It’s been a while. Hope you’re reyt. Today I’m continuing the theme of all-time faves, but this time through a different lens.

We all have records that transport us to a place in time. Some do it so vividly you can smell the air, feel the damp or see the wallpaper.

Others arrive more like flickers — a feeling, a ghost of something long gone. You don’t plan for a song to become part of your life’s story. It just slips in. And when it reappears, it always takes you somewhere else.

For me, no record does that with the same clarity as Beautiful Freak by Eels.

Released in 1996, it was the first album Mark Oliver Everett — better known as E — put out under the Eels name. Coming off two solo records, it was a new beginning for E as he perfected his darkened power pop.

A record born in LA (Sunset Sound Factory) in the same kind of hallowed rooms that played host to Prince, The Doors and the ghosts of a hundred guitar solos but yet, to me, the record’s sound belongs to bogs, bracken, long walks in the rain, and the road trips that got us there.

Beautiful Freak ended up defining a patch of North Wales with more sheep than streetlights, more rain than phone signal, and more slate than rock n roll bands.

The question here really is, how did something made oceans away come to soundtrack our half-term escapes and muddy pilgrimages and why did it define the landscape so vividly?

To go back to the start, E was stacking the studio with the right names. Jon Brion (Elliot Smith, Kanye West, Frank Ocean) co-produced, bringing in his offbeat melodies and knack for making the strange feel intimate. Michael Simpson (Beck, Beastie Boys) brought in the dirt and dust — his fingerprints feel like they’re all over the record’s stranger arrangements.

At a time when grunge’s ashes were still warm and Britpop was swaggering through the UK, Beautiful Freak arrived like an uninvited guest — lofi melancholy that was quietly brilliant.

It gave us brittle beats, toy piano melodies, fuzzed-out guitars, and lyrics that drifted somewhere between defeated and divine. All delivered in E’s signature rasp — like he’s broadcasting from the bottom of a well on a broken radio. Or a sad clown humming Beach Boys tunes through a hangover.

My dad got a burned copy* from a mate at work. One of those old-school pirates — clear case, handwritten title, no sleeve. Me and Dad were connecting over music at this point by going to gigs together and comparing records.

But this one wasn’t just for the two of us, it ended up pulling the whole family in.

We were off on the usual family trip to the smudged, inky edges of Snowdonia — more precisely, the Mawddach estuary.

Even more precisely, ‘The Waleish House’ on Mawddach Crescent. A strange Victorian terrace overlooking the estuary, misnamed by my sister when trying to say ‘The Welsh House’, and the name stuck.

Originally meant to be an upscale resort, the dream never got beyond Mawddach Crescent. The surrounding land was all marsh and sand. Some houses became holiday lets. Others stayed lived-in. I remember one local clearly: a man the adults nicknamed Captain Birdseye. Whether it was the beard, the stare, or a fondness for fish-fingers, I never found out.

That trip, like so many, meant muddy trails, sideways rain, but it also meant Beautiful Freak spinning endlessly in the six-disc changer, always setting the mood.

It belonged to the land in ways I can’t fully explain, especially in the territory Mawddach Crescent fell within, Arthog. There was literally nothing there, not even a post office.

Close your eyes and think textbook Wales. That’s Arthog. Just sheep-speckled horizons, marshland, and big old hills. A world away from sunshine and studios, but somehow that slow burning sadness and quiet defiance fit perfectly. Especially the opener, Novocaine for the Soul.

In a now-archived interview titled PainstakingEel, from what must be assumed took place in 1996 or the surrounding years, E said: “Novocaine for the Soul sounds detached because it’s about detachment. That’s what I think is so great about that song, and on that level I think it’s almost genius. It’s detachment personified. I’m singing about numbness and I’m numb. It’s about having too much feeling.”

Looking back, those holidays were about detachment too. For our parents, it meant getting out of the city and the usual routines. Hitting reset. You don’t see that as a kid.

So, when we were trudging up Cregannan’s frog-like peak or edging our way around the Precipice Walk, maybe that was our parents walking in E’s shoes.

Maybe we all were.

Even in our detachment, the record was there, those plinky-plonky keys like a broken music box on the edge of sleep. And then — boom. That chorus.

Big. Lush. Full. The perfect complement to the stunning landscape.

One of my favourites back then was Rags to Rags. That creeping guitar and croaky vocal in between the tattered chorus: "Rags to rags and rust to rust. How do you stand when you've been crushed? So Rags to riches was a bust?"

It felt like shouting into the wind with no hope of being heard — but shouting anyway. If anywhere fits that description, it’s Fairbourne.

A town being swallowed by the sea, back then it had a Spar, a chippy, a curry house, a laundrette and a long beach lined with WWII tank traps. Not much to keep you there — and maybe that’s what made it so magnetic. Like the song, it was beautiful, broken, and fading fast.

And slowly, the whole record stopped being just music. It became geography. A photo album.

Each track mapped to a moment; Flower belonged to the hills: “It’s a pretty big world, God, and I am awful small...”

That hits different when you’re 14, halfway up a next-level incline in the pouring rain on a mountain bike (Novacaine For The Fucking Legs). Or when your hands are frozen around a fishing rod that hasn’t caught anything in hours.

Beautiful Freak — the title track — belonged to Barmouth Bridge. Or, as we called it, The Big Bridge. A railway and footbridge stretching across the estuary. It still takes tolls, but no longer takes trains, a sorry reflection of modern Britain.

It’s the one thing that doesn’t quite fit, and yet somehow defines the landscape.

The record’s outsider anthem paired perfectly with this unlikely landmark. Out of place, quietly iconic and secretly adored.

You can’t really explain Susan’s House. It’s too odd. Too brilliant. Too much its own thing. And yet, it goes down well with just about anyone.

And if you ever find yourself passing through Barmouth — that end-of-the-line, chips-and-charm seaside town — do yourself a favour and hit the coast road, wind down the window (in the rare event of no rain) and let it play. It makes sense there.

This is probably the track where Simpson’s influence shines through most. With its sampled piano lifted from Gladys Knight & the Pips’ Love Finds Its Own Way, the song taps into the same techniques that 90s hip-hop artists were using, but E did it differently.

And maybe it wasn’t just the place. Maybe it was E himself — that quiet, uninvited presence. Like he’d climbed into the back seat somewhere near Dolgellau and stayed silent the whole trip.

It’s a collection of songs that feels like one long sigh — stitched together with fuzz, ache, and quiet genius. There isn’t any filler or skips along this record, it’s immersive and swallows you whole.

Take the brilliance of Your Lucky Day In Hell — as menacing as a dark Welsh cloud when you’re only halfway back to the car, and too far gone to outrun it. It creeps in slow, brooding and inevitable. By the time the chorus hits, you're drenched — and secretly loving it.

Not Ready Yet, Guest List, Mental — all full of sharp turns, strange hooks, and lyrics that feel like late-night confessions. E and his band swing from big, ragged choruses to near-whispers in seconds, but it’s never out of place.

Like the hills, everything feels like it was meant to be.

The final track, Manchild, opens with a line so flat it almost falls off the record: “I’m not having any fun.” Followed by a timestamp — “Friday, five sixteen p.m.”

It’s not about metaphors or flourishes, it isn’t trying too hard to do anything, it’s just someone too numb to dress it up. Like my sister halfway up Cadair Idris, rethinking every life choice that led her to that cursed mountain in the rain.

The slow picking electric guitar paired with E’s fuzzed-out melancholy is a fitting finisher as it ends with background hum, distant chatter, and soft crackle — like the lights coming on in a café at the end of Fairbourne beach. Not goodbye. Just closing time.

Over the years Beautiful Freak has transformed into more than a record.

E’s grief, his wit, his weight — they’ve been dissected, praised, mythologised. But for me, it’s simpler than that.

Beautiful Freak helped shape a childhood, to colour in a place made of myth, mud, and memory. It became our beloved…

Hang on, did I mention Shrek?

All photos of Wales by Nick Walton

*Since acquiring the pirate copy of this record it has been purchased in multiple formats by multiple family members.

Apologies – a few technical gremlins got in the way.

After several re-writes, this one was meant to hit your inbox last week, but didn’t quite make it. This same glitch also stopped From The Cellar To The Stratosphere and We’re All Writers from reaching.

The issue’s now sorted, so it should be smooth sailing from here.

This week’s essay was sparked by going back in time to a foggy Saturday morning in 2019 and remembering a strong opinion on James Bond, and a moment of madness where I picked a fight with someone who could write circles around me.

Enjoy x

Subscribe now

To me, he wasn’t just a spy. He was danger in a dinner jacket. A state-sanctioned killer with charm for cover. A ghost with a gun and a perfectly rehearsed smirk.

From ’62 onwards, Bond was the benchmark — the coolest and suavest thing Hollywood had coughed up. 

He was a passport to somewhere else entirely. Exotic cities. Brutal fights. Silencers in hotel rooms. 

I loved Bond, I wanted to be him and live in his world, I wanted to experience to rush of it all. The sense that the world was bigger, bolder, and dripping in danger and charm. Bond films expanded my imagination than any other franchise since, and it’s still doing the hard yards.

The movies got under my skin early. And instead of growing out of it, I grew into it. The more I read between the lines the myth got murkier. More flawed. More human. And that’s when it really started to matter.

So, when I was desperately hungover on a Saturday morning in 2019, I did a stupid thing — I opened the internet and stumbled upon an Esquire article titled Why James Bond Must Die. 

Then I did something I’d never done before. I wrote to the article’s author — Will Hersey, rattling off a message like a fan who’d taken it all a bit too personally, and seriously, with a novella length reply.

I’ve been an Esquire reader for years. A Hersey reader, too — and an admirer. If I hadn’t picked up the March issue and stumbled on his Jaguar rebrand piece, the memory wouldn’t have jolted back.

That ridiculous email became my way of defending the Bond I’d grown up with. Not just the tux and the charm, but the contradictions beneath him. 

Subscribe now

So, in my clouded state, I read the following words and the Bond fan reported for duty: “It still carried a somewhat tired and earnest air, the mark of a main character undergoing palliative care. As we reach No Time To Die, it feels more like his death throes.”

I should’ve just closed the tab. Or, at the very least, saved it for a time when my blood sugar wasn’t crashing through the floor or my recovery spliff wasn’t so fresh it was sending me spiralling into the depths of the night before. 

It wasn’t my finest diplomatic hour, and decisions like that — heat-of-the-moment, pride-over-pragmatism — are probably why I’m writing this newsletter and not features for Esquire. 

I replied: “You, like many of your Esquire colleagues, seem desperate for Bond to become a character he isn't and never has been. Casting aside, I am genuinely curious as to why this is the case — clicks?”

But of course, I didn’t stop there. I kept reading — and that’s when Hersey, in my view, completely stripped the context out of the circumstances leading to Sévérine’s death in Skyfall, finding outrage in a classic Bond scenario: “Incredibly, these are scenes from a film released just seven years ago.”

I should’ve known better. The warning system was grinding to life: move on, walk away, don’t be a dick.

There was something in the way it was all framed. It didn’t feel like critique — it felt like there was an agenda.

I knew it wasn’t personal, but I made it so.

And then Hersey referred to Bond’s impending death in No Time To Die: “Far from being commercial suicide,” and “given that the 007 moniker can be passed to another agent, there is the opportunity to carry on the franchise with a brand new person in the job.”

Subscribe now

A codename. Right. As if the most iconic spy in cinematic history is just some plug-and-play silhouette we can swap out depending on the mood board. What next? Hamlet as a content strategist? Indiana Jones as a heritage consultant?

It continued: “The public interest in the stories around Idris Elba or a female actor taking over the role must also have been a message to producers that an alcoholic, womanising post-empire spy figure might not be the perfect poster-boy for the coming generation.”

But was Bond ever meant to be a ‘perfect poster-boy?”

I wrote back: “You refer to the character’s role in modern film as ‘an alcoholic, womanising post-empire spy figure’ — which I find confusing. 

You’ve read the books, so you know this conflicted orphan has (on average) a drink every seven pages, smokes 60 a day, and plies himself with pharmaceuticals.”

Eugh. But that wasn’t even the half of it. I went on with a Fleming hard-on. Sounding like the book nerd, the immovable fanatic. 

But it sparked a broader question in my mind — why are people so desperate to reinvent something so iconic?

Why this obsession with turning a character written so specifically into a blank slate for personal projection?

What exactly was Will Hersey expecting when he bought a ticket to No Time To Die? A therapy session? A TED Talk?

Why did a trained fictional assassin doing his job in a live-fire situation — facing a global terrorist trying to kill his boss and bring down Britain from the inside — cause such emotional turbulence when he watched Skyfall?

And if Hersey’s getting worked up over Craig’s cold one-liner: “A waste of good scotch,” after Severine dies, then maybe, just maybe, the Bond franchise isn’t for him.

Bond was never supposed to be your moral compass. He’s what happens when the compass snaps and someone hands you a Walther PPK instead. A state-sanctioned killer with a licence to do the things no one else could. Or would.

He’s not your dinner party guest. He’s the guy sent in when diplomacy fails.

You don’t have to like how he does it. It doesn’t have to be politically tidy or morally digestible. He acts because he has to. That’s the pull. That’s why characters like him endure. They do the dirty work so we don’t have to.

Subscribe now

And this is only becoming more relevant because Bond is now in new hands. The fiercely protective Broccoli forcefield has fallen, and the rights — through MGM — now sit under Amazon. Bond is still Bond, but he’s playing under new lights. 

And here’s the danger in Hersey’s kind of thinking: with the Broccoli shield down and Amazon circling like it just acquired a franchise in a fire sale, all it takes is a few loud, influential voices like his — and Bond becomes a vague idea rather than the character we know and love.

But here’s the weird part: he replied. Hersey actually replied. Politely. Measured. Gracious, even. Said he’d “take it in” and would respond more fully at some point — my rants don’t often have this effect on people. 

In all honesty? It leant me a sense of legitimacy I didn’t deserve.

Of course, in the months and weeks later, a global pandemic swept across the world. Debates over even the most famous fictional spies became low priority. In a second message, Hersey said as much. And fair enough. The conversation never happened.

Every now and then, when I stick a Bond movie on, that email pops up in my head and for a moment I shudder. But then I also never stopped standing by what I meant — not word for word, maybe, but heart and soul? Yeah (probably).

Because I felt something that I loved dearly was being misunderstood. It was about watching a character who’s complicated and compelling get reduced to a cardboard cutout for the sake of cultural neatness.

That’s why I hit send.

And if I were to write that article — the one I wish Hersey had written — it wouldn’t be about Bond dying. 

It would be about letting him live as he really is — not as a role model, or a poster-boy, or some anachronistic pin-up for imperial nostalgia, but as the flawed, volatile, emotionally scarred orphan that Fleming created — someone who lost it all but was willing to give what was left. 

That’s where the real story is. 

A quick note before we finish.

Will Hersey is a superb editor and writer and has been kicking out top quality content for donkey’s years. This piece isn’t a reflection on his wider career, of which I’m extremely jealous, just his (wrong) opinions on James Bond.

The piece that inspired me to write this came from Esquire’s March issue, in which Hersey discusses the Jaguar re-brand (ironically titled Jag Man Must Die) — one of the best things I’ve read in a magazine for a while. Go and read his stuff. It’s better than mine. Respect and gratitude.

Friday, June 6, 2003. Sheffield. The Boardwalk.

In 2003 British guitar music was having another go. The Americans had set the standard in 2001 with the emergence of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, The Strokes and The White Stripes, setting the stage that lit up teenage bedrooms and garages across
the UK.

It was growing. The Libertines were chaos incarnate — Up the Bracket buzzing through the veins of indie kids in drainpipe jeans. Bloc Party were kicking off mosh pits and think pieces in equal measure. The fucking Darkness were everywhere. Franz Ferdinand were striking their first match. And the Kaiser Chiefs? Already annoying people.

Sheffield wasn’t London, it had its own pulse – open mic nights were throughout the week, unsigned gigs were regular in almost all venues capable of doing so. Everyone wanted a piece and everyone in a second hand leather jacket thought they had a shot.

The unsigned scene was varied – everything from punk to metal to indie to singer songwriter to drum and bass and electro. We all had a stake in it. We all contributed. There was even a website with a forum people would bicker on. L2SB, I believe, was the website’s name.

The Boardwalk was the Mecca for unsigned bands, regularly filling its stage with anyone brave enough to ask for a chance. It had seen the rise and fall of more bands than anyone could count.

But it was out of this venue that bands were beginning to get national recognition.

That night, we were on the bill – not as hopefuls exactly, but as survivors. International 2 had finally crumbled under its own weight, and we were dragging ourselves onto the next project – Pretty Young Things. 

A name change. A new start.

Though even then, I knew it wouldn’t last. The lineup of this new band contained members with a gift for chaos, including myself. The type you pretend is magnetic until it burns the van down.

We played a loose, forgettable set. Decent enough Friday night crowd, but the songs were stale. We were already done with them. One foot out of the door.

What I didn’t realise was none of it mattered. Because in those moments, the tectonic plates of rock and roll were shifting beneath my feet.

By the time we came off stage and were ready for load-out, my voice was shot, and the inside of my second-hand leather jacket felt like a swamp. I dropped my gear by the stage, waiting to lug it out to my dad’s car.

That’s when Alex Turner approached me.

He was my age, give or take.

“Great show, mate,” he said in his then beaky Sheffield drawl, shifting his weight like someone unsure whether to stick around or bolt for a bus.

“I really enjoyed it. We’re going to carry on downstairs if you fancy it – secret gig happening in a bit. I think it’s going to be really cool.”

At that point, I had no idea I was talking to the next great British rock star. The lad who’d have the entire country on its knees within a year. Between bits of small talk, I accepted the invite. He led me down several narrow staircases into the belly of The Boardwalk.

The beer cellar was low-ceilinged, the bricks painted white and lit only by fairy lights. It smelt of damp wood and stale beer, thick in the June air. A drumkit and a bunch of amps crammed into the corner. A proper cellar gig.

After I’d brought the rest of the band down the beers flowed freely – some unspoken gratitude for headlining upstairs.

I stood next to Alex, sipping warm lager and soaking in Judan Suki – a funked-up proto-version of what would become 1984 and then Reverend and the Makers – tight enough to turn heads, loose enough to still be interesting.

Alex and I swapped notes on the bands we were into, influences. He was one of those blokes who was interested in you, asked questions.

He was easy company. Polite. Humble. Generous about our distinctly average band in a way that made me like him more and trust him less.

Before heading off, he invited us to their next gig – The Grapes, the following week. We shook hands as Judan Suki wrapped up and he slipped off to prep for whatever came next. No fuss. No mystique. Just a kid with a plan.

Then Arctic Monkeys played live, for what I believe, was the first time. Not that first time – the Grapes myth hadn’t been written yet. This was the show before the show. The one no one talks about but ended up naming their first string of demos.

If I could give you a proper review 22 years on, I would. But I can’t. Not really. I just remember the charge in the air – the kind that makes your skin buzz and your brain shut up.

I remember knowing, with stupid teenage certainty, that I was watching the beginning of something seismic.

They seemed like the full package. Originality without trying. Down to Earth humour. Anger without posing. A rawness you couldn’t fake if you tried, all wrapped in that sharp, unmistakable twang of working-class Sheffield.

They were our Strokes. But they were better.

In some ways it was like I was taking a night class. In one set, Alex showed me how words could twist, cut, and charm better than anyone else I’d watched this up close and personal – just by telling stories.

He wasn’t chasing rockstar grandeur, at least it didn’t seem that way. He was calling it how he saw it – straight-up, piss-funny, and painfully real. But I did take one thing with me: the best bit of advice any writer gets. Write what you know.

Waving Bye To A Train Or A Bus, Knock A Door Run. Classic Reeboks. Scraps. Trying to get into clubs. Tropical Reefs. Schoolgirls getting picked up by older lads with cars. No one else was writing about this stuff – the deadpan grit of everyday teenage life.

And it hit. Like a brick to the face.

Subscribe now

Friday June 13, 2003. Sheffield. The Grapes.

Me, the guitarist, and the keys player from the new band headed down to The Grapes on the night Alex had mentioned – back when you had to actually remember things, or write them down. MySpace was the apex of social media. No Google Calendar pings. Just word of mouth and hope.

It was a grim, wet night in Sheffield. One of those evenings where the city feels like it’s closing in on itself.

But there was no chance we were missing this. Even then, it felt like a now-or-never moment. Before long, you'd need a laminated pass just to get within spitting distance.

The Grapes was already a relic back then – tucked into Trippet Lane like a stubborn memory. A proper pub. If you pulled the old photos off the walls, the outlines would still be there, like ghosts in picture frames.

The top room supposedly held a hundred. Maybe. Twenty made it feel cosy. Fifty felt like Wembley. That’s why half of Sheffield swears they were there.

Then they arrived. The support band. The next big thing, shuffling through the crowd like they were late for a class, climbing onto the stage before unleashing the kind of noise that made you question every musical choice you’d ever made.

They went off. Properly.

Nicholson stood stage right, exactly where I’d been at our last gig there – red bandana knotted round his neck, bass lines clean enough to eat off, backing vocals sharper than most lead singers I knew.

Helders at the back, battering the kit like it owed him money and had the audacity to show its face.

Cookie stood locked in beside Alex, who – centre stage – managed to take the piss out of every other frontman in the country just by standing there. Like he knew every chord and lyric could outlive the building.

They were on fire, even more so than a week ago.

And then, the lyrics: "He talks of San Francisco, he's from Hunter's Bar, I don't quite know the distance, but I'm sure that's far. Yeah, I'm sure it's pretty far. And, yeah, I'd love to tell you all my problem, you're not from New York City, you're from Rotherham, so get off the bandwagon, and put down the handbook.”

Fuck. When someone shows you the level like that, at an unsigned gig, while in the support slot – it’s humbling. I don’t think I recovered for a week. Maybe a year. Possibly never.

One of those moments that hits so hard you instinctively turn to the person next to you – just to make sure they heard it too.

Me and my mate locked eyes – he had heard it too. Turner was savaging people just like us and we both fucking loved him for it.

I’ve seen my share of gigs – some forgettable, some feral, a few that bent my brain in ways I didn’t know possible. But this? This was something else entirely.

You don’t often walk into a room and witness the goalposts being moved in real time. Something stratospheric. Something that rewires parts of a genre.

And the mad thing is, back then, only fifty or so people even knew it was happening.

It was a moment. Electric. Undeniable.

And I was there – lucky enough to bottle it in the back pocket of my memory, a rag-tag relic from the night the lights flickered and music shifted a little on its axis.

I’d been in Argentina for ten days, part of a large team shooting a double production of TV commercials for an Alpine brand. 

Ten days of casting, wardrobe, and recreating the Swiss Alps in South America — all punctuated by long, often lavish dinners, including some of the best food I’d ever eaten. But now, every bite is plotting against me from the inside out.

We’re picking up the story somewhere outside of Bariloche, and the road unspools like an old film reel, flickering between stretches of cracked concrete and smooth new patches that feel almost out of place in this rugged country. 

To the right, snow-capped peaks rise like sleeping giants. To the left, a lake the colour of deep-sea myths, flickering with the light of the sky.

It’s pretty and everything but as I flick through the pictures of the locations we’ve visited, something still doesn’t feel quite right beneath my Imodium armour – my closest ally on the trip.

I once again try to think back to what the source of my problems could have been; the lamb from the parrilla? The giant steak? The bacon from the breakfast buffet? The airport empanada? Had I accidentally drank the tap water?

As the car rounds another bend, the road suddenly drops into a postcard. Hotel Llao Llao sits cradled between the mountains and the lake, as if Patagonia itself decided this was the spot to exhale. But if I exhaled anymore I’d be public enemy number one – or most likely two – with my team.  

By the time we arrived at the hotel – a beautiful but eerie European alpine lodge that is either cover for the real Overlook Hotel or a Bond villain base – I was just relieved to be somewhere with reliable plumbing.

I’d had a rough couple of days but things started to improve by the following morning and my gut settled. I hoped I had shrugged off the worst of it. 

It was a free day and in a misplaced moment of optimism, I decided to go kayaking with Jimmy (name changed), a shoot colleague. There were scripts to tweak and some social lines to finish off but the promise of some much needed sunshine and fresh air was too much to ignore.

To my surprise, I managed. My bowel remained calm on choppy waters and while my upper body had all the power and definition of a damp tea towel, I somehow didn’t fall apart.

The scenery was ridiculous – in the best way. A painter’s daydream, but real. The sky was a clean, endless blue; the kind that made you wonder what you’d done to deserve it.

The lake stretched out like it had no end, definitely not as still as it looked from the top of the hill, the water’s presence almost intimidating – as if it was thinking deep thoughts. We eventually made it to a lone island, sitting in the middle of the lake.  

We dragged the kayaks ashore, and stood there for a second, just listening. Nothing. No people, no noise. Just water, trees, and a silence that makes you grin. 

We jumped off rocks and swam to waters deep in our small Andean pocket – the kind of fun that, just for a moment, makes you realise that nothing else really matters. 

Pleased with the activity we had chosen, we laughed at just how beautiful the whole place was. Then the atmosphere suddenly changed. 

My gut had turned. 

The kind of warning you don’t ignore. The kind of warning you act on immediately.

My stomach was doing things that can only be described as biblical. And in the seconds I had to decide between land and water, I chose water.

I muttered something to Jimmy, then without thinking, dove straight into the lake, swimming away as fast as I could.

If that seems like an odd choice, allow me to explain.

Subscribe now

 Two Days Earlier

We were mid-shoot, scouting locations. A remote field. Beautiful mountains – you know the drill by now. There was a single small house in the distance, more like a cabin or shack than an actual brick and mortar house.

Louise (name changed), my then-creative partner, was assessing a tree. “I think this is a good spot. We’ve got the mountains in the background, this tree looks pretty good. Do you think the branch is strong enough?”

“Yeah, cool,” I said.

It wasn’t cool. I desperately needed a shit.

“Are you okay?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“I don’t think so.”

There were plenty of places to creep off to, the problem was there was a crew of about 20 people roaming every inch of it looking for the perfect frame. 

I had a pack of Kleenex Balsam in my bag and a deep sense of dread.

I don’t mind roughing it when nature calls – anyone who’s been on long hikes or bike rides knows what’s what. But this was different. This was the kind of gut emergency that you needed serious endurance – nay – an iron man endurance for. And most importantly, privacy. 

And so, I ran.

Full sprint. A man possessed. My only hope was reaching that house before disaster struck. Somehow, I made it. And somehow, my sheer panic convinced the non-English-speaking owner to let me in.

What followed was unspeakable, and it didn’t seem to end. I even got up to go once, thinking the ordeal was over. Alas, having neatened the tiny bathroom as best I could before leaving, the beast came roaring back.

That Dumb and Dumber scene plus the extras.

Twenty minutes plus injury time later, I emerged – hollow-eyed, dehydrated, a changed man. My host’s eyes were streaming. Mine were too. I muttered a broken sorry before walking back to the van, sitting at the back, and thinking about what I had done, all in the name of bringing a script to life.

I still think about them, that house. How long it took before they decided to just burn the whole thing down.

Back in real time –

And that is why I’m in the middle of an extremely deep Patagonian lake, and why I chose water over land.

I am naked, floating on my back, shorts in one hand, stomach in full revolt while the rest of me tries not to drown.

Sure, it’s probably the most scenic dump of my life, but it’s also the most gruelling.

There’s something about the process, about releasing air (amongst other stuff) and losing control that affects your buoyancy. It felt like I was sinking, so I was doing my best to backstroke away from the, let’s say, evidence, which only made things worse.

I can only imagine what it looked, or sounded like from Jimmy’s vantage point.

Leaving a trail of destruction, I finally finished the deed before making it back to land, breathless and weak. Jimmy stayed silent, refusing to meet my eye. The return kayak to shore was quiet as I paddled like hell hath no fury. 

Argentina is a beautiful country. The food, despite everything, was incredible. The landscapes, breath-taking. The work? Got killed.

But that place, deep in the Andes, began what is now a lifelong battle with acute IBS, and for one single, horrifying second, the place I thought I might drown in my own shit.

And that’s all I’ll ever remember it for.

Writing has never really felt like a job to me. It’s just there – woven into everyday life, second nature. If you’re lucky, it’s a craft you’re equipped with from a young age and you never seem to stop doing it, whether it’s part of your job or not.

We’re all writers. You’re a writer. You send emails, texts, love letters, birthday cards. You’ve written exams, instructions, maybe a resignation or cover letter.

You’ve shaped thoughts into words, whether it’s a social post, or a reel with a perfectly crafted caption. If you’ve ever told a story, even just scribbled in a notebook, you’re a writer. The only difference is how far you take it.

I think I’ve taken it as far as I can, and then back again. Which is why we’re here. A newsletter of all things.

But this page exists because writing is the only way I know how to turn the chaos into something with shape. Talking never quite cuts it — not like the page does.

There’s a rhythm to it. A release. Getting the mess out of my head and onto something real. Every brief, every idea — they’re just excuses to let the madness out, dress it up, and see what it does once it’s set loose.

We’re here now, and in this opening essay to my Confession series I’ll lay out a little bit more on what I’m doing and why I’m doing it.

It started long ago in beat-up band rooms, with cheap guitars and great friends, chasing a sound that might’ve been ours. We wrote it, played it, gigged it, recorded it – chord by chord, lyric by lyric, believing every word meant something. 

When the chemistry dried up, I chased stories instead, turning riffs into articles, gigs into columns, and half-baked observations into something that hopefully, people might actually want to read.

Writing wasn’t just a habit – it was how I figured out what I had to say. And I’ve been chasing that ever since those first angsty chords.

In these essays, I’ll be brutally true to my experiences as a writer – from the moment I discovered the power of the pen to where I stand now. The chemically and herbally enhanced highs, the brutally beaten-down lows. The moments of clarity, the years of chasing something just out of reach.

Midnight oil to morning misdemeanours.

This isn’t a memoir or diary entry – it’s a confession. A tell all. Like Bourdain warned you not to order the fish on a Monday, I’m here to tell you: never trust an organisation that calls you ‘part of the family’. 

One of your bandmates will almost certainly kiss your girlfriend. Or your sister. Or your ex.  

Unpopular opinions? Creative job titles are starting to feel like Pokémon evolutions. ECD becomes CCO becomes Global CD of Vibes — and somewhere along the way, someone invented the ACD role just to stop senior creatives from starting podcasts.

Let’s be honest: a lot of millennial seniors and above are just exceptionally good at speaking in metaphors and spitting buzz words. So much so, the word tangible now renders me catatonic.

I’m not saying titles don’t matter. I’m just saying they mostly matter to the people who put them on LinkedIn in capital letters.

I’m not an ‘industry’ guy. I’m not going to chat on about copywriting being a force for good or how we can use creativity to solve piles. I don’t care about advertising, editorial or publishing trends. I just believe in trying to write something that entertains, whatever it is I’m working towards.

Everything I say in these essays are direct observations from where my writing has taken me, some will be up close and personal, some will be from afar.

But, for now, what I can tell you is that nearly everywhere I’ve worked – the best people you’ll meet in the office aren’t in the boardroom. They’re running the building – or they’re the ones who don’t give a shit about any of this.

In the pursuit of creativity, you’ll be paired with people you don’t gel with. Sometimes you’ll be the biggest dumbass in the room. You’ll work with people who guard ideas like territory, and you will sweat. 

Deal with it. Learn from it all. 

You’ll have triumphs — the great shoot, the happy accident, the line that lands. And along the way, you’ll work with people who make it better. The ones who lift you – editors, art directors, creative directors, producers, strategists, designers, musicians – mates. Keep the decent ones close.

You’ll get thrown under the bus more than once. But you’ll find believers too – people who see something in you before you do. 

Most of the time, the ones who rise fastest aren’t the ones who are the best – they’re the ones who play the game best. But you already know that.

The bottom line will always beat out loyalty. I repeat, you are not a family.

At times you’ll make a tit of yourself, and you’ll do it a lot, like I’m probably doing right now. And there will be a moments in time where you are the villain yourself, and you damn well know it.

I’ve worked, studied, and experienced writing in various forms for over two decades – from recording studios to Masters degrees to editing magazines to shooting commercials halfway around the world.

It’s been a journey. One I’m about to share in full, peeling back stories from the different industries, scenes, and states of mind.

Why am I doing it? Part therapy. Part resurrection. At a point, when the punches kept landing harder, I pulled the plug.

Aside from some clumsy poetry or late night ramblings from time to time, it has been nearly five years since I have put pen to paper on any personal project with any kind of conviction or direction.

Some of these stories will be light. Others might get me uninvited from a few Christmas parties. In essays that stray down that path I won’t be naming names or organisations — not because they don’t deserve it, but because I’ve got a decent grasp of libel law, and some of the NDAs I’ve signed are chunky.

Anyway, the fun is in the subtext. 

I’ve been shafted, sure. But I’ve also been an arse, and after drifting through the middle lane of a creative career for longer than I care to admit, I’ve finally got something to say. 

Because I’m a writer. 

Strap in. 

All the best,

TS x

Thanks for clicking on this page.

I’m still figuring out exactly what this place is going to be, but in the meanwhile you can find my observations from the road, the music and film scenes and football heartbreak in the surrounding pages, plus a few short stories from December 1 2025.

Really — thanks for being here as I try to fathom out what this all means.

Subscribe now