

Abroad is an independent publication about London, living in between cultures, languages, books, music, films, creativity, and being human in the age of artificial intelligence.

PS: If you enjoyed this post, please like, comment and share as much as you like as that will tell the algorithm it has to inflict my thoughts on a greater number of people, which has been a childhood dream of mine. And if you find yourself here regularly, consider subscribing to receive updates and support my writing.

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In The Importance of Being Earnest there is a scene where two of the main characters have the following exchange:

Cecily - I keep a diary in order to enter the wonderful secrets of my life. If I didn't write them down, I should probably forget all about them.

Miss Prism -Memory, my dear Cecily, is the diary that we all carry about with us.

Miss Prism’s line illustrates perfectly what life has felt like for the past couple of weeks as little by little I’ve given in to the Oasis mania that invaded London (and the whole country) in July and been catapulted back in time to the 90s, that time full of dreams that slowly faded away while we were living.

Let us begin this story by saying that it was just another Sunday afternoon walking to the sound of my favourite tune and getting through the hordes of tourists that descend to Camden market on the weekend when I realised something strange. 90% of people I was crossing looked like a walking replica of Liam Gallagher in the football match he played against Damon Albarn in 1996.

In addition to this, several establishments were also hinting at the Mancunian band in their marketing in very explicit ways that I hadn’t seen before. Oasis Tattoo day, read one seedy parlour. You certainly won’t live forever if you get a tattoo there, I thought as I walked past it.

Decided to find out what was going on, I reached out for my phone in search for answers. Oasis were playing that day at Wembley. Of course, the reunion tour, I had completely forgotten about it. It all makes sense now.

Some might say the Oasis mania has been as inescapable this summer across the UK as it was at the height of their fame in the 90s. I say mayyyybe.

However, if like me your answer to the proverbial “Where were you when they were getting high?” is learning the lyrics to Wannabe and embracing girl power, chances are your teenage years weren’t spent singing your lungs out to Bring It On Down or trying to learn guitar to the chords of Wonderwall to the dismay of your family and neighbours.

Despite what Oscar Wilde wrote, memory is a tricky friend and can’t be trusted as a reliable narrator so the only thing I remember clearly from the mid 90s is that I was in high school. No matter how much attention you paid to events as they occurred, they will be returned to you as a blur. Or a Blur depending on how old you were in 1997 and how hard the expansive wave of Britpop hit you.

Other than that, most of my memories between 1994-1997, the golden years of Oasis, revolve around music but they are all tangled up. Had I entered my Beatles phase before or after I heard Wonderwall on the radio briefly as part of an ad for a radio station? No idea, but those few seconds were enough to make an impression on me the same way the first accords of Come Together did, whichever happened first. No one is more impressionable than a hormonal teenager nor more capable of grasping the many nuances of external stimuli, especially when they come in the shape of life-altering music.

What I do remember is that in 1997 time stood still on three occasions as I was mesmerised in front of the tv watching the music videos to Song 2 by Blur, Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve and Stand by Me by Oasis.

While they all became instant classics of the time and I’ve listened to them regularly over the years, Stand by Me was love at first note and sight. In fact, its video remained impressed on my memory because it featured two sisters who were arguing and it was sung by a band with two brothers who couldn’t stop arguing.

And since in 1997 my sister and I had a rocky relationship, as expected of a pre-teen and a hormonal teenager that are forced to share a room, I immediately related to the song. If you too went through the joyful experience of not having any privacy during the tsunami of adolescence you will understand the turbulent love-hate dynamic at play which is so tricky to explain to outsiders. I was the Noel to her Liam and we could both be very explosive characters.

Because of that Stand by Me conquered my teenage heart and its lyrics kept reminding my adult self of the importance of sticking it out for yourself and others because things won’t always remain the way they are and brighter days lie ahead.

But despite the emotional reaction that song unchained, and how much I’ve listened to it over the years, I’d be lying if I said I became the greatest Oasis fan, or even listened to them regularly like I did with The Beatles. Not because I didn’t like Oasis, but because there was so much going on musically in those years1 that dedicating exclusive time to a given group meant taking it away from another. Having always been a musical butterfly, it felt selfish to put my hands in the life of a rock and roll band and throw the rest of artists away.

The new millennium arrived and amid more blurry memories Stop Crying your Heart Out found its way to me somehow and had the same impact Stand by Me did a few years before it.

The lyrics “Don’t be scared, your destiny may keep you warm, take what you need and be on your way” were timely and comforting words at a time when I felt every decision opened a door and closed another and I didn’t have margin for error in building the path I wanted my life to follow.

It’s probably one of the best songs the band has produced in the 2000s (and one of the best outros Noel has written), a good transition between their early sound and the changing musical guard as electronic and indie/alternative rock gained momentum. A song that reminds you of the essence of Oasis in their beginnings but also of the direction in which they could travel. A metaphor of sorts for the person I was in the previous decade and the one I was on the brink of becoming.

But once again it wasn’t enough to convert me into an Oasis fan.

The years passed by and with them Oasis came to an end a month before I arrived in London. Do I remember that moment? Not particularly although I have flashbacks of seeing the news on television. I remember seeing Noel Gallagher a few times on interviews in the aftermath of their separation but I don’t know when or where. Maybe it was for the better I wasn’t an ardent fan as it spared me the heartbreak and, truth be told, I was still grieving the departure of Geri Halliwell from the Spice Girls so I don’t think I would have been able to cope with this.

And then one day, when I least expected it, all the music of my teenage years and the music I was discovering in London came together at the opening and closing ceremonies of the Olympics in 2012.

My heart was full when the notes of Come Together played and Alex Turner nervously crooned his way through the lyrics, delivering a decent version of my favourite Beatles song in front of a global audience. The best was yet to come as Paul McCartney would take the stage for a moving rendition of Hey, Jude which had me in tears by the chorus. The closing ceremony2 delivered via black cab the Spice Girls and Wannabe, the hymn of every teenage girl in 1996. Geri was there too and I felt this was the reunion I had been waiting for.

Shortly after the girl power had invaded the Olympic stadium Liam Gallagher would take the stage and what I remember from that moment is that despite I still wasn’t the biggest Oasis fan, and that I must have heard Wonderwall a thousand million times by 2012 without exaggeration,3 which one can argue diminishes its emotional impact, the moment those first guitar chords cut through the summer breeze at Stratford and Liam’s voice let out the word “Today” I had goosebumps and felt a tingle all over my body, tears at the ready.

Seriously? Wonderwall and not Come Together?

Did I even realise back then that this was Liam Gallagher with his new band Beady Eye and not Oasis? In hindsight probably I didn’t. And yet that song, and Liam’s voice, had me by the balls ovaries the second my brain identified it. Some obscure mechanism had been triggered and I was powerless in front of the billionth rendition of Wonderwall. “I thought you weren’t really into Oasis,” my boyfriend at the time said as tears started flowing down my cheeks. “Me too but here we are now,” or at least that’s what in my head I thought I said as the sobbing made it a bit difficult to articulate full words.

At the time Liam’s voice wasn’t even at his best. In fact he was already struggling vocally due to undiagnosed Hashimoto’s disease, so his performance wasn’t among his most memorable ones. But there was something that transcended vocal prowess. Maybe the fact that he played this song live again for the first time at a stadium after Oasis had dismantled? Maybe the sight of thousands of people singing to it and moving their arms in unison as if Liam Gallagher had transformed the Olympic stadium into an Oasis gig?

Whichever it was, this song no longer belonged to Liam, Oasis or even its creator Noel Gallagher. Although I’m sure he slept very tighly that night knowing the royalties still ended up in his bank account.

Wonderwall had become a generational anthem that each of those present at Statford that night had made theirs at some point in their lives, maybe some of them on the spot as they listened to it for the first time, its significance made more powerful because it had transcended its own time and touched people of all ages all over the world. In that moment Liam Gallagher achieved the same musical miracle Paul McCartney did when he sat in front of that piano at the opening ceremony and people just knew what to sing without anyone telling them. Not even Wannabe, for all its ubiquitouness in 1996, could compete.

It was the first time I experienced a sense of communion with a stadium full of strangers across the other side of London as we all sang in unison a song most of us had probably grown up with without realising it by a band we would never be able to listen to live anymore.

While I’ve never been a sports fan, I regretted not having applied for tickets for either of the ceremonies as it would have been magical to be in the middle of those people, feeling part of a once-in-a-lifetime celebration of music that bonded us across generations and cultures and that, unbeknownst to me, had managed to have such a strong emotional hold of me over the years.

When did that happen and when would another opportunity to experience something like that present itself?

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In May 2017 22 people lost their lives in a terrorist attack while they were at an Ariana Grande concert held in Manchester Arena. When a few days later a crowd gathered in a tribute to honour the victims, a woman started singing Don’t Look Back in Anger first on her own, soon joined by others in attendance.4

The news travelled quickly and I remember watching the scene at a pub while I was out with friends. Another Oasis song linked to another historical event, this time spontaneously chosen by the people. While I watched the footage on TV something strange happens as I didn’t remember having listened to Don’t Look Back in Anger that much over the years and somehow I knew the lyrics as if by magic and started singing along everyone else in the pub. Oscar Wilde really has a lot to account for with that memory quote.

A few days later, Chris Martin would reprise the song at a concert he organised in memory of the victims, where he’d be joined by Liam Gallagher on stage, who sang Live Forever. Again as I came across the first online videos I was taken aback by the déjà-vu of the performance. I knew that song except I was sure I hadn’t listened to it before. Or had I?

I was seriously beginning to wonder whether another version of me existed in a Champagne Supernova universe and had grown up to be a massive Oasis superfan while I remained supposedly oblivious to their music despite living in the same time and space continuum as the Gallagher brothers did.

In 2023 everyone keeps saying rock is dead but here are The Struts to prove everyone wrong. They may not have had the massive following Oasis did because musical taste has drastically changed and there are no longer music shows on television showcasing artists in the same way they did in the 90s, but they surely are one of the most exciting rock bands around today, with a style reminiscent of Queen and Bowie and, of course, Oasis.

I discovered their music during the early stages of the pandemic and I couldn’t wait to see them live one day.5 It’s always exciting to have something to look forward to when it comes to finding a new artist and you know you’ll have the possibility to attend one of their concerts soon.

In the meantime, I focused on listening to anything I could find about them and by them online. Which is how I came across an excellent unplugged version of Supersonic that I played on repeat until I learnt every word.

I can’t believe this is an Oasis song, I said to myself.

Which in itself is a statement that proves the extent to which the Mancunians repertoire passed me by at a time where I was meant to be injecting their music in my brain like a Britpop junkie.

Mea culpa, I get it, but god forbid a teenage girl from a remote village in Spain preferred the hypnotic rhythm of Say You’ll Be There to the guitar-led tunes and raspy vocals of a young Liam Gallagher who in hindsight looks very supersonic indeed. Because the other thing this reunion has made me realise is that no one in the whole 90s decade looked cooler than him. Not to speak of his trademark swagger. Damn, I can’t believe that too passed me totally by only for Geri to throw it all away in 1998.

Note for the future: Never put your life in the hands of a manufactured girl power band.

In August 2024 The Struts, who have already consolidated as one of my favourite bands, are touring the US. During one of their performances they inform the audience they haven’t slept much over the past night as they were up waiting for the Oasis reunion announcement which they celebrate by playing Wonderwall. Is there anything Luke Spiller can’t sing and make his own? I doubt it.

By now it shouldn’t come as a surprise to you that I only learnt about the reunion about a week later, when the Ticketmaster dynamic pricing made headlines as millions of fans tried to get hold of a ticket to see the band in 2025. In my defence, no Spanish person worth of the citizenship is paying attention to anything that is going on in the world during August, or mid-July to mid-September if we are honest. Again this blissful ignorance proved a blessing in disguise because I skipped the anxiety hardcore fans must have felt at the thought of not being able to see their favourite band again while I was happily drowning myself in vermouts at my town’s feria.

Besides, my initial thoughts when I learned about the reunion were that the Gallagher brothers being who they are had plenty of time to fight several times and cancel the tour, so I would have wasted my money by getting a ticket. I wasn’t alone in thinking this by the way. Would they still sound good live after all these years? Don’t think so. I had no reason to regret not having tickets to see a band I had never been much into anyway. You’ll never change what’s been and gone and all that jazz.

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July 2025.

The end of the month finds me strolling along Carnaby street one evening as I run some errands. The street, while touristy, is inexplicably flooded by people who seem to be right out of a football match based on their attire, but they all seem to be supporting a team called Oasis. Not sure they’re on the Premier League.

This causes a brief cognitive dissonance that takes only a few steps to dissolve as I find myself in front of the Oasis pop-up store where a queue of people already dressed in Oasis gear head to toe are waiting to get inside and presumably become a walking Oasis logo. Opposite, the Levi’s shop is paying homage to the Mancunian band by dressing all its mannequins with a special Oasis collection.

Barely 50 metres away, the Adidas shop has its windows covered in the Oasis logo celebrating the reunion tour. Inside it several pictures of the Gallagher brothers hang on the walls while Columbia plays full blast on the audio system. How do I know this song? I’ve stopped asking myself questions for which I don’t have answers but I just do.

I decide to leave the 90s Britpop simulation that Carnaby street has turned into overnight and decide to wander a bit through Soho making the most of the good weather.

I head unconsciously to Berwick street where I walk past a Clark’s shop with the face of Liam Gallagher all over its window. A few steps ahead a father gives directions to his 10-year old daughter, who is in the middle of the road blocking the traffic, so that he can take a picture of her. Tourists, they’ll find every non-descriptive corner of London charming and wreak havoc in the process.

Curious about what is so significant about another crowded Soho street to put his child’s life at risk, I walk a few steps ahead and turn to see what the father is seeing from his perspective. The chorus of (What’s the story) Morning Glory? starts playing in my head as the cover of that album materialises right in front of my eyes.

Up until then I could see the signs but they were not very clear but now I finally understand I have been given a second chance to experience Oasis mania in all its glory, which escaped me back in the day as I was culturally and physically removed from its epicentre. Maybe this is why I have lasted so long in London despite so many hurdles: It was all part of the masterplan since the beginning.

When I get home that day I watch a video of the Oasis reunion tour as people have started sharing footage of the first concerts that have taken place in Cardiff and Manchester.

As the apostle Peter, I keep negating Oasis. Surely they can’t sound good so many years later, right? Like Jesus, they prove me wrong. They sound incredible, maybe better than any other rock band I have seen live in all these years in London, and I’ve seen Muse who are impeccable from every point of view.

The videos shared online capture how these people feel as enthralled as they were when Liam Gallagher sung Wonderwall at the Olympic Park in 2012. They are happy to be part of something that many thought they would never be able to experience again or ever, which is made evident by the fact that there are fans of all ages, some of whom weren’t probably born when the band split but who have grown up listening to their music. Similarly to me discovering The Beatles long after they were a band no more.

Judging from the rave reviews, the Oasis reunion tour has been both a critical and commercial success so far so it’s logical to assume there’ll be a documentary (probably already in the making) and maybe a screening of the concerts like Taylor Swift did with the Eras Tour. I can always watch either from home, like the Olympics, and still be glad the brothers have reunited and are bringing so much joy to the fans who have been waiting not only for their music but for their reconciliation.

On the other hand, how many times one gets a second chance in life to experience a historical moment as it unfolds in front of you? Am I going to really miss Oasis in their second coming? I won’t be able to stop crying my heart out if I do.

As days go by in between the two weekends Oasis is playing at Wembley, I listen to Definitely Maybe, Morning Glory, The Masterplan and Be Here Now at least three times each as they are the albums featured in the reunion setlist. Full-on 90s nostalgia. Seriously, what was I thinking when I was 14? There’s no point looking back in anger now.

Many have said nostalgia has played a big part in the success of the Oasis reunion tour for those of us who were old enough to remember them at the peak of their fame. Cynics say it’s Noel’s divorce and needing to recoup financially, which is a fair reason in my book for reconciling with a sibling and give your tunes a spin around the world. Especially for a man who has never hidden he wanted more.

The catalysis for me to trigger an irrational fear of missing out on a generational milestone for a second time has been seeing so many people enjoying the same music at the same time and talking about it non-stop at a time when our cultural taste is so fragmented and it is difficult to find common ground over shared interests. Is it my imagination or have I finally found something worth living for, at least for a week?

Nowadays we rarely experience music as a cultural phenomenon that can dominate conversations like the battle of Britpop did back in the day and have the ability to help us bond over our shared passions or animadversions -or maybe the sheer love of everything there is on offer. Discussing the cultural zeitgeist with our peers, especially films and music, was all it was about before the arrival of streaming and personalised music suggestions changed the way entire generations transition through that defining cultural blueprint that is adolescence.

There is also another element that makes it difficult to ignore the voice in my head that keeps whispering I should try and find a ticket. I’m well aware this is a ludicrous idea, so I try to contain as best as I can a mounting excitement that surprises even me. Besides, there is a reason I never been to Wembley for a concert and I would feel out of place and overwhelmed among such a massive crowd of strangers.

And yet I keep reading reviews of the shows eagerly and rooting for the Gallaghers, not as members of Oasis but as brothers. I don’t think I have never been so invested in two people’s relationship working out even when there is nothing in it for me. Having had my ups and downs with my sister in the past, and knowing several people who were or still are estranged from their siblings and haven’t spoken to them in years, has surely made me appreciate more the relationship we’ve been able to build and realise that life is just too short to let it pass you by musically or emotionally as you’re caught up in your petty grievances.

Reading the comments on every video or post shared on social media it is obvious this is a shared feeling and that for many people seeing Liam and Noel joking and smiling at each other on stage is just as powerful as listening to their music once again. Because this time around we’re all a bit older and carry more baggage than we did in the 90s, the real success of this reunion lies not on the music (or the money), but on the shared understanding of the importance of healing and repairing relationships when we still can. The Gallaghers with each other and Oasis with their fans. The Oasis reunion has, against all odds, the feel-good event of the year in a world where the opportunities for communal joy and celebration have become far and few in between.

Perhaps that’s why we’ve nearly lost our voices singing the chorus of Acquiesce while Noel Gallagher faces thousands of people and is taking in the cultural and historical impact this moment has not only for many of us, but also for him and his brother as he sings “Because we need each other, we believe in one another,” and we can’t help but agree and sing back. Fans will miss Liam’s funny tweets heckling random abuse at Noel after all these years but they’ll be willing to give them up if this means these two are finally on smiling terms.

Oh, sorry, yes, I should have clarified that this is really happening. I am at the Oasis concert at Wembley.

If you wonder how this manifested the answer is simple. For better or for worse, London is a city where anything is possible provided you’re willing to part with money. In this case I was lucky to find a ticket for the last date they are playing in August in London and it was not only genuine (phew!) but totally worth it.

My seat is next to an Italian girl who has told me she was an Oasis fan since she was 10. She is 40 now and has travelled from Sardinia because she never managed to see them when they were together and thought this would never happen again. She was one of the lucky ones who got tickets last year and has been looking forward to this moment. On my right there is a guy from Singapore who has also travelled all the way to see the band. He doesn’t specify when he got his ticket. It’s also his first time and like my Italian neighbour he never thought this would be something he would experience in his lifetime.

Next to him there’s a young couple who can’t be older than 30, probably also their first time. In an hour, the guy will ask the girl to marry him halfway through Slide Away, which we will learn is their favourite Oasis song, as we cheer and congratulate them. But right now they can’t stop smiling. Like the rest of us.

When Liam and Noel finally come on stage, hand in hand, Wembley goes absolutely mad for it. I can feel the concrete shaking underneath my feet as 90,000 people start jumping at once. I was a bit apprehensive about the size of Wembley but watching the crowd so genuinely elated surpasses any expectations I had for what this concert would be and suddenly I am surrounded by friends I’ve never met before but who are feeling as supersonic as I do.

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By the time Stand by Me makes an appearance on the setlist I can’t keep it together any longer and I start crying. I am not at Wembley anymore but back home in front of the television watching a music video where two sisters fight and one of them ends up in hospital as Liam sings “Stand by me, nobody knows the way is gonna be,” and I am left wondering if she’ll make it.

Wonderwall has a hypnotic, trance-like effect and so does Don’t Look Back in Anger, which we will religiously sing, feeling every word. Anywhere I look tears will flow freely, regardless of the song. I can’t tell you the way I feel because the way I feel is oh so new to me but when I finally get home, I will think that I have never witnessed anything like this concert before and it’s nothing short of magical. Biblical even as Liam would say.

However, it’ll be Champagne Supernova, a song up to this day I’ve been mostly indifferent to, the one that will hit the hardest for me in all its psychodelic, Beatlesy magnificence6 as the fireworks light up the sky above us. To the critics that claim Oasis is the most successful cover band in the history of music on account of how much inspiration they’ve drawn from The Beatles, I can only say thank god because I love The Beatles but I am never going to see them live so everything has come full circle for me at this concert.

All these emotions and ruminations, however, will be processed much later, long after the 90,000 people gathered today at Wembley will have done a Poznan and exulted on the notes of Cigarettes & Alcohol, felt the weight of the “my body feels young but my mind is very old” lyrics in Half the World Away, thought of Richard Ashcroft7 as we sing Cast No Shadow, appreciated the great song D’You Know What I Mean? actually is, and embraced that we are free to be Whatever and we can sing the blues if we want.

One day, many years from now, someone will be writing about this moment in time reflecting on the historical phenomenon this reunion was and its cultural impact like other people have done in recent years trying to unpack the why, how, what and who of Britpop. For a change, when that moment arrives, I will be able to say I didn’t let it pass me by while everyone enjoyed it and I too lived it first hand.

But that is in the future and tonight, even if I would like to slow it right down because the day's moving just too fast, I am living for the stars that shine. And right here, right now, in this warm August night at Wembley, in my mind my dreams are real and we all are rock ‘n’ roll stars.

Just as we were back in the 90s when life was lighter and we thought we’d live forever. And Geri Halliwell could never leave the Spice Girls.

Abroad is an independent publication about London, living in between cultures, languages, books, music, films, creativity, and being human in the age of artificial intelligence.

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The other day I turned to Netflix in search for something that made me forget my uterus was being slowly but unmercifully strangled. Nothing out of the ordinary, just period cramps.

Because I was in a particular mood and affected by mild pain, I needed something that didn’t required a lot of attention on my side given I had neither the focus nor the energy, but which also wasn’t too underwhelming because then I would get bored after five minutes and my attention would shift back to my contracting uterus. In short: I needed something that was distracting but not demanding.

It shouldn’t be hard to find in Netflix, which has earned a reputation for producing casual viewing content you can play in the background while going about doing the dishes.

After a few minutes I settled for Back in Action, a Netflix film starring Cameron Diaz and Jamie Foxx as the leads, two actors I like and are good suited for both action and comedy. The blurb promised family-friendly action comedy which sounded about right up my take-my-mind-off-my-period-cramps-but-don’t-ask-me-to-be-invested street.

Except that once I started watching -and despite some cliched dialogue that made me wince- I realised I had made a mistake for this wasn’t the kind of background film I was looking for. Definitely not when you have Glenn Close, Andrew Scott, Jamie Demetriou and Kyle Chandler, a great cast with solid acting chops on their backs any way you look at it.

Without spoiling anything, I’d just say that while the story would have benefitted from a faster-paced rhythm and more thrilling action sequences considering the lead characters are highly-trained former spies, it’s not a bad movie and I wanted to read what others had to say about it.

The online reviews were less positive and I came across a couple which described the movie as something you play on the background while doing the dishes. While I understand where it comes from, after all I set out to watch something on the housekeeping category, Back in Action is not it. This may not be a movie that will change anyone’s life, but it’s not so terrible it can’t raise above being background noise while you scrub away dinner leftovers.

Besides, you don’t have Glenn Close on the background while doing the dishes. I am not an animal, for Christ’s sake, and I have lots of respect for a woman who was pushed by Michael Douglas to the brink and then accused of being the guilty part. No one is putting Glenn Close on the background, not on my watch at least.

So the question that started to form in my head was why a movie with a great cast and not a bad premise (although not electrifying) had ended up straight on a streaming platform and relegated by some as worthy of inhabiting the casual viewing category?

The answer may be generational.

Back in Action is not a background noise movie, it’s just an ok movie, the kind that back in the 90s or early 00s this is the kind of film that would have been released to cinemas and drove families to it. It would have probably ended up becoming an enjoyable family classic, the one you may not look for specifically but which you watch everytime it’s on tv.

But we are not in the 90s or early 00s and ok original movies hardly deserve a threatrical release when there is a new superhero franchise or remake knocking at the door and likely to attract millions with its thrilling CGI powered action scenes which make up 90% of its plot and which keep our adrenaline and dopamine levels balanced.

Because in an era dominated by social media, streaming and the subscription economy, our consolidated adiction to bigger, better and newer demands a fresh batch of high-octane series and films released every week to compete for our very frazzled attention spans in the hope to drive a surge in subscriptions and keep the attention economy wheels turning without a halt. And obviously you can’t sustain that volume of content to keep the money rolling without compromising on quality, which paves the way for the AI slope galore and underwhelming cultural output we have ended up in. Not to speak of our inability to be able to sit still or enjoy something that progresses at a slower pace or, god forbid, includes more than two minutes of dialogue.

Back to Action is an ok movie, the one that not so long ago movie stars sooner or lated ended up in because while not career-defining, it still brings work and money to the table and audiences, while not flocking to buy a ticket for a rewatch, will not hate it either. The spitting definiting of an ok movie. But in a time where we there is so much going on, an ok, even a decent movie, will just not cut it anymore and it’d be relegated to the casual viewing drawer of your streaming platform of choice without much thought. Especially when you have the power to pause it anytime for a toilet break while you do the dishes.

The use of the expression casual viewing/listening/reading today has become a passe-partout that betrays more our inability to pay attention than the artistic quality of the content we are choosing to ignore, which opens the door for AI slop, but also low-quality content, to infiltrate every aspect of our cultural output.

Which leads me to the other reason why this expression is problematic: because we are no longer bound to go to the cinema for a film, or buy a record or go to concert to listen to our favourity band as technology has brought them to us, we have come to accept, and to some degree expect, the existence of specific mindless content created with the sole purpose to act as background noise while we scroll our social media or focus on other tasks. Nothing can keep us engaged anymore for more than ten minutes. Perhaps we are the ones to blame for the slop avalanche, whether human or AI-generated, that we are experiencing if we have so easily let go of our willingness to be present and pay attention.

Don’t get me wrong: I am not immune to distraction myself.

In fact, I did a Hugh Grant and dozed off when I went to see the new Superman last week, missing key parts of the plot, so I had to go back and watch it again -twice again to be precise. An act that has been rewarded with a movie that made sense once I didn’t sleep through some key scenes, an uplifting message on how we always have a choice in life to act differently, and how being human requires great courage not everyone is capable of as it requires kindness and trusting people are good in a world where global events have made it very hard to believe so. Hope in humanity, he tells an incredulous Lois and us, it’s the new punk rock.

The second time I went to see the film, however, I was distracted by the number of people -most of them in their late teens to mid 20s- with their phones on during the screening to the point it was distracting. Hence my third go, which was finally as it should be: sleep and phone free.

Falling asleep at the cinema has been happening for years and it’s almost part of the experience. Checking our phones to be entertained while having paid to watch a movie to be entertained, or using our phone to record a concert we have waited years to see, should not be.

Pre-internet, when we didn’t have the possibility to enjoy something immediately anytime we wanted, we paid attention. Scarcity made us focused. We absorbed more, we remembered the lyrics of a song, the name of the characters of a book, the dialogue of a film and where we were when we first experienced them because we didn’t have to shift our attention constantly to something new. Before the arrival of smart phones the right here, right now was happening in the physical world as we experienced it, not through a screen in the palm of our hands.

That doesn’t mean we never put books down, paused a film or played The Beatles on the background while cleaning the house. Or that everything that was made was a masterpiece. Cultural nostalgia has a tendency to present the past as a place were everything was more elevated than it was (think Shakespeare’s language or Mozart’s The Magic Flute, which was originally created for popular audiences) but bad films, bad music, and bad books were part of our upbringing in the years preceeding the arrival of the attention economy as much as they are now. The difference is that there were few of them because there was few of everything in general.

Unlike today’s casual readers/listeners/viewers who are bombarded with incessant content to keep the subscription economy going, we had fewer opportunities to see a film, buy a record, or order a book so it’d better be worth it. Perhaps that made of us more discerning audiences as we had both less things to focus on and fewer opportunities to do so. We wanted to be entertained but would protest if we realised we were being pushed to like something that was a total rip-off and devoid of any quality because we

In the era of streaming the sense of urgency has been lost. Everything is always available, in one platform or another, and provided you are willing to pay, distractions won’t be lacking, one after another, 24/7. Little does it matter if a film, a show, a record, or a book is not up to our standards because in the blink of an eye it will have been replaced by something probably better that we are encouraged to pay our undivided attention for the next 15 seconds. Brain rot was the Oxford dictionary word of the year in 2024 for a reason.

Which leads me to whether we may be directly responsible for the surge of casual content, whether AI-generated or human-made, whose sole purpose of existing is to be enjoyed in the background of our lives. Although maybe this is a chicken and egg situation and it may be not possible to identify which came first, the overwhelming offer with underwhelming substance that streaming platforms, social media and the subscriber economy have pushed our way or the casual cultural consumer that will gladly feed on anything as long as it offers a distraction from their own life.

Synthetic content - produced by AI or a machine learning system- will no longer be distinguisable from that produced by humans in a few years’ time. Future generations will most likely see no reason to differentiate between the two because to them it would be an already established medium and it may not challenge as much the notions they have about the importance of preserving human-made culture. At least that is what everyone working in this field tells me when we catch up.

The extent to which AI will be permeating more and more of our cultural landscape can be found in The Velvet Sundown, the latest Spotify sensation with 1 million streams. Hope you aren’t looking forward to going to any of their concerts because they’re an AI-generated group and so is their music. Don’t worry too much if you didn’t notice. Maybe you were only casually listening to them while going about your business in the house and therefore it was an easy one to miss. If you did liked them, I hope you don’t feel cheated by the discovery they don’t exist. Between The Salt Path scandal and The Velvet Sundown this is a terrible month for trusting souls.

And here I need to make a digression to say something about The Salt Path because while this specific book is of no interest to me as a reader, the controversy it has caused is no different from finding out that a content that you thought genuine turns out to be AI-generated and therefore you feel doubly betrayed because now you not only question whether what it has made you feel but also the fact that those feelings are the product of something that isn’t anchored in reality and has been artificially created to provoke a certain reaction, which falls in the realms of manipulation. And while we could argue that all art, in a way, manipulates its intended audience to provoke a certain emotion in them, it should do so from a place of creative authenticity not deception.

You could argue streaming platforms such as Spotify and record labels are to blame for the rise of easy listening playlists and you’d be 99.99% right because they all want to get rich and so whether the music is made by an AI band or a human they’d get their share all the same -which is almost net profit if a human hasn’t been involved.

But why is music made in first place? Who listens to it? Who needs it so desperately in their lives for someone to spot an opportunity to profit from generating music by fake artists?

It’s us, the people.

When I was a teenager, there was a Spanish radio station which slogan was “It’d be terrible to live without music.” They had created an ad campaign both on tv and radio and had put music to it to prove the point. The song they had picked was Wonderwall and I remembered being completly transfixed the first time I listed to the ad, which was the first time I ever listed to Wonderwall. It was only 15 seconds but I was changed. Wonderwall would play several times a day on the radio at the time and I would turn up the volume as if it was the last time I could listen to it. In a way it was because I couldn’t predict when I’d be listening to next. No one I knew liked Oasis, I didn’t know myself who they were, only that they played this song which was on the radio often. At a time when Spotify hadn’t yet enter anyone’s vocabulary, this made every listening a concentrated effort to absorb every word, every change in the melody, in case it’d be the last one. The exact opposite of casual listening where you can’t tell a playlist from another.

So let’s go back to my original question: which came first, the casual cultural consumer or the abundance of low-quality and AI-generated content avalanche?

If we as humans feel the need to listen to music or watch a film, even on the background, why should we expect no one to capitalise on that at the cost of our capacity to engage with genuine, transformative, human-made content that can help expand our taste and cultural horizons? Instead, we have companies jumping on the casual bandwagon that fills their pockets as we put on yet another AI-generated track to satisfy our craving for background noise while we vacuum. The irony is not lost on me.

But when an audience demands new distractions and you can produce them by the dozen at almost no cost thanks to AI, everything is an opportunity to make a few extra pounds on the side. Thankfully some people do pay attention and have spotted Spotify had gone as far as creating AI-generated tracks from deceased artists.

The rise of AI content is not a result of a lack of talent or the mark of the cultural decline of our era. Quite the contrary. If anything, there is a lack of opportunity for talent to break through across any creative discipline as traditional systems have collapsed and given way to a more DIY approach when it comes to discoverability.

There are many great artists making music today but not all of them get the opportunity to play a live gig in a Glasgow pub invited by another band they’re friends with, and end up the night signing a record deal because a leading music executive just happens to be there by chance to annoy his ex-girlfriend, who plays on the band who invited you to the gig. Which is how Oasis came into being who they are, by the way.

Nowadays an artist has far better chances to become known to the public by making a Tiktok song people can use for a viral trend over and over. Or if they’re already a recording artist, pray that in their next gig there is for a moment rivalling the Astronomer CEO scandal at the Coldplay concert.

Leaving virality aside, the traditional musical cycle has been disrupted by the arrival of streaming platforms, which changed the way we listen to music and discover new artists. It’s not necessarily a bad thing -I would have never found out about many artists that I’ve come to love had it not been for Spotify-, but it has come at a great cost for artists, which now rely on bigger numbers to make a living. And when the offer is so overwhelming, the chances of being found diminish.

While it can be argued that the channels for self-promotion have become more democratic and accessible and it is no longer imperative to have a large label behind to reach an audience, the reality is that an increasingly fragmented market where two people of the same age and living in the same place no longer listen to the same music as there is not such thing as mainstream tv or radio stations that introduce new artists and help them create a fanbase, leaves a lot in the hands of the algorithm.

The best shot you have at discovering a new act organically these days is to live in a city with a good music scene where you can go to venues or festivals. Trusting the algorithm has become a leap of faith and you may end up vibing to The Velvet Sundown and wondering when they’ll play in London next.

It seems it is also harder these days for artists to transcend their generational outreach, which makes them compete for a very saturated audience that relies on social media to find new music. However, the pace at which an act needs to secure a devoted audience quickly these days to sustain their musical ambitions is brutal. By the time you discover a new band you like, they may have already broken up. I can’t imagine any emerging artist in the past 10 years having the future impact The Beatles had on generations of people who came to their music as a rite of passage when hitting adolescence long after the group dissolved. But what can you expect when GenZ thinks Artic Monkeys are dad music. Appalling.

Reading is not immune to the AI slop avalanche we are drowning in.

In fact, the need to satisfy our endless cultural cravings at a pace no human can keep up with paved the way for the Chicago Tribune fiasco, where the newspaper confessed AI had been used to put together a summer reading list that produced some interesting AI hallucinated titles its authors would be very keen to hear more about. Maybe they set out to actually write them.

Which begs once again the question of whether we have become excessively reliant on AI to outsource our cultural discoveries for us and subtly dictate our taste by reducing our worldview to what generates engagement and, by extension, profit. It is no longer a matter of quality but of quantity. More (quantity) is more (eyeballs) in the age of content monetisation.

Similarly to music, technology has disrupted both what being a writer is in an age when your words can be scrapped online and repurposed without giving you any credit It has also changed, and to an extent slightly democratised, the publishing game and how books can be made more accessible with the rise of audiobooks, which means they can now can also be narrated by AI, sorry.

Never before was so easy for aspiring and established writers alike to have direct access to a potential audience without the need of intermediaries, if we ignore the algorithm that puts a few people very insistently under your radar while hiding many others.

Unfortunately Substack is no stranger to AI slop invading the platform. As the company is slowly but surely becoming for writers the equivalent of what Youtube has become for musicians and podcasters in terms of discoverability, the question is how many people have the actual capacity to produce engaging pieces regularly that make someone a paying subscriber unless that is already their main job. It is no wonder the casual writer may be tempted to resort to AI-generated content to give their publication, and subscribers’ count, a boost.

The problem with this is that Substack is incentivised to allow this content to flow freely -in the same way it does with other problematic content on claims of free speech- provided it drives engagement and attracts readers to the platform, especially considering their founders’ ambitious plans following a new round of investment. Because like Spotify, Substack is a tech platform that needs to generate profit to keep existing so it depends on engagement to drive paying subscriptions regardless of whether there is a human behind the content being pushed out.

Now that concerns have been raised about the AI slop permeatting the platform, how many people are willing to commit their attention and money to publications if they suspected them to be powered by AI, even occasionally? Before we know it we can have another Salt Path gate at our front door. Imagine the scenario: Someone claims what they wrote was real but it turns out it was all the product of ChatGPT and now people are furious and want their money back. Meanwhile, Gillian Anderson regrets having said yes to acting in the original film adaptation inspired by that viral piece when the sequel on the scandal promises to be way juicier.

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Perhaps both Substack and Spotify should take a leaf out of Youtube, which is updating its policies to demonetise any AI-generated content, which would have significant impact on the reduction of AI slop and low-quality output intended only to keep us distracted from engaging with more meaningful, human-made pieces that, while imperfect, have a long lasting impact on us.

Netflix would do well by following the example set by Apple TV and its focus on quality over quantity, especially after it has emerged they are using AI for a few of their shows, which perhaps isn’t so surprising considering they advertised a job for an AI product manager amid the Hollywood strikes or that Netflix Chairman sits on the board of Anthropic.

Perpahs this is why Apple TV shows have received a record-breaking number of Emmy nominations this year: less (quantity) allows you to focus on more (quality).

Take for instance the The Studio, the most nominated freshman comedy series with 23 nominations, including best comedy, which casts a satirical look at the world of Hollywood and the harsh truths of film production in the era of streaming.

A constant in the show is how cinema lover Matt Remick (played by Seth Rogen) finds himself in his dream job as Head of Studio only to realise he is now forced to kill the movies he dreamed of making in order to churn out movies that are profitable and keep business afloat.

In one of the subplots, while the protagonists are worried about whether a new movie based on Kool-Aid (a not so subtle critique about the money-grabbing screen adaptations of late) could be perceived as racist based on the cast, Remick ends up getting backlash for the use of AI to cut costs on visual effects and animation, which gets leaked as he is presenting the movie at an event and creates a chain-reaction that jeopardises the future of the film as people have very strong opinions about AI.

It is not lost on me that I’m using as an example a show that, however good it is, requires people to be subscribed to a specific platform in order to view it and be part of the conversation, which is testament to how fragmented the cultural offer it is in the age of streaming. Such is I’m afraid the world we live in and I doubt we can chage that at this stage.

However not everything is lost. Not yet at least.

We do have agency even when the odds seem against us at a time when people resort to TikTok for a quick music fix, to streaming to avoid silence while cleaning the house, to their phones to avoid the commitment of watching a full film whether at home or at the cinema, and to ChatGPT for their writing, and most worryingly their thinking as OpenAI has shared that ChatGPT receives 2.5 billion prompts from global users every day.

We can tip the scale in our favour by choosing to be mindful about the culture we engage with and how. As obvious as it may seem, less proves to be always more.

We can give something human-made our undivided attention and recognition, whether a book, a song, a film, a painting, a photograph, a piece of advice from a good friend, or a recipe passed on from our grandmother.

We have the power to refuse anything specifically created to insult our intelligence and our capacity to engage critically with the world around us.

We have the ability discern between when were are being treated as humans with emotions and taste by other humans sharing their art with us, and when we are seen as eyeballs with an attention span deficit and wallets for companies to exploit for profit.

We have, in short, the power to reclaim and demand a better culture for humans by humans and better ways to support those who want to contribute to create something that inspires future generations to also create their own music, make their own films or write their own stories for others to enjoy and be inspired in return.

Technology can contribute to democratise how we access new voices and talent whether in filmmaking (thanks to streaming platforms producing more content beyond traditional studios and broadcast tv), in writing (Substack is a good example), or in music (Youtube or Spotify can amplify the outreach of emerging musicians) but we should not accept that the culture we are exposed to, and which plays a fundamental role in shaping our taste, is outsourced to technology, which doesn’t need to pay a human to generate distractions.

For if we let AI decide which music, films and books we read and accept everything it pushes our way, in a few years’ time we may no longer have any human-made music, films or books to enjoy. We may even lose our capacity to appreciate human-made art that hasn’t been generated with a precise formula we have become addicted to.

To paraphrase a quote, and main theme, from the new Superman movie, maybe the real punk rock in this era where it seems the way forward for culture is to suffocate in the heaps of AI slop thrown at us is to be radically, authentically human in every way we can and not be afraid to show it through the choices we make every day. Culturally and beyond.

Abroad is independent publication about London, living in between cultures, languages, books, music, films, creativity, and being human in the age of artificial intelligence.

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The Culture Fix is the place where I share the books, films, music, articles, interviews, plays, exhibitions, places, and even food, I’ve enjoyed recently.

Recommendations may refer to content in either English, Spanish, French or Italian and sometimes not available in English. But since this is a publication called Abroad written by a multilingual foreigner in London, and hopefully appealing to those curious to explore beyond their own borders, this shouldn’t come as a surprise or be an obstacle to widen your cultural horizons.

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In Neapolitan tradition the number 17 is synonymous with bad luck, or what the natives call “sfiga.” Since I’m typing these lines in the Eastern border of France near Switzerland, I trust the Jura mountains offer enough physical distance between me and Southern European superstitions to keep this issue of The Culture Fix safe from debacle. Since it’s also me typing it, I wouldn’t hold my hopes very high.

But don’t let me get ahead of my self and let me do a brief recap on what’s happened since the last issue.

To begin with, I started mostly cool stuff (no capitals, otherwise it isn’t cool), another publication where I share sweet and short dispatches bringing together the old curiosity shop that are the screenshots in my phone gallery, the links I send to myself, the news that capture my attention and the random discoveries I make along the way. It started as 2.0 version of previous newsletters I used to send weekly at work for years as I missed the joy of writing regularly, an itch that long form content isn’t always able to scratch at as it demands huge amounts of mental energy and subsequent rest periods. You can’t pour from an empty cup, and all that. Even when it looks like a 5 year old could have written that post, it was still exhausting to put it together.

Perhaps thanks to AI it doesn’t have to be anymore. At least that’s what’s been transpiring recently on Substack as a number of similar posts in tone have hit my feed over the past couple of weeks, all of them suspiciously graced by thousands of likes, hundreds of restacks, and a very high number of comments, which is the true holy grail of engagement. Most shockingly the authors of this highly successful content publish almost every day. How is that even possible? I can barely remember that brilliant idea I had for a post a minute ago let alone actually writing it.

Oh muse, tell me, the secret to these gifted scribes’ prose and endurance for I too long for the audience’s favour and the algorithm’s capricious blessing!

If you have also noticed the proliferation and ubiquitouness of a new kind of writer who expresses themselves in what has aptly defined as the Substack style, I would highly recommend reading his piece Scamming Substack? where he analyses the phenomenon and what may be going on behind the scenes. If you feel deflated for the lack of engagement, remember it’s not you, it’s probably AI.

The other thing that has also happened is that I’ve been reading a lot, at least for my average standard.

This has been enabled by an unexpected wifi malfunction over a weekend which left me with no other option for entertainment than books. It was nice to get lost into physical pages and not online posts and I hope to sustain the habit a bit longer so I’m grateful for that connection glitch that forced me to resort to physical objects in order to dissociate from reality for a change. Reading is reading, no matter how you end up there. Unless, of course, you claim to have greatly enjoyed the latest Isabel Allende’s novel, Tidewater Dreams, in which case I would have to report you to the Real Books Police for immediate arrest. How could you prefer it over The Rainmakers by Percival Everett? Unbelievable.

Can we really be surprised about this surge in AI generated-content when even tech CEOs are replacing themselves with avatars and very shortly so we will, as this tube ad reminds me?

Rest assure this edition of the Culture Fix features cultural products created by humans and recommended by another verified human. Not to brag but I have an 83% success rate identifying correctly traffic lights, motorcycles and even pedestrian crossings, which can be tricky.

Now hold tight and enjoy the cultural ride.

On Substack/News/Articles

— Let's Talk About ChatGPT and Cheating in the Classroom
— How to read more in 11 easy steps
— You can stay there - a travel guide for book and cinema lovers
— The death of the public intellectual
— 67 cringe-worthy clichés of book reviewing
— Agatha Has Been AI-ed, and I Feel Uncomfortable About It
— Vincenzo Latronico on writing Perfection, his International Booker Prize shortlisted novel
— Taste Is the New Intelligence
— Your hip surgery, my headache
— Books to Guide You Out of the Dark: A Fictional Therapy Reading List

Books

— Careless People by Sarah Wynn-Williams
If half of what Sarah Wynn-Williams writes about in this memoir about her seven years at Facebook working closely with Mark Zuckerberg and Sheryl Sandberg is true, I’m surprised Facebook is still in business. But at the same time that’s probably why they are still in business. As it always happens when whistleblowers write a book, Meta has gone to great lengths to prevent the book from being promoted, which accuses Meta’s leadership team of being deeply unconcerned with human rights, data protection violations or paying taxes in the countries they operate internationally, among many other things. Perhaps more interestingly is how Wynn-Williams focuses since the beginning, and then slowly builds up to, Facebook shift towards influencing electoral results and supporting divisive content to fuel engagement. I guess we’ll never know for sure what goes on behind close doors at big tech given how many interests (political, economic, strategic) and personal vendettas are intertwined with the truth, so we’ll always be left wondering what and who to believe. Judging however by recent events, Careless People seems to have hit a few nails on the head.

— Le parfum des fleurs la nuit by Leïla Slimani
Blending memoir with social observations and critique, this slim volume is the fruit of Slimani’s overnight stay at Punta della Dogana in Venice, where she was invited to spend a sleepless night alone in the museum by her editor as part of a new literary project. As the hours pass, Slimani reflects on the effects art has on us, who gets to experience it and how based on our gender and where we are born as she explores the question of cultural identity while she reminisces about her childhood in Rabat and the figure of her father, who was imprisoned by

— Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen
Maybe because I started the year watching Nosferatu and developing a soft spot for all things gothic, maybe because 2025 marks Austen’s 250th birthday and I’ve resolved to read all her books before the end of the year (fingers crossed), I approached Northanger Abbey with the best of intentions and it paid off. I flew by Austen’s satiric take on the gothic novels of her day and while this may be an early work not fully reflective of her later style, it’s nonetheless quintessentially Austen so expect lots of balls, excessive deference for new acquaintances that prove to be not that worthy, a few misunderstandings that get in the way of two people getting together, religious observance of social conventions and a heroine that triumphs over adversity at the end of the day.

— Le perfezioni by Vincenzo Latronico
A modern spin on Les choses by George Perec, Le perfezioni is the story of the disillusions of the millennial generation told through the eyes of an exiled couple from Southern Europe that emigrates to more prosperous -and colder- latitudes hoping to live up to their generation’s expectations and make the most out of their youth and ambition. But after the novelty of a new place, synthetic drugs, risqué sex, the latest rave party and an array of international friends constantly coming and going eventually wears off and the dust of every day life and its problems settles, the cracks begin to show and what once seemed a goal to work towards to slowly morphs into a reality one can’t wait to escape from. Written with surgical precision that creates a vantage point of view for the reader as an observant of the life of others, Vincenzo Latronico has crafted the novel that captures the experience of being a millennial in the era of precariousness and the constant readjustment of one’s dreams as the goalposts keep moving further and further away.

— Spatriati by Mario Desiati
If Le perfezioni is the story of a couple that faces the disappointments of modern life together, Spatriati is the other side of the coin. We find two Southern Italians at the centre of Desiati’s novel who are looking for a better life, a man and a woman who have known each other since childhood but aren’t bound by romantic love but rather a desire to be accepted -by themselves, by the other, by society- for who they are deep inside and not the image those around them have created based on the false sense of familiarity that growing up in a small place creates. The two of them eventually find a way to live according to their own terms by uprooting themselves and building their idea of home and self far away from the place where everyone has already decided who they are supposed to be and what they are supposed to want.

Films

— The Uninvited
The first in a series of films released this year and starring Pedro Pascal, The Uninvited is the directorial debut of Nadia Conners. From the trailer I thought this would either move into love triangle territory à la Celine Song or be a fierce satire of Hollywood types as the plot focuses on a couple made of a talent agent (Walter Goggins) and his actress wife (Elizabeth Reaser) who are about to host a group of guests at home for a party, including a former love interest of the wife that is now the hottest actor in Hollywood (played by Pedro Pascal), an egomaniac director (Rufus Sewell) and an up-and-coming young actress (Eva De Dominici). However, The Uninvited didn’t quite go in either direction fully and instead took a lot of detours, some of them leading nowhere. The film, if not the evening, is eventually saved by Lois Smith, who gives a very moving performance playing a mysterious elderly woman whose identity will be revealed only at the very end when the party has come to a close.

— Jane Austen wrecked my life
Bringing together the best of French and British quirkiness, perfect locations that set the Austen mood instantly, an array of characters that could well belong in an Austen novel including a hero and heroine that initially don't see eye to eye but eventually warm up to each other, this is a somewhat predictable but nonetheless highly delightful story. Because let's be honest sometimes you want something that delivers exactly what the title promises, especially if it mentions Jane Austen in it.

— Parthenope
I can’t say I’m an expert in Paolo Sorrentino’s filmography having watched only La Grande Bellezza and Il Divo, but I have loved Parthenope. I found it was a very subtle and moving homage to Naples using her protagonist as an excuse to talk about a city that, like the protagonist of the film, possesses a breathtaking beauty that leaves no one indifferent yet is highly mysterious and often misunderstood, even by its own people. Expect excellent photography and don’t ask it to make sense because this is not that kind of film nor Sorrentino that kind of director.

— Sinners
I went to Sinners expecting a non-demanding action movie and came out blown away by what I had just seen: one of the most original and entertaining films I’ve watched this year. There is blues music, racial tensions, vampires, and two twin brothers Smoke and Stack (both played by Michael B. Jordan) all of them converging in Mississippi during the 1930s for a thrilling gothic Southern tale. I really enjoyed Michael B. Jordan’s double act and was really impressed by Miles Caton, who plays Sammy, a young cousin of the twins, and who has a show-stopper musical number that will have you humming and tapping your feet almost without realising. He is a star in the making, mark my words.

— Hallow Road
It seems that contained spaces and performances are made for Rosemund Pike’s talent to shine bright. Hallow Road is a perfect example of the magic that can happen when good actors meet good writing and direction. Pike is joined by Matthew Rhys in this claustrophobic race against time as the pair play a couple that is on the way to find her daughter, who has been involved in a traffic accident where she has run over someone. Hallow Road breaks the “show don’t tell rule” as we never get to see much besides Pike and Rhys inside a car and yet I promise you’ll be on the edge of your seat the whole time.

— The Phoenician Scheme
When one goes to see a Wes Anderson film the plot is almost secondary to the aesthetics. However, The Phoenician Scheme paints an interesting picture of the complicated alliances and power games in the fictional region of Phoenicia, an amalgamated territory that stands for a fictional Middle East of sorts. When the ambitious engineering plans of flamboyant businessman Zsa-Zsa Corda (Benicia del Toro in his most unserious self) get blocked by his rivals in the region, he sets out on a trip to visit and win over his rivals one by one. This adventure will bring him closer to his estranged daughter (an impassible Mia Threapleton that balances out the sanguine nature of Corda to great comedic effect) and the pair will be joined by Corda’s sons’ tutor Bjorn Lund, played by a brilliant Michael Cera who belongs in the Wes Anderson universe and hopefully will become a regular after this film.

— The Ballad of Wallis Island
Tim Key, Tom Basden and Carey Mulligan lead this story about a superfan (Key) of folk duo McGwyer Mortimer (Basden and Mulligan) who elaborates a plan to bring them together on a remote island after their artistic and romantic split for a very special concert set against the breathtaking Welsh landscape. This is a film that strikes the perfect and difficult to get right balance between comedy, longing for lost love, fear of new love, nostalgia and hope in the future. Plus being a film about a music duo it has a wonderful original soundtrack composed by Tom Basden. You’ll be checking Spotify before making your way out of the cinema.

Films I am looking forward to

— Celine Song is back with a new love triangle: Materialists. The film has already premiered in the US and the reviews are already out there, as are the spoilers, so I am doing my best to ignore them until I can watch it for myself. I have high expectations after Past Lives and while it seems Materialists is a lot more lighthearted, I hope it’s at least half as good.

— Joachim Trier’s Sentimental Value gathered rave reviews at Cannes. The film stars Ellen Fanning, Stellan Skarsgård and Renate Reinsve in a follow up to Trier’s The Worst Person in the World, which I adored so I’ll be most definitely keeping an eye on the UK release date.

— This is a Pedro Pascal summer and we should all embrace it. Besides The Uninvited, and the upcoming Materialists and Fantastic Four, he is also starring on Ari Aster’s Eddington alongside Joaquin Phoenix and Emma Stone. I’m intrigued to see them in action in this film set on the early days of the pandemic in the US with paranoia running high and wild.

— Paul Mescal and Josh O’Connor in The History of Sound, a period romance which has been compared to Brockback Mountain, which Pascal denied during the press conference at Cannes.

— Denzel Washington received an honorary Palm d’Or at Cannes this year from Spike Lee, who is directing him in Highest 2 Lowest, which has gathered very positive reviews so far. I’m glad to see the French have recognised the talent of a man who was robbed of an Oscar nomination for his role in Gladiator II.

Interviews/Podcasts/Short videos

— Danny deVito and Colin Farrell are the Actors on Actors pairing we didn’t know we needed. Someone please bring them together to play different versions of the Penguin on a series/film. Or anything really as long as they are together on screen.

— Because Materialists has already premiered in the US (in the UK will have to wait until August, in France is out at the end of June), this means there are already lots of PR interviews with the protagonist trio, Dakota Johnson, Chris Evans and the man of the hour Pedro Pascal. They give chaotic siblings energy so I hope they turn the romance vibe on for the film as otherwise it’ll be an uncomfortable watch.

— Did you know that Cillian Murphy moved his family out of London, where he lived for over a decade, and back to Ireland because he noticed his kids were getting posh accents and he wasn’t very keen on that? That’s what I call keeping your culture alive. He made this confession back in 2022 during an episode of Armchair Expert where he also talked at length about his passion for music and what then was his upcoming role in Oppenheimer. Little did he know it’d be the performance that would win him an Oscar for Best Actor in 2024.

— There are people in the world convinced that Italian and Spanish languages are practically one and the same and provided one speaks slowly it’ll be fine. One of the funniest interviews I’ve watched lately, featuring Italian singer Damiano David and David Broncano, presenter of Spanish late show La Revuelta, challenges this misconception. You don’t need to speak Italian or Spanish to enjoy the chaos being unleashed here (with some English thrown in the mix) but if you speak either language, or both, you’ll also have plenty of laughs.

— I’ve been positively surprised by this interview/career retrospective of Tom Cruise on occasion of his BFI Fellowship for contributions to film and UK film industry awarded in May. Learning about Cruise’s lesser known roles (at least for me) and the passion with which he talks about his craft and cinema have triggered an unbridled obsession with everything Tom Cruise of epic proportions (I rather not think too much about it and just go with the flow) which has led me to watch as many of his films as I can get hold of, which is no small feat as the man has an impressive prolific career with many excellent titles under his belt. Something that can be easily overlooked given his off-screen personal life and his on-screen focus on action roles which unfortunately aren’t the best vehicle to let people see there is a solid actor underneath the Guinness record-breaking stunts. Let’s hope his upcoming Alejandro González Iñárritu film brings back Cruise the actor at last. The fact that is a wild comedy sounds very promising.

Meanwhile, and while I complete my Mara-Tom mission, watching Tom Cruise on the top of the BFI IMAX saying “Light the fuse” as I was at the BFI IMAX ready to abandon myself to Mission Impossible: Final Reckoning for a fourth time (we listen but we don’t judge) was such a joy. It doesn’t matter it’s the 100th time I had seen that clip, it was still a nice surprise because it was the first time I saw it on the place where it was shot ahead of the last instalment of a franchise I have come to like very much over the past year. Besides, ‘light the fuse’ is what Cruise says on Ghost Protocol, my favourite instalment of the M:I series, right before the iconic music theme plays in the intro. Yes, I can be cheesy like that sometimes and I’m ok with it.

Music

— If you’ve paid attention to the film section you have easily guessed The Ballad of Wallis Island would be making an appearance here. I love it when a film doubles up as a great soundtrack you click with instantly and can listen to anytime you like and be reminded of how much you enjoyed the movie in first place. Tom Basden and Carey Mulligan have great chemistry not only on screen but also as a singing duo, albeit fictional.

— I’m really enjoying You’ll Be Alright, Kid (Chapter 1) by Alex Warren, which apparently is not an album but an extended play, whatever that means, since Warren’s actual first studio album, You’ll Be Alright Kid (same title as the extended play, not confusing at all) is scheduled for July 2025.

Surprisingly Warren started out as an internet influencer renowned for his pranks, not his musical talents, and was part of the collaborative project Hype House from 2019 to 2022, which brought together young Californian creators which rose to fame on TikTok. However, in 2021 Warren started releasing his own music independently and eventually got a recording deal with Atlantic Records and his music has gathered positive reviews. So far, so Doechii. We’d better get used to the idea that the artists of tomorrow will be coming from social media and not a garage in Donaghadee (cheeky shoutout to Two Door Cinema Club who wrote its hit What You Know there). If you enjoy folkish pop charged with emotional lyrics and powered by deep vocals, Warren’s music may be right up your musical alley.

— When the temperatures rise, it’s time for the summer playlist to take centre stage. Which means I’m giving a lot of love to Tu Con Chi Fai L’Amore by Neapolitan band The Kolors, an upbeat track that was their Sanremo entry this year and which screams long, sticky summer nights dancing until dawn.

In fact, The Kolors have elevated the art of the summer song and infused it with a great 70s/80s disco pop vibe, their hit Italodisco being a great case in point. Give them a listen if you’re looking for a cool and stylish soundtrack to glam up your summer nights or days.

— I’ve been in France for the Fête de la musique, which takes place on the 21st June the same date as my sister’s birthday, and I highly recommend. I was in Besançon with my mum and my sister and the atmosphere was fantastic as the city came alive with different musical acts that took over the many scattered squares from early afternoon until well past midnight. And with a cosy 30 plus degrees on average, we had the perfect weather to celebrate the arrival of summer to the beat of batucada.

— I’ll be doing a double bill as I’ll also be in France for the Fête du cinéma, which runs from 29th June until 2nd July, when all cinema tickets are €5. I hope to catch Materialists as it will be available on French cinemas from the 2nd July, way ahead than the August release in the UK.

Abroad is an independent publication about London, living in between cultures, languages, books, music, films, creativity, and being human in the age of artificial intelligence.

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Dear readers, I’ve missed you.

I did send a new issue of my other newsletter, which I invite new subscribers to check (Hello and welcome to those of you who are new to Abroad, hope you’re enjoying the ride!), but I have not been able to write something with a bit more focus or presence of mind due to the unexpected twists and turns 2025 is taking. If I were the thrill-chasing type, I’d be having the time of my life. Unfortunately I happen to sit on the opposite side of the spectrum and I’m more of a “if ain’t broke don’t fix it” kind of person. Change and I don’t get along very well.

Cristina, I hear you say, but you’ve lived abroad for a very long time! Sure you must have faced change many times before in your life! Yes, you are correct but my younger self had dreams and ambitions and change was a necessary evil to achieve them, not to mention in these instances change was voluntarily and willingly initiated by me. My present self only has bills to pay and a new body ailment every month.

But I digress, excuse me. Of course you don’t have any idea of what I’m talking about, how rude of me. I beg you pardon for this lack of manners, it is the excitement of being digitally reunited with you once again.

Let me do a quick recap on how I’ve exceeded the change and uncertainty threshold lately:

• I received an eviction letter in February out of the blue because she thought of selling (bad, confusing, frustrating)

• I found a new flat rather quickly (good)

• Meanwhile, I had to deal with my landlady changing her mind about the eviction one day and soft bullying my flatmate and me the other for two months (interesting to say the least)

• The day I finally picked up the keys to the new flat I discovered it wasn’t somewhere I wanted to live in (shocking but also expected as I hadn’t been allowed to visit the flat at all in the two months from signing the contract to starting the tenancy) Having to get rid of a dead rat was the nail on the coffin.

• Spent a week speaking to the agency and a lawyer friend to put an end to the contract (stressful but illuminating) and crossing my fingers so a new person could be found fast (it worked out because in this city there is always someone more desperate than you)

• Spent many hours on the phone speaking to utility providers to close the accounts I had just opened (don’t wish it to my worst enemy although everyone has been very helpful but still nope)

• Spoke to my landlady as I needed a place to live (again and as a result of she creating this chaos in first place) and she was delighted to have me back (good, I guess?) because she wants to do a few upgrades in the flat (obviously) and it’s extremely convenient if I can stay here so I can let people in (of course). Plus she has profusely apologised for the eviction notice (I believe she means it yet I can’t get over the unnecessary chaos she’s unleashed but I have nowhere to go so that’s settles it)

This means I’ve only delayed the question of where I am going to live next and whether I can realistically afford to live in London on my own or at all going forward. After a rational and careful analysis, and with the invaluable insights my recent first-hand experience of venturing again in the London rental market has provided, the answer to those questions is “no fucking idea” and “fucking impossible,” which is disappointing as I’d like to feel like the adult woman I am instead of an eternal student who is scrapping by and can’t make future plans beyond what to have for lunch tomorrow. Fine, it’s a bit of an exaggeration for comic relief but not too far-fetched from my current reality.

London isn’t the place I came to 16 years ago which means that right now you must earn at least six figures to be able to afford a decent flat on your own and compete against people desperate for a place to drop dead. And by decent I mean what we understand as basic in Spain. That is no damp or mould, bright (natural light when the sky is grey 11 months a year is a must in this city to avoid depression), ideally bigger than a shoebox, and in an area where you feel safe. When it comes to practical matters like choosing where to live it pains me to admit there is a premium to pay for things the other sex often takes for granted, such as physical integrity.

And while I could afford a super cosy studio flat in an area a bit less well connected where I don’t have to choose between taking a shower or having breakfast because the stove and shower are conveniently placed next to each other so I can do both at once, I’d probably be on Xanax within a month of living in such a place. If I’m still alive after a month, that is.

Of course if I had a partner I wouldn’t be complaining about what for some of you must sound like a first-world problem easily solvable with a man by my side1. Someone to take care of the other half of the rent and bills, which would reduce significantly the financial burden and would allow me to breathe again without the Xanax and for a fleeting moment think that I have made it. That’s how low the bar is: aspiring to share rent with someone. Except that I’ve been there and done that and when you break up is a full-blown shit show of gigantic proportions plus you’re destitute again. Not to speak of how unrealistic this scenario is in London because if finding an available flat you like and can financially afford is hard, finding an available man you like and can emotionally afford2 is mission impossible. Property websites in London have that much in common with dating apps when you come to think about it: what’s on offer makes you cry.

No, romance isn’t the answer to my problems. It’s never been.

What I need, what I want, is to be able to go back in time and return to that younger version of me, the girl who didn’t have all figured out but knew where she wanted to go and moved forward with drive and determination, not afraid of the challenges and, above all, the changes because they were all leading to a better future and were necessary for her to grow into the person she had always dreamt to become. When I think about how uncertain my life was in my teenage years and early 20s I marvel at how focused, carefree and decided I was despite my lack of funds, skills or knowledge, or maybe precisely because of that. Perhaps when you have nothing to lose, you have nothing to fear and that is what propels you ahead with a force that can overcome any obstacle, no matter how big or small.

When I look back at my younger self, at everything she’s accomplished, it seems incredible that person was, is indeed, the same person who is typing these lines. Deep down the drive, the passion, the ambition, the big dreams about achieving the life I had always envisioned for myself are if not properly burning my insides at least providing a constant heat that keeps them rather warm. So what is preventing me from making the jump between the reality I have and the reality I want? I managed to do that before, so what is stopping me from that? Is it my destiny to rent a mouldy studio in zone 9 and be miserable forever while I cry in the shower eating a piece of soggy toast?

The answer to those questions may have already come from someone far away a few years ago.

In the summer of 2022 I wasn’t feeling particularly enthusiastic about the future -a common disposition in this city it seems-, so I did what every white girl in the West does when she is going through yet another existential crisis about where she’s headed in life: I watched Eat, Pray, Love. Except that this time I also booked a trip to Bali for three weeks.

I decided that going to a remote place in the middle of nowhere and spending my days practising yoga to cleanse mind and body was what I needed, and in hindsight I wasn’t proved wrong. When booking the trip online from London I noticed that as part of the optional activities offered to guests there was a visit to a local shaman and I found that intriguing and very much aligned with the purpose of my trip. Surely someone from a different culture, so far removed from mine, had better answers about the direction my life should take. At least that’s what I hoped.

As fate would have it, at the time of leaving for Bali I was reading a great book by Italian journalist Tiziano Terzani, A Fortune-teller Told Me. A mix of memoir, travel and history book, Terzani immediately sets the scene by presenting the inciting incident that inspired this title: how a prediction made by a fortune-teller saved his life and prompted a personal quest across South East Asia, where he worked as the region correspondent for a national Italian newspaper, to find other fortune-tellers in the hope they could spot the event he made a narrow escape from written in his fate but also to explore the social history and the tradition of fortune telling across different cultures. If there ever was a good omen, this was it. When Sukma, one of the guys who worked at the place I was staying at and who was in charge of the daily activities, asked who was interested in booking the visit to the shaman I was the first to put my hand up.

As I was staying at a family-run place there were only six of us making the trip to the shaman and we were split into two cars. On the way there, I bombarded Sukma with questions about the experience we were about to have as he was naturally talkative and always happy to share information about Balinese culture with us.

"So do you know this shaman then?”

“Me? No, not him, because he isn’t my local one, but he is the one that is closest to where you are staying, so we’re coming to him.” In my head this was the equivalent of when you run out of milk and know it’s cheapest to get it at the supermarket but it’s already dark and cold so you end up paying a premium to buy it at the convenience store around the corner and therefore buy the half pint because you’re stingy. Milk is milk and I bet a shaman is still a shaman but it felt like we were getting the convenient 24/7 version instead of the real deal.

“The owner of the place where you are staying comes to him, so this is why we are visiting him, because he knows him well,” Sukma added, perhaps sensing my disappointment and to put me at ease that we were not being shortchanged in any way or led into a tourist trap. “He is the local shaman of this area, many people come to him, I just don’t live here.”

“What happens when we get there? Is there anything we need to do or say? I have no idea how this works,” while reassured about the shaman’s credentials, uncertainty about the process remained.

“You’ll see when we get there. You don’t have to worry about anything. One of us will be with you to translate as well,” Sukma said with the confidence of someone familiar with a rite that I was about to be let into.

“So you do then go to a shaman yourself, even if not this one?”

“Oh yes, we all go in my family,” he shifted gear to slow down as we were approaching our destination. “You don’t have to be religious. I’m not, or not as much as my family. The shaman is someone in your community you go to when maybe you have a problem and want another opinion from someone wiser,” he seemed to hesitate a bit, as if he wanted to make sure I understood what he was saying. “The shaman usually knows many people so if you have a problem with a neighbour or with your cousin, for instance, and because he probably know them as well, he will give you advice but you don’t have to do what he says. He will offer, erm, I don’t know what’s the right word in English?,” Sukma’s English was quite fluent but he seemed to be searching for a particular word that wasn’t coming to him.

“You mean advice? Guidance?”

“Guidance, that’s it! He will offer guidance. You can take what he says to you or not if you don’t think it helps you. Ok, here we are,” and with that we came to a halt, unfastened our belts and jumped out of the car to make our way into the traditional stone house where the shaman would be soon dispensing his guidance.

When we arrived we had to take a sit on the floor just outside the room where the shaman was and which served as a covered atrium where we would wait for our turn to be received as there was a man in the room with him, which we could see perfectly from the outside as there was no door. I don’t know what idea I had in mind about the setting where a shaman carries his business, but I found it reassuring that he could be seen by those waiting outside but not heard. Like those excruciating trips to the confessional in my pre-teen years where everyone could see me kneeling but not hear the sins I would have to atone for.

Seating on the floor was a test in hip flexibility as we were wearing traditional Balinese clothes, which had been provided by the retreat as they were a must in order to be received by the shaman, further proof that this wasn’t a tourist trap after all. However, since the female outfit consisted of a long and tight skirt I found myself contorting in poses that not even our experienced yoga teacher would have been able to replicate. While I arranged my legs into a pretzel, a woman came out of nowhere with a tray of white rice on one hand and a bowl of water on the other.

“It’s part of the ritual,” Sukma whispered to me as a splash of water landed on my face and caught me totally unprepared as I was the first in line to receive it. “Now she’ll put some rice on your forehead,” which was pressed on with a force that made me question whether I’d end up on the news as a fatal victim of a ritual where the victims were killed by the insertion of rice grains on their brains by sheer force.

As the rice woman carried on her vicious ritual with everyone, the shaman dispatched his visitor and we were told to get ready. One by one everyone in our group went in, discussed what was on their mind, with Sukma acting as our interpreter, and then came out quietly and sat again on the same atrium until we were finished. When my turn came I hadn’t really thought about anything I wanted to ask and I panicked a bit, so afraid to lose my chance to receive illuminating guidance about my future, maybe something that could change the course of my life as dramatically as that prediction Tiziano Terzani heard in his day, I blurted out the first thing that crossed my mind.

“Should I quit my job and become a writer?”

I eagerly waited for Sukma to translate from English my question and then translate back to me the answer of the shaman, who had grabbed my hands and asked me to look into his eyes the moment I sat down in front of him. He spoke very softly and articulated every syllable clearly even though I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but there was something hypnotic and soothing in his manner of speaking, almost trance-inducing. After what seemed a very long explanation, I was ready for Sukma’s words to deliver some life-altering message.

“No, you aren’t ready, he says. You don’t need to rush.” Without questioning the accuracy of the content, this was like reading the abridged version of a classic: the essence was surely there but so much had been clearly left out.

Not happy with this answer nor its translation, I offered a few re-elaborations, all of which led to the same exact response, which felt frustrating. I already knew I wasn’t ready, I didn’t need to come to Bali for that. What I was naively hoping by embarking on this experience was to find someone that, not bound by the capitalist material needs we are slaves to in the West, mostly in the shape of rent and bills to pay, could give me an encouraging sign to follow my dreams and finally say “fuck this shit!” the moment I landed back in London. But it was clear the shaman wouldn’t be the person pushing me to jump into the void with a solid plan B, or A for that matter. But what if he would and Sukma was the one censoring him? Impossible to know.

After what seemed a prudent time of running around in circles asking versions of the same question and receiving the same invariable answer, the shaman squeezed my hands and said to me one last thing, almost as if he took pity of me and wanted me to understand why he wasn’t encouraging my foolishness as ardently as I had expected.

“You first need to remove a block. Until you do, you won’t be able to follow that path,” he said fixing his dark eyes into mine as if he wanted to make sure the message got straight into my brain, like that grain of rice almost did before, by the sheer power of his stare.

“A block? Which block? Can you ask him?,” Sukma obliged immediately but I didn’t need to speak Balinese to know the answer. “He’s just said the same: that you need to remove a block you have,” and with that the shaman bowed to me to indicate my time was over.

I spent the way back to the retreat thinking about those last words. What block? Was it something internal or an external situation that was preventing me from moving forward? The more I considered it, the less sense it made so when I came back to London I was no more enlightened than when I had left.

I’ve often come back to that moment and I remember my frustration and puzzlement at the time at not having got as much guidance as the people who made that trip and went through that experience with me. They were all women and all of them without fault had asked after espouses, grandchildren, siblings, close friends, or romantic relationships as they revealed when we were having dinner that night and exchanging our impressions about the visit. They all felt the words of the shaman had been helpful and would certainly be putting into practice a few things he’d said. It dawn on me that these women didn’t doubt for a second about asking about their loved ones while I hadn’t even thought about that possibility.

Was the lack of concern for those in my life the block? Was I perhaps emotionally stunted? But it couldn’t be, I thought, I cry with La Bohème3 no matter how many times I’ve seen it and despite I know damn well she dies of tuberculosis at the end because who didn’t in the XIX century, hardly a spoiler if you ask me, and yet there I am pouring tears like I’m a bloody fountain every time. I am a sensible person, maybe not overly attached to people, but definitely not devoid of feeling or the capacity for intense emotion. I still have goosebumps remembering the exultant joy I felt for a week after finding my favourite pistachio spread brand back in stock at my Italian deli after months of blatantly subpar alternatives. No, that couldn’t be my block.

It’d probably be something silly or absurd once I figured it out, I thought. Something along the lines of being a perfectionist or wanting to be too much in control. Those sound much more like the classic Western problems the shaman was probably sick and tired of giving guidance on to emotionally restraint people who didn’t bother to ask about their loved ones, those selfish little shits who spend a fortune to come to the other side of the world for a stranger to sort our their lives but wouldn’t pick up the phone to speak with a friend they haven’t heard in a while. I bet those would be his words, not mine, if he could openly speak his mind.

A year after my Bali adventure I found myself touring New College, in Oxford, at 9 am on a Sunday morning. Among the long list of renowned writers, politicians, and artists that our guide mentioned and who had studied at Oxford, two names stood out: Hugh Grant and Rowan Atkinson4. I found the coincidence amusing. While both are icons of contemporary British culture and excellent actors in their own right, the characters that brought them fame are, in fact, on opposite ends of the Britishness spectrum. At least for the collective female imagination.

The reason for such an early cultural education was simple: I had decided, after much hesitation and considerable damage to my meagre finances, to enrol in a writing summer course and invest on something that I had desired for years but always found an excuse to postpone. The experience proved to be satisfying beyond my wildest expectations, not only because I actually stayed at New College during my stay (which felt as if I had finally been admitted to real life Hogwarts) but mostly for the clarity of mind those days offered. Removed from the expectations of the outside world and focused only on my writing, I was at last happy, energised, driven. I was my younger self once again. It was in fact at New College where the meaning of the shaman’s words was eventually revealed to me.

Unlike those eureka moments one often imagines when being on the receiving end of big revelations, everything happened rather casually and I could have missed it had I not paid close attention.

After an open mic night where against type I read out loud something I had written, as did several other people, three of us headed for tone of the courtyards for a bit of air and to discuss the evening. One of said people was a classmate who was a published writer and had read an excerpt of his latest book that was being translated into English. It was a very personal and vulnerable passage about an episode of his life that left everyone speechless and somehow transformed, as often good writing does. There was something that had touched everyone in that room only an hour ago but the feeling still lingered and it was only fair to admit it to its creator.

“But the question is why do we write?,” he interrupted me and the other classmate without the slightest sign of feeling flattered by our comments about his writing. “Each of you, tell me, why do you write?”

“Er, I don’t know, maybe to be seen?,” I wasn’t even sure I meant it.

“To express something inside me that no one around me feels, or not in the same way,” the other classmate said, far more convincingly than me.

“Those are good answers, but they’re wrong,” the writer didn’t even flinch as he said those words, cigarette in hand. “We write to be loved. We want people to love who we are, as a writer I mean, maybe also as a person, but ultimately as someone who has the ability to evoke things in them, things they too feel, and by extension they project those emotions onto us and love us for making them feel alive and less alone,” a long drag of the cigarette, the smoke and the words just spoken both floating in the air as we inhaled them.

“I didn’t love myself when I wrote that piece I’ve read earlier. But I really, desperately needed to be loved, I wanted to be loved, so I didn’t worry about how people would see me or perceive me. Of course, I did worry a bit, I’m human after all, but you know how it goes. Either you conquer your fear or you would never write anything at all if you are scared about being seeing for who you are,” an intense pause and a stare in my direction, “or if you don’t think you can’t find common ground with other people somehow. You can keep a diary if you’re so sure that you’re alone in feeling the way you do, right? Why share it with anyone else?,” this time the piercing stare was directed towards the other classmate. “So my point is that we always write because at the end of the day we want to be loved and for that we have to conquer fear, whether is the fear to be seen or fighting the belief that what we experience is unique to us and us alone, and therefore no one could ever care. Those are blocks we put in our way towards being loved. Just think about it.”

And with those words I was no longer in a dark courtyard in the middle of New College but in Bali, grains of white rice firmly stuck on my forehead, hands held gently by a shaman, his soft voice and piercing eyes finally speaking a language I could clearly understand without the need of a translator.

“Ah, there you are you three, confabulating in the dark! Come join us inside, we’re getting a drink before they close the bar,” it was one of our tutors who had put an abrupt end of our conversation and came to summon us back inside before the night ended. “By the way, well done you three, I was very impressed by your pieces, great job indeed.”

It was only a fleeting sensation but in the few steps from the courtyard towards the room where the rest of our classmates were gathered I felt I walked with the confidence of someone who had made the breakthrough of a lifetime. The shaman had been wrong after all and so was my writer classmate, that much I had understood after our illuminating conversation.

For there wasn’t a block after all, there was no imaginary or real barrier preventing me from achieving the life of my dreams I had been obsessing over for years. There were, in fact, tons of them, bloody loads indeed. It was obvious now. To begin with, how can anyone expect me, an introvert with slightly misanthropic tendencies, to want to be loved by total strangers or share my innermost fears and feelings with them publicly just in the hope of being understood, heard, and seen? By complete strangers, I remind you. Who am I, Joe Fucking Goldberg5? Hasn’t people learned anything about identity theft and how you should never trust others with personal details about your life? Not even if you wish to be a damn writer? Especially if you want to be a writer, for Christ’s sake.

My only regret is not having understood this much earlier because then my interaction with the shaman would have been truly meaningful and the years that followed less confusing. I wish I could have said something that showed him I had agency in my unfavourable circumstances and lack of purpose, that I wasn’t just someone passively being stopped by a block from pursuing a different life, but someone, in fact, willingly hiding behind it to avoid changing my miserable comfort zone of an existence for the exciting possibilities uncertainty could bring.

I should have said to him that I really heard what he was saying, and I knew it was coming from a good place, but I’d rather complain about my situation without doing the slightest to improve it, demanding it magically resolves itself somehow so I can focus on regretting the unlived life that a more emotionally mature and driven version of me could be leading by now if only she could be more vulnerable, more fearless, and more willing to embrace change if that means getting closer to what she truly wants, like I did in the past. So if he would excuse me, me and my blocks had places to go and things to see. And then we’ll complain about everything for a bit because that’s how we roll. By the way, what’s with water splashing and the rice? It was a brain trepanation out there. I was fine because I’ve always been quite strong-headed but someone may not be as lucky next time. Anyway, take whatever resonates with you from what I’ve just said. Peace and love, my friend.

Damn, I’d make a great shaman.

Abroad is independent publication about London, living in between cultures, languages, books, music, films, creativity, and being human in the age of artificial intelligence.

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Let’s get this out of the way first: I’ve never watched The Traitors.

Not because I consider myself superior to people who watch reality shows -even though they try to pass for something different- but because I haven’t owned a tv set nor a tv licence for the past seven years. So in the one occasion I did have access to a television and paid-for coverage for a few days, I spent my time binge watching Fleabag and Normal People. I regret nothing.

However, if the circumstances put me in a position where a reality tv show is accessible without barriers to entry, say on Netflix, the only streaming platform I subscribe to, then chances of me watching it increase exponentially. Cue to Million Dollar Secret which apparently is a knockoff of The Traitors with just about the bare minimum changes to avoid copyright infrengement. I have no proofs (because I haven’t seen The Traitors, remember) but also no doubts because streaming platforms will latch on to whatever works as fast as possible and churn out a copy to capitalise on it while people are still interested.

Before you roll your eyes at the prospect of having to read an entry on a reality show you probably haven’t watched or plan to, I’d like to reassure you that this won’t be the case. Or not exactly.

I’m more interested in the people dynamics of these formats which despite being hardly new to anyone who remembers the first edition of Big Brother in their native country (another copy and paste global hit from The Netherlands to the world) are still fascinating and gripping. This is particularly impressive after all these years considering we now know we are watching a highly edited product where maybe most of the interactions are somehow fabricated and assisted by a script and where contestants have been chosen for having very specific profiles that lean more towards drama queens than zen monks.

Despite being aware of the above, since I haven’t watched reality tv in a very long time, I was a bit in the dark about what Million Dollar Secret could be about but the mystery was solved in the first 5 minutes: a group of 12 strangers, all quite at ease in front of a camera (a giveaway sign of their extroverted nature), gathers at a luxurious villa where they’ll have the opportunity to win one million dollars if they play their cards right and a) manage to keep from the others they’re the ones with the money, which is deposited on a box assigned to them on arrival or b) manage to find out the secret millionaire among them.

The action takes place in a breathtaking setting in the middle of nature that at first I thought was somewhere in Europe but once I realised all the participants were from North America (which took a minute despite the mention of a million dollars and not pounds), I assumed must be somewhere in the US. Oh well, it was a bit disappointing as North Americans are too theatrical and self-aware for my taste in reality tv contests but I guess that’s what you get when you pay for a knockoff.

The only British nod to The Traitors is the host: Peter Serafinowicz, who I quite like and who has a short but very impactful role on another Netflix hit, The Gentlemen. I hope he gets a bit more of screen time if there’s a second series. Right from the start Serafinowicz warns everyone to look for “odd behaviour” that may be linked to the millionaire’s secret agenda to win an advantage over the other guests and here’s where I get confirmation that I could never be a good contestant in a show like this and I’d probably be out on day one because as an introvert I’ve learned that minding my own business in peace and quiet and trying to survive another day is often regarded as odd by a great number of people who turn out to be extroverts.

As I said before it took me a bit to realise this was Netflix’s US version of a popular British show and in fact I thought it strange how these people spoke. Then when everyone started saying where they were from I was shocked there were so many Americans because what are the odds? That’s how bad I am at accents and how little I understood of what was going on in the first few minutes. So I’d be fucked if I were the secret millionaire and my task to win an advantage consisted on spotting English accents. There I’d be wondering where in the UK people spoke with such American-sounding accents and asking random questions to try and pin them down.

“Where in Scotland you said you were from?”

“I said Scottsdale”

“And is that close to Aberdeen by any chance?”

Except that in a show like this that’d be my downfall because in reality tv shows 1) everyone is a native English speaker who doesn’t encounter this issue because they can spot different accents like I can do with Spanish and 2) any normal human interaction at the most basic level is apparently a clear sign of odd behaviour that can put a target on your back very quickly and it’s mind-blowing how people can create a convoluted scenario in their head out of nothing. So asking people for their name, place of origin or why they sound American when I was sure they were British would immediately make me look like I have a million dollars hidden in my room and start a conspiracy to kick me out. So far, so logical.

Which leads me to question the show premise in itself as the biggest of all oddities. Because let’s be serious for a minute here: a million dollars in this age and time with cost of living, tariffs and what not is pocket money so why are these people so keen to go an a reality show to overanalyse every interaction they have as if they were trying to decipher their situationship’s text messages for less than what a London flat costs? Something doesn’t add up here. If Linda Evangelista didn’t wake up for less than $10,000 a day, I think these people should demand the same adjusted for inflation.

Next is the location.

Can someone please explain how it is not odd that these people are at a place that seems a resort right off Lake Geneva where exiled European royalty would happily agree to retire after a military coup ousted them and which never in a million lifetimes I could afford to travel to, yet the most they manage to say is ‘Oh, this looks nice’ and then proceed to casually strut around to their bedrooms -which are double the size of my flat in London- dressed in what I can only describe as Chanel Spring/Summer Cruise collection? It’s suspicious that most of the contestants could pass as millionaires so casually. I’m aware them being actually rich is not the point of the show but finding out who has received a box with the money; however a lifetime of financial struggles has taught me to distrust luxury and its enablers in any way, shape or form.

Perhaps I’m being a bit obnoxious in my behavioural assessment because I haven’t even given time to the contestants to interact beyond surface level and so far I’ve only got first appearances to judge on. Fair point.

Let’s then move on to the rite of passage of every reality show worth of that name which is the first communal meal. This is usually an opportunity to get a bit of intel on your fellow competitors in a casual, non-chalant way because being convivial is considered fairly standard behaviour in most cultures. Here they all are, seated at the table where a wonderful meal has been served when a lovely chap from Hawaii (never in a million years would I have guessed from the accent but maybe the shirt was a giveaway) suggests they all hold hands before eating because it’s a tradional Hawaiian custom.

And the glance game begins. Wasn’t that odd? everyone asks. Definitely, everyone else agrees. You would be tempted to think these people are about to find a cure to cancer judging by their seriousness and commitment to dissecting a non-event. Meanwhile the poor Hawaiian fellow is blissfully eating his meal without knowing it’ll be his last because apparently holding hands and wishing well to strangers is highly suspcious. Agree with the first but disagree with the second. Aloha, baby.

What has really made the eight episodes of Million Dollar Secret go by in a second is precisely that tried and tested formula where contestants, under the vest of integrity, think themselves above the shitshow splash around them, in some cases initiated by themselves. While this is escapism tv where we get to forget about our problems by watching people playing each other for pocket money, the behaviours and personalities that usually are encouraged to be represented on these programmes are incredibly telling of what we have been tricked into accepting as normal.

As episodes progress, contestants start dropping off their kindness masks and early-stage strategies come to the surface, which is once more quite standard for reality shows. There is always a few people -usually straight white men, apologies in advance to those of you who tick those boxes but couldn’t be further apart from the stereotype- who think they are smarter than the rest and able to provide the leadership that is lacking (or so they have decided) so they appoint themselves into a de facto team leader and convince themselves everyone is on their side when manipulating speaking to others. More normal behaviour reflecting the average state of the world these days.

These men feel so smug about their assured leadership position that they can’t even hide it even if they paid them, which I suspect it is the case because who on earth goes to a reality show out of their goodness of their heart? Odd behaviour if ever there was one. While I bet everyone who is on this show is on Netflix’s payroll, they still have to be half-assed about winning a million dollars, which I insist seems barely enough to cover the psychological treatment they’d need after the show is over and see themselves behaving like a complete prick because no one in their right mind would have thought joining a reality show was a good idea in first place.

The common denominator of a show where being deceptive and manipulative is key to winning (because you have to hide the fact you are the secret millionaire from the others, I remind you) is how everyone, absolutely everyone, hurries to say to the group after the first person has been eliminated that they aren’t going to sacrifice their integrity for playing a game.

And that, dear readers, is actually not odd at all because is what we’ve seen a million times happen before in other reality shows as well as off screen. Morals, or at least the illusion of them, in the distance, becoming smaller and smaller as the stakes get higher. The weird thing, in fact, would be for someone to actually follow through and stick to their word. That’d be a shocker and probably would make for some interesting developments and groundbreaking audiovisual content as honesty is such a rare quality these days that it could throw people off in unexpected ways.

While watching Million Dollar Secret a thought crossed my mind: I’d be very curious to see how the participants of Love on the Spectrum, an Emmy-winner Netflix series that follows people on the autism spectrum in their search for love, would do in this contest. If you haven’t watched it yet, I urge you to do so because this is one of the most hilarious and wholesome series (as are the participants and their families) you’ll come across on any audiovisual platform and the people in it give me hope in humanity with their straightforward, kind, and zero-bullshit attitude and considerate interactions with others and positive representation of autism.

I can’t stop thinking how anyone on Love on the Spectrum would immediately catch the millionaire among the group without much effort. It helps that they are on the autism spectrum and as such they have no tolerance for lies or inaccuracy, so they aren’t afraid to ask for clarification as many times as needed pointing out any incoherences, which I think is bloody amazing. Yet society insist on calling that divergent thinking and labelling it as rude instead of praising it for what it actually is: clear communication skills. If that isn’t odd behaviour… But I digress, and actually I wouldn’t want any of the pure souls of Love on the Spectrum to be subjected to the twisted ways of their neurotypical Netflix guest stars. I fear their logical brains would implode out of frustration at such truly contradictory behaviour.

A weird thing I’ve noticed in Million Dollar Secret is how everyone seems to always have a healthy appetite. I’m not saying people shouldn’t eat on screen when the only reason for them being on such a show in first place is for my entertainment, but how can they eat as if nothing? If I were among them I’d be anxious about a) finding out who the millionaire is, b) not being found out if I were the millionaire, c) fearing someone suspects I am the millionaire when I’m not and wants to kick me out and d) the possibility of becoming the millionaire unexpectedly and then having more problems to worry about.

I wouldn’t manage to send down a single thing with all that anxiety making my stomach go like washing machine on a high revolution spin cycle. But these people seem unfazed by anything. Classic extrovert behaviour, if you ask me. They are eating all the time, and not just snacks or sandwiches, proper sit down meals consisting on several courses. To be honest the food looks absolutely delicious and not eating it would indeed be considered strange and raise suspicions beyond the imaginable for I have yet to meet an adult person who looks forward to deciding what to eat and then cook it three times a day for the rest of their lives.

The best example however of what we’ve come to accept as normal behaviour, and which is often a trademark of reality shows, isn’t how some people manage to keep a poker face while lying through their teeth but the short-lived alliances that form out of the blue and seem unbreakable until a better offer is on the table to oust a strong contestant. This is the moment of truth in which whatever promises someone has made are quickly overriden by the greater good, which in this context means staying in the game and kicking someone else out of it. This is not quite as simple as it seems as reality shows thrive on dramatic twists where the smart players get eventually played to the shock and delight of contestants and viewers alike. That’s why this shit is so addictive, let’s be honest.

Is that constant alliance shifting odd? I’d say yes if we lived in a neurodivergent, logical world ruled by my lovely, no-bullshit, fiercely loyal people of Love on the Spectrum, but unfortunately in the flawed neurotypical society of today where lying is regarded almost as a form of kindness, loyalty lasts the time of a new match on Tinder; and since changing your mind every two seconds making it impossible for others to plan accordingly and then denying it has been my landlady’s modus operandi these past few months, I’d say it’s just pretty standard shitty behaviour, although not necessarily odd. However, take this with a pinch of salt because after years of having been exposed to pre, during and post Brexit political debacle I’m probably desensitised to fuckwattage and my radar is a bit off on this one.

But the definitive and final sign that we’ve been brainwashed into accepting truly odd behaviour for normal is how these people, most of them in their mid thirties, have so much energy to talk to others and want to do things. I had forgotten how exhausting being around extroverts is (even when there is a protective screen between us) and how they seem unable to reflect in silence for two minutes straight. These people are psychopaths and you can’t convince me otherwise because who in their right mind wants to talk first thing in the morning? That’s some weird behaviour going on there.

It takes me three hours from the moment I wake up to the moment I’m able to connect my brain with my mouth and I am able to produce comprehensible sounds. And that’s in normal circumstances, times may increase if I get up earlier. That, of course would be considered extremely odd for the extroverts in a reality tv show and I’d be out before I had time to articulate good morning because these people are yapping and plotting all the fucking time. I am fully aware that’s the only thing they have to do all day (and are paid for, let’s not forget) but it seems excessive to me that someone can speak so much without their mouth self-combusting.

And where do they get the energy? My nervous system is crying for mercy after having spent the last couple of weeks doing more events and meetings than usual which have left me completely drained mentally and physically.

It’s clear that only extroverts are naturally suited for these kind of contests that demand high-energy levels 24/7 to keep the audience engaged. I can’t imagine an introvert a) wanting to talk to strangers or find out anything about them at all for no reason, let alone asking about money, b) spend so much time around said strangers dissecting non-events such as “he seems to breathe a bit too much today, odd”, c) worrying excessively about being caught having the million dollars on account on the previous points, d) having any interest in being on the spotlight/fighting for protagonism if that puts their peace and alone time at risk, and last but not least d) being interested in participating in a reality show or indeed watching one.

Perhaps that’s the problem with the behaviours the contestants in Million Dollar Secret perceive as odd for the benefit of us viewers when engaging in absurd speculation about the fact that someone blinked a little too much after a copious lunch. For the truth is that beyond the obvious need to justify their presence in a show whose only raison d’être is that Netflix is trying to milk as much as it can a copycat of a successful BBC show, extroverts aren’t really the observant type in my experience so that’s probably why they seem perpetually in awe at someone existing at usual. I think it’s time reality shows offered us something truly original for once and came up with a contest where there is no script, secret agendas or loud extroverts in sight (or writing the scripts) flaunting their overpowering personalities and willing to do anything for their 15 minutes of fame.

It could be a disruptive concept where we follow a group of international non-native English speaker introverts with varying degrees of sociability but all very nice and friendly people (given the right circumstances) who have to share the same space and must get to know each other over activities where they have time to talk at length about their respective interests via a series of curated clues to discover what they may have in common.

Since big groups are a no for introverts, one of the goals of the show could be to be able to feel comfortable with everyone eventually, although to guarantee success there should be a maximum of 10 contestants and no eliminations (that would defeat the purpose of bonding) and the participants may need at few months to open up at their pace. This could be encouraged by a couple of group activities every week without making it look like is compulsory to join but always inviting everyone no matter how many times they have declined so they feel included.

The setting would be a lovely house filled with books, beautiful views all around, a few cats and delicious food - if the extroverts can have it why not us? Needless to say there would be plenty of alone time to recharge from social interactions and extra activities they can engage with, inside or outside the house. The winner would be the person who manages to create a small group of friends over common interests who are genuinely happy to meet in person and even initiate plans unprompted after the show is over. I realise now this show suspiciously looks like doing an Erasmus year minus the sex and the house parties where people kept showing up.

Before you burst my bubble and say, “Cristina, who would watch a show where people are nice to each other, respectful, and want to genuinely connect and support each other?” Well, there has to be some normal people left on earth, they can’t all be neurotypical extroverts!

After having devoured three seasons of Love on the Spectrum and seen how screen representation is instrumental in educating people and dismantling prejudices about neurodiversity, I think it’s high time introverts received the same treatment so the world can learn how much fun we can be when we’re given the opportunity to live a quiet life on our own terms where we can dedicate time to our personal interests, engage in meaningful conversations that excite us and allow us to share our passions without a time limit or agenda, something that seems truly odd in these times of short attention spans and quick dopamine hits. Be the change you want to see and all that.

I think it has potential. Besides, I already have a name for it, Dream Life, and I’d be so fucking down with it. I eagerly await a call from Netflix after this post is published to discuss the pilot so I’ll keep you posted on when you can expect to see me on screen. Reading, of course.

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Dear reader,

While this post discusses fiction as a vehicle to transmit a powerful message that can lead people to take action, it contains spoilers on Netflix’s show Adolescence. If you haven’t watched it yet, you may want to revisit it later. Although given how much media attention the show has captured -for all the right reasons- there’s probably little you don’t know by know.

The final year of my undergraduate degree1, which I spent in the US, I became friends with a girl from El Salvador.

We had a couple of classes together and united by our common language, the by-product of my ancestors’ colonial antics, we quickly bonded over the one thing that has always been a green flag in ascertaining potential friendships: food. It was during a meal at her house, where she was preparing home-maded pupusas2, that she revealed a dark secret that could have put an immediate end to our friendship.

“So what kind of books do you like reading,” she asked as she flipped the pupusas on the pan and I inspected her bookshelves.

“I’m quite eclectic in my taste. The important thing for me is to find a story I can get lost into.”

“What do you mean a story? What do you need that for?,” she asked with a tone of genuine surprise in her voice.

“Well, that’s the basis of novels, isn’t it? So what I mean is that as long as it’s one I find a way to connect to, I don’t really care much for genre or authors. It’s about the power of the writing to transport you somewhere else and help you see things from a different perspective.”

“What?,” she was truly dumbfounded by my answer until something seemed to click inside as she said, “What I meant is which kind of real books you like reading? Like serious books from which you can actually learn something. For instance, I’m currently reading a psychology textbook because I want to understand the human mind better. What about you?”

What ensued was a fascinating conversation on why she was of course wrong writing off fiction as useless while I defended its capacity to help us look at the world in new ways, become more empathetic, and even learn useful facts and lessons. In fact, if my friend had bothered to read American Psycho, she would have known that Patrick Bates gives the DSM manual3 a run for its money and therefore Bret Easton Ellis’ novel is the only reading you need to recognise psychopaths from afar. If that’s not useful and practical information I don’t know what is.

I eventually agreed to disagree because someone has to be the bigger person and in this case the circumstances dictated it had to be me. I hadn’t come all the way to my friend’s house to leave on an empty stomach over a difference of opinion on books. I knew I was right and that’s all that mattered to me while I stuffed myself with one hot pupusa after another.

Over the years I’ve heard several times a similar reasoning from so-called serious readers (their words, not mine), whose argument against fiction are usually along the lines of why waste time with made-up stories when non-fiction is a straight route into acquiring vital information which can be instrumental in helping us make decisions and take action to find solutions for real problems with facts and data in hand.

Nothing against a well-informed non-fiction reader - I’m among their ranks myself on more levels than one. However, absorbing facts isn’t all that is cracked up to be when it comes to understanding a situation, and its potential consequences, because it lacks a key component that will ultimately connect the dots and may even push us to take action. Emotion.

Any mediocre marketer knows that in order to get people to care about something you need to move them. That’s why there’s a scene in the award-winning Derry Girls4 where the character of Claire is raising money to support Kamal, a poor chap from Ethiopia who has to walk long distances to get to drinkable water, instead of for a whole population that may have been devastated by war. A real child that is an innocent victim is arguably more relatable and useful for her fundraising efforts than a faceless number of casualties, no matter how high or accurate that figure is. NGOs have long known this and used it on Claire for their benefit.

This is precisely how storytelling and fiction can be a powerful vehicle to pass an important message across in a way that captures our attention and, more significantly, make us care and take action.

Adolescence, the Netflix four-part series co-written by Jack Thorne and Stephen Graham (who also stars in it) is the latest example of how a well-crafted story inspired in real events can open the door for a debate about an issue that is impacting people’s lives.

In case you aren’t familiar with it, this limited series tells the story of a 13-year old boy, Jamie, who stabs to death a female classmate, Katie. This is revealed on the first episode because the purpose of this story isn’t to find out who has committed the crime but to help us understand the motive as well as the many ramifications this action has beyond the obvious loss of an innocent person’s life.

Much has been written about Adolescence already, which has received overwhelming critical and public acclaim in the UK in ways that seem unprecedented in this era of fragmented content consumption, including record ratings. Leaving aside the terrific acting from everyone (with an impressive Owen Cooper in his acting debut, no doubt a rising star) or the technical prowess of the one-take episodes5, the real triumph of this series is to use storytelling to tackle two serious problems that are very much making headlines on a regular basis in the UK: the rise of knife crime among young people and how to keep children and young people safe online.

In fact, the original idea for the show comes from a couple of stories Stephen Graham read about a young boys stabbing young girls and he decided that this was something worth exploring and talking about to understand better the underlying causes beyond the headlines.

For Adolescence Graham and Thorne have specifically concentrated on how the unsupervised access young people have to the internet, via smartphones and social media, intersect with the rise of the manosphere and toxic male influencers online fuelling the growth of misogynistic and anti-feminism attitudes among young boys.

He puts Jamie, a young boy from a good, hardworking family, at the centre of the narrative as the crystallisation of how these messages can find their way to anyone and why that is extremely dangerous for young people, whose online lives and identities have come to define them as much -if not more- as their offline ones in unprecedented ways, especially after the pandemic where they suddenly found themselves cut off from friends and relying on social media to keep in touch.

Because that is the core message of the show: for the first time in history there is an abyssal gap between the way adults experience reality, anchored mostly in the physical world, and the way young people do, giving the same level of attention if not more to the digital spaces in which they are socially active, where they are likely to find dubious figures who may not have their best interests at heart and who may go under the radar of the adults in their lives.

As a child, when I was left to my own devices to play on my own or with my sister or cousins, everyone knew we weren’t doing anything dangerous or harmful even though they weren’t keeping an eye on us.6 My hobbies included reading, writing, drawing, and mostly creating imaginary scenarios in my head that involved me riding a fig tree in my grandparents’ house pretending it was a unicorn called Rayo de Luna. All very demure.

As a teenager I was still pretty much safe when not under the anxious eye of my mother. While I kept reading, writing, and drawing, I swapped fig-tree riding for bike riding (without any falls to report), playing basketball, catechism classes, (all my close friends went - it was that or folk dance and I was born without an ounce of rhythm), and of course watching Inspector Rex religiously every Sunday afternoon. This was often met with a frown from one of my friends who couldn’t understand that I preferred a dog to hanging out with her, which always amused me because at 16 it was obvious I was far more interested in Gedeon Burkhard, who played the lead in the series7

Even when they may not have shared my interests, my parents and grandparents could easily assess whether they were dangerous or represented any risks because our way of living hadn’t been massively disrupted in the previous generations. Books had been around for centuries, basketball and bike riding for decades, religion since AD, make-believe play is immemorial, and crushes on fictional TV characters in a country infested with telenovelas and their dashing-looking Latin American actors were hardly a sign of concern.

Nowadays, parents can be cooking dinner in the kitchen while their kids are abusing someone/being abused online from the safety of their own little bedrooms and the convenience of their smartphone, which is a rather chilling thought because it can perfectly go unnoticed while happening under their nose. In the era of smartphones and social media, the notion of play and socialising has been disrupted and shifted from activities that required engagement with the physical world to online interactions that can happen indoors. And yet being physically at home no longer equals being safe.

This parallel online world inhabited by young people may have come as a shock to viewers, especially adults with kids for whom the show rings very close to home, and yet the average adult spends over four hours online per day, inevitably comparing ourselves -our bodies, our faces, our lifestyles- to others and relying on the advice of total strangers that go by the name of influencers. Why does it come as a surprise then that young people do exactly the same, with the added risk that they are even more vulnerable to external judgement and how they’re seen by peers?

Adolescence has in fact made me reflect on how blessed I was to grow up in an internet-free era in a small town, where one had a proper check-and-balances system in place that was very grounding. It was ok to be naughty and behave like the teenager you were, no one expected otherwise, but there were also limits and people enforced them to make sure you turned out alright as an adult.

If you talked back or responded rudely or treated people badly without reason, there’ll be someone giving you a sense-check8 whether an adult who knew you, a teacher, a relative, a parent or your own friends. Being called out for poor behaviour was a reason for shame, perhaps because we couldn’t escape to an alternative reality and pretend to be different than we were. Adolescence however sheds a light on something that I’ve been hearing often in a work context for years: how young people don’t really distinguish between their experiences in the physical and digital worlds as the line between the two is more blurred for them than for adults who have grown up in the pre-internet days.

In the series we learn that Jamie stabs Katie because she has accused him of being an incel on social media through the use of coded emojis that seem inoffensive to adults (to the point of being mistaken for a friendly exchange between the two) but whose true meaning is clear to peers.

In Episode 2 the disconnect between the current adult and teenage online experience is obvious through a scene which reveals the real meaning of these messages and the influence of the manosphere and its unfounded dogmas (like the 80/20 rule). When Adam, the son of the main detective on the case and attending the same school as Jamie, tries to explain the true meaning of these social media exchanges, his father dismisses him as first, a poignant metaphor of the disconnect between the two characters and the worlds they live in.

When we finally understand that Jamies’ reputation has been compromised online, where anyone who matters to him can see it and judge him, his motive for stabbing Katie becomes more obvious. Little does it matter that Jamie can’t really be an incel at 13 and that any adult would confirm as much, offering reassurance and perspective to counterbalance an online narrative with little significance or resonance offline. For Jamie his reality is as digital as it is physical and being attacked in his still nascent ideas of masculinity and ridiculed online has fatal consequences offline.

This is another reason for which I’m grateful I grew up in an internet-free world. We could figure out things at our own pace and didn’t need to become adults before our time. We were incessantly told to distrust anyone we didn’t know and offered us anything, and there was the odd girl who became pregnant at 16, but most of us were mostly uninterested in sex until we went to university. The most shocking thing I remember seeing as a teenager was a magazine with women showing their tits (they had knickers on, we weren’t pervs) which someone had brought to school. We only had time for a quick look before a teacher came and confiscated it during recess.

This doesn’t mean sexual content wasn’t around, but it wasn’t as available or unnoticeable to consume as it is today as it had to materialise physically. Whether it was a VHS tape or a magazine, it left a trace that could be easily tracked back to the owner. Back then, if someone accused someone of something it was far more likely of being a bit too obsessed with sex if they as much as hinted at it, which wasn’t seen as a positive trait in either boys or girls. I remember a classmate once told us she had been allowed to see Pretty Woman when it was on TV and we were in awe because our parents changed channel the moment two people kissed and proceeded to send us to bed with immediate effect.

I compare that shielded upbringing with how available everything is now to young people, how exposed they are through their phones to content they are too young to process but which can damage their self-esteem and warp their concept of sexuality, taking away their innocence far too early. Not to speak of how peer pressure to project a certain online image when they’re still figuring out who they are can further isolate young people and leave them vulnerable to manipulators. It’s no wonder we’ve seen some worrying headlines in recent times highlighting the brave new online world children and teenagers have to navigate in addition to the physical one.

Whether is deep-fake images of girls generated just for fun, the secret hashtags teenagers use to post about self-harm, the rise in cyberbullying and its fatal consequences, exposure to pornography at an early age, being at high risk of being scammed or falling prey of sexual abuse or exploitation, there is no lack of potential iterations Stephen Graham could have chosen from for creating a show about the many ways in which children and teenagers are at the mercy of technological dangers these days.

One of the strongest points of Adolescence as a powerful piece of storytelling is that it has crafted a relatable narrative that has elicited a strong emotional response in people to a reality that has long been represented in the media with faceless facts, figures and which left many indifferent to its real impact until seeing it play out in the show.

Stephen Graham and Jack Thorne must have understood as much and as creators of the show they have given the public a very specific individual story affecting young people these days to talk about a bigger issue at play that has made anyone with kids, or who is in contact with them regularly (teachers, educators, doctors, psychologists, coaches, etc) to ask themselves whether they are doing enough to protect them and offer positive alternative role models they can seek advice in and look up to.

While it shouldn’t be the work of fiction to advance the necessary legislation, the reality is that the show has caused a stir and from parents to parliament (PM Keir Starmer included) everyone in the UK is now talking about how to prevent toxic masculinity from sipping through the digital cracks, prompting a debate on smartphone use and whether there should be a social media ban for under 16.

Despite studies confirming that teenagers’ mental health worsens with the use of social media Big Tech companies know that younger audiences are far more likely to remain loyal to a platform so the sooner they start using it, the less likely it is they jump ship to another, which means they are potential clients for whatever new products are rolled out and therefore less interest in introducing age bans.

Hopefully these conversations prompted by a fiction show will help people to reframe news headlines and put them into context when they read about the Digital Safety Act, the EU’s content law that tackles the spread of illegal content and information manipulation, and the Online Safety Act, which was approved by the UK parliament in 2023 to safeguard children from harmful online content but only fully in place since 17th March 2025.

Perhaps the most significant element of Adolescence as a powerful example of storytelling to translate headlines into relatable human experiences is the clever non-judgemental approach and the choice of showing the devastating ripple effects of the crime committed by Jamie on his family.

While the show largely ignores the main victim, and even addresses how victims are usually forgotten while criminals are exhaustively analysed and talked about in an attempt to elucidate their motives, and that is the case in the series where we learn next to nothing about the victim, the intention of Stephen Graham and Jack Thorne is evident.

The show wants us to realise that Jamie is not a monster, but rather a victim - in this case of a perverse online culture and the toxic masculinity ideals that have led him to act on behalf of an agenda he’s far too young to understand, least of all able to refute. And so are his parents, who despite having to deal with the devastating emotional aftermath and shock of the crime their son has committed is also subject to public scrutiny, held no doubt as the true responsibles for Jamie’s atrocious act.

By putting the family at the centre of the last episode, by giving us an opportunity to witness their life without Jamie and the many questions the parents ask themselves while also trying to be present for their daughter, the audience can fully appreciate the spillover effect of a young person committing a crime and the many lives that can be destroyed in one single act. The message is loud and clear: withhold judgement because everyone loses when something this terrible happens and we are collectively responsible.

Adolescence may focus on the dangers of the manosphere and toxic male influencers, but it transcends it to signify something bigger. It’s been said that the show doesn’t offer a final answer for the problems it wants to bring attention to, but I disagree. The show succeeds in highlighting the importance of making sure we have the right tools not only to protect young people online, but also to connect with them offline, in the family as well as at school, offering them alternative positive role models to the dubious figures they come across on social media, and ensuring they feel part of a community and have a physical checks-and-balance system they can resort to to keep them grounded when the digital world starts distorting their vision of reality.

If a fictional limited series has managed to help us realise as much and provoke a national conversation on the urgency to fight the rise of online misogyny and toxic masculinity so a new generation of young people can be raised on empathy, emotional vulnerability, resilience, respect, and love for themselves and each other, it means that fiction is after all an invaluable tool to help us take action to change our reality by infusing life into otherwise faceless facts. By extension storytelling is not only necessary but indeed vital to help us shape a better world through the power of shared human experiences.

Abroad is independent publication about London, living in between cultures, languages, books, music, films, creativity, and being human in the age of artificial intelligence.

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