We've all heard it, judged it and likely heard other people judging it too.

To be fair, I don't particularly want to scoff at someone who is probably just as caught up in the rat race of perfection as the rest of us, but as a human, and more importantly, a writer who understands clickbait, I couldn't not mention Steven Bartlett's name in the title. Such is the modern world. 

The climate crisis is often described as an environmental emergency. Yet it is equally a political and emotional condition, shaped by steadfast contradiction. Governments speak fluently about sustainability while the economic systems driving climate action remain tied to extraction, growth, and delay. Scientific knowledge expands at an unprecedented pace, even as ecological conditions continue to decline.

I’ve got it all planned. I know when the photographer turns up, where the button-holes need to be sent to, and the colour of the napkins. There’s just one thing left undecided, and suddenly burning a hole in my brain, and that’s this: do I take his last name?

I have to admit my reaction to Chalamet’s statement, like everyone else, was “what an insufferable idiot”, but since he has opened a can of worms, why not delve into it?

Often, when we’re chasing perfection, it can feel like everything goes wrong at once. One thing breaks, then another. A friend seems a bit distant and then an unexpected phone bill arrives. Before long, we start telling ourselves that everything has gone to shit and it’s all our fault.

Here’s a lesson that came to me while behind the wheel of a car rather than in a self-help book.

Democracy is usually described as something that happens in public. It shows up in parliaments, courtrooms, and polling stations. We measure it in elections, constitutions, and peaceful transfers of power. At its heart, it makes a simple promise: that people can govern themselves. But democracy also has a quieter life. It lives inside us, in the decisions we make, the way we interpret the world, and how we understand our own freedom. It shapes not just governments, but the shape of ourselves.

In recent times, the ‘Skinny Trend’ — a cultural shift towards extreme thinness to give a ‘heroin chic’ look— has taken over the media. In a time where 1 in 4 girls as young as eight are on a diet or actively trying to lose weight and with NHS England stating rates of eating disorders being four times higher in young women than men (20.8% compared to 5.1%) it is time to stop and ask how ‘harmless’ this trend truly is and what the cost is of weight as an aesthetic.

When I first started planning, I did what most people do now: I opened up my socials and started to get inspired. Within the space of a few weeks, I had a vast folder of ‘must-see’ spots, hidden gems, and maps full of pinned food spots.

“We could also put some Botox above the brow… just to plump that area up.”
“I see you’ve got quite heavy eyelids.”
“And the dimple in your chin, it’s alright now, but as you get older…”
“Salmon sperm ssalmonnnnn spermmmmm ssssalmonnn spermmmmm.’’

I had traded in one insecurity for about five others. Not exactly a fair exchange.

To be clear, this is not a defence of plastic surgery. Convincing women to undergo unnecessary, invasive, and often dangerous procedures in order to conform to a rigid and exclusionary beauty standard does not exist outside of patriarchy- it is produced by it. Plastic surgery is not feminist, and framing it as such would be disingenuous. What I am interested in interrogating instead is this: what does it mean to uphold a rigid hierarchy of beauty while simultaneously stigmatising women who attempt to access it? And what does that contradiction reveal about who beauty is for?

The heartbreak - and strain - of becoming our parents carers. It’s something that isn’t talked about a lot, but what is the right way to look after age family members? Can there even be a right way?

I regret getting our dog. *Immediately checks for angry mob with torches and pitchforks* 

It’s a truth that feels almost illegal to say out loud, but it is true nonetheless. One that’s probably shared by lots of people, but who also haven’t voiced it because of the accompanying guilt and shame (or fear of the righteous-dog-loving-angry-mob with torches and pitchforks).

I asked a group of individuals, all varying in age, gender and location, what is your relationship like with reading? Have you got a good relationship with books, or do you find yourself reaching for your phone more often than not?

If you told me four years ago that me and the chap I was dating would one day go our separate ways, I would have called you all sorts of parental- guidance-required-profanities and wouldn’t have liked you very much.

Yet here I am sitting on the floor of an (albeit rather beautiful) unlived-in rental property, at 35, childless, ringless, partnerless, my whole world upside down and inside out and my very nervous nervous system buzzing a different kind of buzz to when we shared our first kiss underneath a bus shelter 365 days X 4 ago.

It was only when I moved to a big new city at the age of thirty that I began to think consciously about friendship. I remember my first Friday night in my rental flat, sitting on my bed doing endless sudokus for want of evening plans, the city beyond my window alive with the rev of motorbikes and distant sirens. ‘Okay’ I remember thinking. ‘I suppose I ought to go out and… find some… friends?’ The notion was weird. It was as though I’d just learned my hair would no longer grow unless I grimaced and strained.

For my sins, and my father’s, I’m a Swindon Town fan. Once a proud railway town, Swindon is now better known as the place where hope dies when you’re forced to change trains on the way from Temple Meads to London. A few years ago, I went to watch my team. I walked into the Town End with a group of Premier League‑inclined university friends. Twenty minutes into kick-off, a chant began: “Oh Tommy Tommy Robinson”. I was mortified. It wasn’t just ugly; it was a glimpse into something bigger. I left the ground with one question lodged in my head: why is football such a hotbed for fascists?

Getting behind the wheel for me is akin to telling my body I am about to fight a bear. The physical reaction my body has is so encompassing - my head heats up, I can’t breathe as easily, I can feel my whole system going into melt-down. I like to think of myself as a (mostly) intelligent person, but in the car I just can’t get a grip of my mind. Something as simple as remembering which side of the road to drive on becomes a genuine feat for me. And what makes all of this worse is that driving isn’t just seen as a skill - it’s a badge of adulthood. It shapes how people see you, and lacking said badge has started to feel like a very heavy mistake.

Dressed in wide-leg trousers, holding an oat flat white between painted fingernails, and reading a copy of The Bell Jar, it is: The Performative Male. You might have heard of this new label for men and seen various caricatures of it in competition with one another at a performative male contest in-person or on TikTok. The contests themselves have gained virality more than the male himself, but who exactly is the Performative Male? 

Samhain, pronounced ‘SOW-in’ (as in ‘sow’ like a female pig and ‘in’ as in “I hope you are interested in learning about Samhain”), is a festival that was predominantly celebrated by the Iron Age Celtic people living in Ireland. The festival often crops up around this time of year, featuring in articles claiming it as the Celtic progenitor of Halloween or in films wishing to cash in on an extra layer of folkloric spookiness. However, the often-popularised claim that this festival is the origin of Halloween is, at the very least, an oversimplification of history. So, if that’s the case, then what is Samhain? And where did Halloween come from?

Before I describe my own experience, I want to pause on a word that often enters conversations about abuse: narcissist. It’s a term that has become almost casual in popular culture, tossed around to describe anyone who seems vain or self-absorbed. In the context of an abusive relationship, the word is much heavier. It names a pattern of manipulation, control, and emotional erosion that can leave deep, lingering scars. When I say my ex is a narcissist, it’s not a throwaway insult—it’s an attempt to give language to the experience of being diminished and controlled over time.

You will die. A lot. My first time fighting Hornet was a real struggle. She’s fast, agile, and shows no mercy. I remember spending weeks fighting her over and over again only to fail. When I finally beat her, I felt this incredible sense of achievement. The failure I experienced just propelled me to keep going, so much so it became addictive.

Aside from accounts directly promoting disordered eating, TikTok has seen a surge of ED ‘recovery’ accounts, with creators sharing their lives and, therefore, illness, online. The vast majority of these accounts claim to be there to display their journey to recovery, hold themselves accountable and to ‘inspire’ and ‘help’ others.

The challenging-for-most Channel 4 documentary; ‘1000 Men and Me: The Bonnie Blue Story’, has brought up many thoughts around hustle culture within the sex industry, and the potential harm she may be causing to young people. If there was ever a warning for your browser history, I think watching this documentary might just be it. 

So, why do I do this? Why do I take the trouble of travelling globally with two young children when I could have easily gone to the local park or tried my luck at a staycation?

By now, you probably know what ‘The Ick’ is, and you have probably had plenty of experience with it in your own dating life. It has likely derailed a first date or ruined several months of getting to know someone new. But does The Ick ever occur in a healthy and committed relationship, or one that has been maintained through love over many years? And is it really the deathknell that social media claims it to be?

There’s not a lot to say in terms of reporting the events. This isn’t a voyeuristic true‑crime retelling. We all saw the video. If we didn’t see the video, we saw the photograph: hands reaching to close an already gaping wound. Within hours, the footage was everywhere, framed as another sign of “unprecedented times”. But America has been here before. Many times. 

Four months after working in recruitment, I had to admit three things: I did not like my job, I was burnt out, and I really, really, really wanted to quit. My colleagues were supportive; I did not want to leave. I wanted to brave it and make the most  of the opportunity in front of me. However, midway through the fifth month I had a complete mid-20s crash out and thought “no more!”.  

The beauty industry is ever evolving into something more dystopian than before, and nothing supports this more than Skims' new shapewear…for your face. It does beg the question, what on earth is going on here?