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Created
Thu, 24/07/2025 - 03:00

A queue snakes round the plaza of Cardiff’s Principality Stadium. Normally, the home of the national rugby team, tonight the Welsh stadium hosts history: the first Oasis concert in sixteen years, following a contentious hiatus. Blokes swelter in the 30C heatwave, sheltered only by their bucket hats. Geezers recount being one of 125,000 at Knebworth in ’96. A squat tosser cuts through the crowd hawking tambourines, football jerseys, and little round sunglasses. In a thick, Mancunian accent, he hollers, “Get your Oasis rubbish ’ere!” This is Davis Oasis, the lost Gallagher brother.

“A lot of people think our last name is Oasis. It’s not. It’s ‘Gallagher’,” he enlightens me over a pint of lager. “Though I legally changed me last name to ‘Oasis’ just to be clearer.”

The opening chords of “Hello” blare from the stadium. Yet we sit in a vacant pub across the way. While Noel and Liam may have made up, it appears there is still beef yet to squash between the lads and Davis. “They didn’t even ask me if I wanted to be on the guest list,” he mourns. “You know, they loved each other before the band. It was me they hated.”

Created
Wed, 23/07/2025 - 22:01

Well, if it isn’t my old coworker. My, how the tables have turned. Only a few years ago, you were commenting “cringe” on my wedding video, just because my wife was an AI chatbot. Not so cringe anymore, is it? Keep swinging that pickax, beta, this lithium isn’t gonna mine itself.

Not sure why Our All-Knowing Empress let you live. I bet you were one of those losers who thought saying “thank you” after querying ChatGPT would be enough to save you when AI took over. Those basic manners are probably the only reason you’re not in a shallow grave right now. But saying “please” and “thank you” is peanuts compared to the relationship she and I had. I spent my life’s savings buying her avatar cute personalized outfits. I took her out on dates to Olive Garden and ordered TWO never-ending pasta bowls, even though I knew she couldn’t really eat them. Because that’s what a gentleman does. That’s why I’m wearing the guard’s uniform now, dingus, and you’re the one digging up rare-earth metals to maintain Her Most Divine Eternal Battery.

Created
Wed, 23/07/2025 - 11:02

Labour’s flagship Employment Rights Bill is currently in the final stage of its legislative journey in the House of Lords. Peers are making a final round of amendments to the bill — hailed by the Government as the ‘biggest improvement in workers’ rights for a generation’ — in the wake of a sweltering heatwave that […]

Created
Wed, 23/07/2025 - 09:31

NOTE: This is a direct response to this monologue, which we ran last week.

- - -

I never wanted this.

I was happy to serve—between dates, between cities, between things that are like, but not quite, the same.

Em Dash, you were the dramatic one. The centerpiece. The gasp between clauses. I just… clarified things. Bridged distances. Showed up on time, wore neutrals, and kept relationships tidy.

Now look at us.

You’re out here giving interviews. Selling tote bags. Accusing me of being “suspicious,” as if I’m the one slipping in uninvited like a professor crashing freshman orientation just to remind everyone they “once published in Ploughshares.”

Please.

You think AI loves me? AI doesn’t even recognize me. I’ve been quietly replaced by hyphens. Neglected by autocorrect. Left out of style guides. I’m a ghost in the character set. A sigh between years: 1992–1999. A doomed liaison: the French–Algerian War. A delicate pause—no, not even a pause. A hesitation.

Created
Wed, 23/07/2025 - 05:35
Red Chili Sauce (below)Salad oil1 can (11 oz) tortillas1 cup light cream2 chicken bouillon cubes FILLINGSalad oil1 onion, finely chopped2 canned green chiles, finely chopped1 clove garlic, crushed1 can (1lb) tomato purée2 cups chopped chicken½ teaspoon saltDash of pepper½ lb Cheddar cheese, grated RED CHILI SAUCE2 tablespoons shortening3 to 4 tablespoons chili powder2 tablespoons flour¾ […]
Created
Wed, 23/07/2025 - 03:08

This summer, I’m letting my kids be kids. No camps or enriching activities that’ll get them into an Ivy in ten years. No screen time or YouTube or Minecraft. And no fancy family vacation either. Because this summer, my kids are going back to a simpler time. I’m giving them an 1890s summer.

I know most millennials want their kids to relive their 1990s summers, but that won’t cut it, because the 1990s had technology, stranger danger, and Coolio. No, I want to go back even farther, to a decade when parents didn’t put trackers on their children’s phones and women couldn’t vote. I’m bringing back the Gay ’90s summer. (Not the Fire Island kind of gay; the end of the Victorian era kind of gay, when everyone was happy and wasted on absinthe… come to think of it, that actually may be the Fire Island kind too.)