There are days when the news feels like a gentle breeze across the hills of Wales, and there are days when it arrives like a startled raven dropping a scroll at your feet. Today’s scroll contains the latest grand plan from the powers that be, a plan that declares that young people under sixteen must be banished from the digital commons entirely, while those aged sixteen and seventeen must be watched, measured, and gently herded like slightly suspicious sheep. It is a curious thing. A very curious thing indeed.

Because only a short while ago the same government was telling us that sixteen-year-olds are wise enough, mature enough, and responsible enough to help choose the next leaders of the nation. They are old enough to vote, old enough to shape the future, old enough to stand at the ballot box with the rest of us and make decisions that echo through the land. But apparently, they are not old enough to use Facebook.

Of course, this is not really about Facebook, Instagram, Twitter (I refuse to call it X), Or whatever new platform the young people have invented while the rest of us were still trying to remember our passwords. This is about identity.

Because to enforce this new rule, every person in the United Kingdom will need to hand over their personal information to prove who they are before they can step into the digital square. Every account. Every login. Every platform. The gates will not open unless you show your papers.

And once you have shown your papers, the gatekeepers will know exactly who you are, where you are, and what you say. The old dream of anonymity on the internet, that wild and unruly freedom of the early days, will be gone. The masks will be taken away. The names will be written down. The watchers will watch.

Some people are already whispering that this is less about safety and more about surveillance. That this is one more stone placed in the long road toward a world where every citizen is catalogued, monitored, and gently nudged into approved behaviour. A world where the digital realm is no longer a place of exploration but a place of observation.

And then there is the other piece of the puzzle. The forced digital ID. The one that has been creeping toward us like a polite but determined market researcher with a clipboard. Combine that with the new social media rules and you begin to see the shape forming in the mist. A shape that looks uncomfortably familiar.

Some say it resembles Big Brother from the pages of Nineteen Eighty Four. Others say it looks more like The Party from V for Vendetta, that cold and calculating machine that smiles while it tightens the net. I am not saying we are there. I am not saying the sky is falling. But I am saying that when you place these pieces together, when you look at the direction of travel, you cannot help but feel the faintest chill at the back of your neck, and the urge to purchase some Guy Fawkes masks.

I am not a number; I am a free man!

Today I went up into the hills to do something that actually matters for our collective future. I went to vote in what is undoubtedly the biggest and most important vote in our history as a nation. We are currently standing at a threshold where we have to decide if we are going to keep surrendering to the decline. For far too long we have been sitting at the bottom of the pile for almost everything that matters. We are currently suffering with the worst schooling and the worst education of all the home nations. Our healthcare system is in a state of decay and our roads are being intentionally ruined by people who clearly do not value the freedom of the open road. Our economy is struggling and it is a rot that has been allowed to spread for way too long.

This was our one chance to try and fix the issues that have been building up under years of the same leadership. It was a chance to vote for the possibility of a none labour Welsh government for the first time ever. I have made no secret of the fact that I want an end to this current regime and today I finally put my mark where my mouth is.

To be born Welsh is to be born privileged with music in your heart and poetry in your soul. But that privilege comes with a heavy responsibility to protect our heritage and our future. We cannot keep allowing an army of clipboard holding jobsworths to manage our decline while they see liability in every footstep and ruin in every policy. I am an INDIVIDUAL and I refuse to be pigeon holed or told to worship at the heel of those who think they are superior. Today was my own small act of defiance against the encroaching dark. I can only hope that when the dealing is done we see the first spark of dawn for a better and more prosperous Wales.

But that is not what this post is about. Not today. No, today is about an actual change, the kind that makes you stop mid stride and wonder if the world has finally decided to surprise you after three decades of doing the same thing in the same way with the same people.

Ever since I moved to this corner of Wales thirty years ago, every vote has followed the same ancient rhythm. The same trek up into the hills, the same slow climb toward the old hall that looks as if it was built by a committee of druids who ran out of enthusiasm halfway through. Inside, the same two venerable guardians of democracy, who appear to have been carved from oak sometime during the reign of Henry the Eighth, sit behind the same table with the same expressions of polite bewilderment.

Nothing ever changes. Not the room. Not the ritual. Not the gentle smell of dust and civic duty. It has always felt less like voting and more like participating in a seasonal rite, as if I should bring an offering of bread and mead to ensure a good harvest. If you want a reminder of how this little pilgrimage has always unfolded, you can wander back through my older ramblings and revisit the scene. You might start with this ONE where I described the whole affair in loving detail, right down to the creaking floorboards and the eternal nod of the two guardians of the register.

But today was different. Today the air felt charged, as if someone had opened a window in a room that had been closed for far too long. Something had shifted. Something had stirred. And for the first time in thirty years, I found myself thinking that perhaps the old hall on the hill was not just a relic of the past, but a doorway into whatever comes next.

The two unchanging guardians of the sacred voting booth were nowhere to be seen. You know the ones I mean. The people who point you toward the pencil that is taped to a piece of string, the pencil that has seen more elections than most politicians, the pencil with which you make your solemn mark on a bit of paper before dropping it into what is essentially a ceremonial bucket. Those guardians. The eternal watchers of the register. The custodians of the sacred tick.

Gone.

In their place stood two young people. Actual young people. Bright eyed. Upright. Awake. The heavy quiet that usually hangs in the room like the breath of an elderly librarian had been replaced with friendliness and chirpiness and even a spark of excitement at the sight of human beings arriving to vote. It was unsettling in the best possible way, like discovering that the ancient stone circle at the top of the hill has suddenly installed a coffee machine.

I do not know what happened to the elder pair. Were they replaced. Did they finally retire. Or did some unfortunate souls who turned up to vote get used in a strange ceremony involving candles and chanting and possibly a wicker man in order to rejuvenate the guardians into younger forms. I am not saying this happened. I am simply saying that if it did, it would explain a lot.

And now the questions begin to whisper at the back of my mind.

Have they always been there.
Will they always be there.
And now that I suspect them, is it even safe for me to ever go back and vote.

Because once you start noticing these things, once you begin to tug at the loose thread of the familiar, you never quite know what might unravel. Perhaps the voting hall is older and stranger than any of us realised. Perhaps the guardians are part of some ancient civic order that predates the council tax. Or perhaps they simply fancied a day off.

Either way, the world has shifted. The ritual has changed. And I find myself wondering what other small miracles or mild terrors await me the next time I climb that hill to cast my vote.

It is with heavy hearts that we mark the passing of Charlie Kirk, a figure whose presence stirred thought, provoked dialogue, and left an indelible mark on the political landscape. Whether one agreed or disagreed with his views, few could deny the passion and conviction with which he spoke, the energy he brought to public discourse, and the loyalty he inspired in those who followed his work.

Charlie was more than a commentator; he was a catalyst. He challenged norms, sparked conversations, and stood firm in his beliefs. To his supporters, he was a voice of clarity in turbulent times. To his critics, he was a formidable opponent who never shied away from debate.

But beyond the headlines and microphones, Charlie was a son, a friend, and a human being navigating the complexities of life like the rest of us. His death is a reminder of the fragility of our time here, and of the importance of listening, engaging, and seeking understanding, even in disagreement.

The biggest issue with the death of Charlie Kirk is the cheering, dancing, singing and all around happiness the Left are posting online. They are treating the murder of a husband and father as an excuse for a party. They are so happy that a man is dead, and a young family ruined. I have even seen them making lists of who else needs to be killed. They even posted their celebrations on the post Charlie’s wife made announcing his death.

What has happened to the world where people can happily celebrate murder on the internet? And do it his wife and children who were then and watched him get shot.

The Left has lost all claims of being the kind, caring party. 

This morning I received an email from Microsoft Xbox.

“As part of our compliance program for the UK Online Safety Act and our ongoing investments in tools and technologies that help ensure age-appropriate experiences, we need you to verify your age so you can continue enjoying social features on Xbox.”

This amused me a lot, since apart from December when I dusted off and used my old Xbox after the winter storms blew up my PS4. my Xbox has been collecting dust for over a decade. The account itself is old enough in the UK to go to the pub and get pissed, since it is over 20 years old.

I believe if I was actually under age, I would either need a time machine, or a past life to be able to create the account many years before I was born.  Twitter had the right idea by saying anyone who has an account older than X (see what I did there) number of years is obviously old enought.

Some of the things in the UK my account is old enough to do :-

• Buy Alcohol (18 or 21 depending where in the UK)
• Buy Fireworks (18)
• Have Botox (18)
• Buy offensive weapons (18 previously you could only get none offensive weapons)
• Get married (18)
• Join the army (16)
• Drive a car (17)

Some of the things in the UK my account is NOT old enough to do :-

• Avoid age verification

This popped up on my Facebook Memories for the day.

When its a Bully.

The Internet is full of terms and names that date way back into the mists of Internet-Time, when all these sites were tree’s and the Internet Denizens roamed and grazed in peace. A Time when you could use a term like “Hacker” or “Spod” or “Newbie” and people would know exactly what it meant.

But alas, we now live in a time where the Net has been bulldozed down to make way for cheap malls, and playgrounds, The Denizens have scattered and hide in reservations trying to maintain and uphold the rich history of their land.

But keeping hold of the True meaning of Net-Speak, Terms and names is getting harder and harder as the general media keep doing poorly researched articles misusing Net-Terms. And then the newer Net-Denizens think that’s the real meaning of the terms, and Ignorance of the poorly researched articles is propagated.

Reporters, stop jumping on terms for the wow factor to increase the affect of your poor articles. Take for instance the term “Hacker” it used to mean something, a badge of respect implying a certain level of knowledge or skill, but now? All the press have been on about for the last year or so is the “Phone Hacking Scandals” Hacking? Some people dialled the voice-mail phone number and listened to recorded messages, something anyone can do because no one ever sets their password. Really you think someone who can’t use a computer but who can make a phone call is a Hacker?

Learn the meaning of the words you use….

Now we have loads and loads about “Trolls” Now the Denizens will tell you something along the lines of someone posting a comment/message/etc in the attempt to catch someone into a fight, flame war, or to simply hijack a legitimate thread/conversation. (Based on the term “Trolling”: Trolling may describe the fishing technique of slowly dragging a lure or baited hook from a moving boat”), the best way to deal with these people is to ignore them because without attention the go away, hence the oft used phrase “do not feed the trolls”

But, the popular press has decided the name Troll relates to anyone bullying others on-line. So if someone gets a death threat they are being trolled, Err. No, they are being bullied and threatened and the person doing the threats should be hit with the full force of the law for bullying or threatening behaviour!

There are calls for new laws to be made to deal with “trolls” but WHY? we already have laws against people making threats? ignore the fact its online, deal with the base crime as if the person had sent them a note with the threat. Giving the Bullies the name Troll is making it seem like a lesser crime, as if “Oh they only threatened them online”

Its like stealing a car and driving it around really fast damaging the car, we call it “Joy Riding”? that makes it sound fun and ok. It should be called “theft, vandalism, etc”

WORDS HAVE POWER

So can we please start referring to things and people for what they really are, and stop trying to mutate existing net-terms because it makes better print in a newspaper story?

They are not Trolls.

They are Cowards, Bully’s.

They are guilty of threatening behaviour.

Lets stop giving them a badge of honour. I have heard people boast “Oh I trolled X good”

Lets call them what they are, Lets hold them up to the light of day and say “you are a bully” and deal with them accordingly.

P.S.

DO NOT FEED THE TROLLS.

Reposted, because with the state that Social Media and the Internet have gotten itself into, it needs to be resaid.

Trolls are just cowardly bullies. If you find yourself being bullied online:-

Speak out! – Tell Someone – Failing that, reach out to me on any Social Media, I will happily help.

Today is the day we all get to vote on who will govern the country for the next 4 years. Well the UK anyway, Wales is fixed so Labour always win, and votes of no confidence and petitions from the public are equally ignored. But we should all do our civic duty and vote.

So this morning I popped along to vote.

I should point out that if I leave my house and turn left, I can drive for a couple of hundred yards and reach a pub that acts as a polling station. In fact it is only about a 5 minute walk from my house. But I do not get to vote there! No I have to turn right, travel an equal distance to a junction, turn again, a couple of hundred yards and turn again onto a narrow mountain road, travel a few miles up that to a small hall in the middle of nowhere and vote there. I guess that makes sense, because while I live 5 miles outside the largest city in North Wales, the powers that be decided that the MP for that city is not the best to cover me, so they moved my area to a MP based in mid Wales, and has the largest area now in Wales. It does mean none of the candidates have campaigned in my area because they do not know it, and its a few hours drive to get here. Also all their policies are for their town so no good to me.

So I get to the mountain hut, and there is just enough space to safely park 2 cars outside it, but alas both spaces are taken which amazed me because in all the years I have been voting there I have only ever seen 1 car there when I accidently went at a busy period. It turned out that the two people who have been running the polling station for the last century are no longer there, and 4 younger people have taken over. Probably for efficiency or some such thing. Also while the previous people would walk or get a lift there to leave parking for the people coming to vote, these had driven and used all the spaces making it unsafe for voters to park.

So I wandered up and gave my name and address, which is all the old people needed to work with, but 4 younger people could not work out the lists or find my name (and all 4 tried at the same time). Eventually they found my name, and I could vote.

Our voting system will probably shock the rest of the developed world. 

Firstly it is not anonymous even thought lots believe it is. When they hand you the voting form, they copy the number from the form and write it next to your name so it can be noted who you voted for.

Secondly it is not secure, we are given a pencil to make an X on the form, so our votes can be changed with a simple pencil with an eraser on the end.

But I voted, now to go home, open a bottle of whiskey and wait for the world to start burning!

Fornit some Fornus 

You are probably thinking “WTF? He’s just going to vote, why would he…. just Why??” So let me explain my voting experience.

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin….

I live on the outskirts of one of the largest Community/Villages in Wales, and If I leave my house, and turn left, its a 1 minute drive through civilisation to the nearest polling station. Only I am not allowed to vote there, Oh no, I must use a different one. I have to turn right and head away from civilisation, until I come to a T-Junction where I can turn right and head to the nearest Town, go back the way I came to civilisation, or turn left and head for the hills.

You guessed it. I turned left and headed upwards along a two lane road, that twisted and turned along between farmers fields, meandering upwards until it turned into a road just wider than a single lane. After a while this one and a half lane road, went down to a single lane road as I left the farmland behind and move deeper into the wilderness of the mountains.

Eventually I came to a patch of road where the bank on one side has been worn away and you can force your car into that space leaving enough room for traffic to get past you, as long as that traffic is a small car willing to rub along the hedge. Next to this “Parking Spot” is an old abandoned church hall with a banner outside proclaiming “Polling Station”.

I forced my car into the space and approached the building, trying to avoid the kid sitting outside playing the Banjo. and entered the hall.

You enter into a small entrance hall the size of a cloakroom, and normally there’s a door into the hall. Today the doors were missing and had been replaced with swinging bits of plywood, I tried not to look for any blood stains, and kept my mind off thoughts of hordes of zombies (or Locals) breaking through the original doors after survivors as I swung the ply-board open and entered the hall.

The hall was empty apart from a rickety table with cardboard privacy screens, and a small table facing the door manned by two people who looked to have the combined age of 764. I walked slowly up to the two people, my right hand absently hovering mere inches away from the concealed blade I’d draw at the first sudden movement, or if the Banjo music stopped. I handed over my Voting slip and waited while they tried to find me on the large list of voters. I say large list since the names covered two sides of an A4 sheet. After ten minutes one of them found me, and handing over the voting forms, while the other made a note in his book.

Now I am not saying anything about the average intelligence of the people who vote at this station, but elder of the two explained that one one of the three votes you had the option of a first choice, and a second choice. You did not have to pick a second choice, but if you wanted a second choice you HAD to pick a first choice first.

One of the three votes I had to err vote on was who I wanted in power in the Welsh Assembly. This vote amused me as the first option of parties was the “Abolish the Welsh Assembly Party” Now I am not sure on their polices, But I assume a party that does not want our own assembly would do a very good job in that assembly?

What I am curious about, is how many people actually believe the urban legend that our votes are anonymous, and that big brother does not know what or who we vote for? When I was too young to vote I’d often hear people talking about how voting is anonymous and all that stuff. I found this odd as the magazines and books I read had other facts in that were contra to popular belief. I remember when I was sixteen I read in a biker magazine how if you voted for one of the extreme parties that MI5 would start a file on you. I remember conversations with people when they assured me voting is private and confidential. OK, so if its confidential why when I’m given my voting paper the number written in the top corner of the sheet is marked in a book next to my voting number? So after counting the votes you could pick up the pile of votes for say “The Monster Raving Loony Party” or “The Green Party” or “The BNP” and look up the names of all the people who voted for them. In what way is this anonymous? or is this anonymous in the same way a pencil mark on a bit of paper is secure?

I quickly left the hall, backing away from the people behind the table since I was unwilling to turn my back on them. They had not spoken at all during my time in the hall apart from when one read out my name from the list. I exited, quickly checking my car had no extra passengers hiding in it before jumping in and locking the doors. I then shot off down the other side of the mountain to head back to civilisation, and did not relax, or put away the weapons until I hit an area with street lighting.

And that dear Constant Reader, is how I have to vote. If I did not have a large collection of deadly weapons, and no fear of using them I would probably never vote.

So as of today “1st December 2015” every Adult in Wales who has not actively gone HERE and stated that they want to keep all their bits when they die will be considered fair game for harvesting.

Or to put it in their words

After the 1st December 2015 if you have not recorded an organ donation decision (opt in or opt out) on the NHS Organ Donation Register, you will be treated as having no objection to donating any of your organs. This is called “deemed consent”.

You are probably thinking that is a good idea, and it will help reduce the size of the list of people waiting on transplants, and even save lives. After all there is a big shortage of organs for transplants in Wales and the UK. In 2012-13, 36 people died in Wales while waiting for a transplant

So this is a good thing right?

Let me leave you with this thought. If you were waiting for a transplant, and you could die without it, and you knew that every person in Wales was now an all you can transplant buffet, would you be willing to wait in the hope someone may die of natural causes in time to save you, or would you plan mass-murder in Wales to get the part you need?

I know what I would do, and NO I am not going to tell you what my decision is.

P.S. On A Side note, you know there are many ways to kill large numbers of people without damaging their internal organs?

It is once again time for the UK population to go out on mass and fail to vote me in as supreme ruler of the country. Otherwise known as “The General Election”.

I like to do my civic duty, so this morning I packed emergency food, water, medical supplies and enough weaponry to hold off a small invading force (or large force if they’re French) and headed out on an Adventure!

You are probably thinking “WTF? He’s just going to vote, why would he…. just Why??” So let me explain my voting experience.

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin….

I live on the outskirts of one of the largest Community/Villages in Wales, and If I leave my house, and turn left, its a 1 minute drive through civilisation to the nearest polling station. Only I am not allowed to vote there, Oh no, I must use a different one. I have to turn right and head away from civilisation, until I come to a T-Junction where I can turn right and head to the nearest Town, go back the way I came to civilisation, or turn left and head for the hills.

You guessed it. I turned left and headed upwards along a two lane road, that twisted and turned along between farmers fields, meandering upwards until it turned into a road just wider than a single lane. After a while this one and a half lane road, went down to a single lane road as I left the farmland behind and move deeper into the wilderness of the mountains.

Eventually I came to a patch of road where the bank on one side has been worn away and you can force your car into that space leaving enough room for traffic to get past you, as long as that traffic is a small car willing to rub along the hedge. Next to this “Parking Spot” is an old abandoned church hall with a banner outside proclaiming “Polling Station”.

I forced my car into the space and approached the building, trying to avoid the kid sitting outside playing the Banjo. and entered the hall.

You enter into a small entrance hall the size of a cloakroom, and normally there’s a door into the hall. Today the doors were missing and had been replaced with swinging bits of plywood, I tried not to look for any blood stains, and kept my mind off thoughts of hordes of zombies (or Locals) breaking through the original doors after survivors as I swung the plyboard open and entered the hall.

The hall was empty apart from a rickety table with cardboard privacy screens, and a small table facing the door manned by two people who looked to have the combined age of 764. I walked slowly up to the two people, my right hand absently hovering mere inches away from the concealed blade I’d draw at the first sudden movement, or if the Banjo music stopped. I handed over my Voting slip and waited while they tried to find me on the large list of voters. I say large list since the names covered two sides of an A4 sheet. After ten minutes one of them found me, and handing over the voting form, while the other made a note in his book.

I collected my form which was basically a folded piece of paper with some squares on it, and took it over to the table where a pencil was taped to a piece of string to prevent theft. I placed my X in the appropriate box, and returned to the “locals”? to drop my vote through a letterbox into a glorified bucket. Yes, in this age of computers, touch-screen terminals, and easy technology we in the UK use pencils, a tamper proof voting system that is super secure unless the person wanting to rig the ballot has the cutting edge tools of an eraser and another pencil. Am I the only one who thinks this is a slow, silly, insecure voting system? Also Humans counting thousands of votes? Its way to easy for mistakes to happen. We’re living in the future people, lets try and act like we are.

I quickly left the hall, backing away from the people behind the table since I was unwilling to turn my back on them. They had not spoken at all during my time in the hall apart from when one read out my name from the list. I exited, quickly checking my car had no extra passengers hiding in it before jumping in and locking the doors. I then shot off down the other side of the mountain to head back to civilisation, and did not relax, or put away the weapons until I hit an area with street lighting.

And that dear Constant Reader, is how I have to vote. If I did not have a large collection of deadly weapons, and no fear of using them I would probably never vote.