Somehow Octopus Energy manages to do everything 100% correctly. Like, why do other energy companies struggle with basic stuff like accurate and transparent bills or customer service? I’ve been with Octopus for close to four years and never once needed to contact them because they just work. Their website is easy to use and their pricing is transparent, plus the electricity is 100% from renewables. Why are you paying out the nose to eat shit from one of the other firms?

I have literally left every other mobile phone provider in a rage, but Giffgaff have given me absolutely zero cause for complaint in the five or so years I’ve been with them. It just works. Plus, they’re cheap. Why are you paying more for less?

I got turned onto craft beer around twenty years ago now, when I was living in Philly (thank you Dan). Trying new beers became a hobby for around eighteen years and I rarely drank the same one twice. Then I tried Beavertown Neck Oil and I realised that the world was complete and I never needed to try another new beer again. It is what a carbonated alcoholic beverage should taste like. Thank you for the comfort and joy you bring my tastebuds. I salute your excellence.

When veteran campaigners say that Pride is now capitalism with a pink hue, they ain’t lying. In fact, I’d go further than that and say it’s the perfect example of how to emasculate activism through co-option. The pay-for tickets to march, the heavily restricted numbers, the barriers between the marchers and the many-thousands-more in the crowd, the way people were chanting the names of the organisations who paid to be part of the march (umm, hint, it’s not about you Corporation, Ltd), and the huge amounts of personal space around the marchers has hollowed out any reference to protest. You must pay to join the snake at its tail and walk through its fortified and impenetrable body until you emerge, bored, underwhelmed, and full of anticlimax at the mouth of the beast located conveniently far enough away from Downing Street and Whitehall. Yeah, London Pride 2019 is the perfect example of how the era of public protest as an avenue to human liberation is over by the simple condition of permission.

Imagine you went to Brighton four years ago and bought a stick of rock which you had a little lick and gnaw of before putting in a drawer without bothering to wrap it back up. Then, one night, you were fishing about looking for some such essential item and you come across the dirty, still slightly sticky, old piece of rock and you gingerly have a sniff. That’s what using peppermint essential oil in the steam room smells like.