RAW in the Streets: How Monday Night’s Spandex Diplomacy Travels the Globe By the time the first guitar riff hits in São Paulo, the toast is already burning in Lagos, and a bleary-eyed accountant in Mumbai is wondering why his VPN just died. WWE Raw, that weekly three-hour carnival of suplexes and soap opera, has…
Juwan Johnson and the Cheerful Apocalypse of the Global Touchdown By Our Man in the End-Zone, filing from a bar with suspiciously sticky floors in Paris It is 3:17 a.m. Central European Time when Juwan Johnson, 6’4″ and technically a New Orleans Saint, hauls in his seventh touchdown catch of the season somewhere above the…
IKEA’s Gustaf Westman: How a Swedish Flat-Packer Became the Unlikely Geopolitical Punch-Line By our correspondent, still recovering from a 17-hour layover in a terminal that smelled of meatballs and regret Stockholm—While the rest of us were busy panic-buying tinned beans and wondering which hemisphere would catch fire next, IKEA quietly appointed Gustaf Westman—yes, that Westman,…
The Curious Afterlife of Robert Howard on a Planet That Keeps Reinventing Barbarism By Our Special Correspondent in the Global Cynics’ Lounge Let us begin with a confession: typing “Robert Howard” into any search engine is like tossing a flaming skull into a barrel of cultural gasoline. Half the planet thinks you mean the Texan…
Drive, the noun, not the verb, has become the planet’s most over-caffeinated export. Every continent now manufactures its own boutique strain—Silicon Valley’s jittery hustle, Shenzhen’s 996 martyr complex, Lagos’ “hustle culture” with matching Spotify playlist, Berlin’s ironic start-up sloganeering delivered over oat-milk flat whites. We are, all seven point nine billion of us, trapped in…
The London Film Festival kicked off last week under the usual autumn drizzle, which felt almost too on-the-nose: a grey sky weeping politely over a city that has perfected the art of pretending everything is fine. Inside the red-carpet bubble, however, the planet’s creative class was busy congratulating itself for surviving another year of algorithmic…
London, that damp and overpriced island capital, is once again pretending the planet orbits Leicester Square. The 67th BFI London Film Festival (or LFF to the acronym-obsessed) has rolled out its red carpet—this year woven from equal parts recycled polyester and Brexit anxiety—inviting the world to queue politely and pretend the weather is “atmospheric.” From…
The Liverpool Third Kit Has Landed, and the Planet Shudders by Diego “Cheekbones” Serrano, Senior Correspondent, Dave’s Locker Liverpool—city of Beatles ballads, maritime melancholy, and, apparently, the gravitational center of the football fashion multiverse—has released its 2024-25 third kit. Nike’s announcement ping-ponged across time zones faster than a crypto scam on WhatsApp, igniting group chats…
Alan Davies: The Accidental Global Emissary of British Self-Deprecation By Our Correspondent in a Layover Lounge Somewhere Over the Caspian Somewhere between the Brexit hangover and the latest geopolitical migraine, a middle-aged man in a sensible jumper has become an unlikely piece of soft-power artillery. Alan Davies—yes, the one who used to be “that kid…
Stockholm, Sweden – In a move that has sent tremors through every time zone from Vladivostok to Vancouver, EA DICE has finally admitted that Battlefield 6 will land “holiday 2025.” Seasoned observers of the military-entertainment complex immediately translated that to “mid-November, unless the QA team stages a coup.” The announcement, delivered via a 47-second teaser…
The Weeknd Tickets: How a Scarborough Kid’s Tour Became the New Global Reserve Currency By Dave’s Locker Foreign Desk Somewhere between a Shanghai scalper’s WeChat group and a Berlin club kid’s burner phone, The Weeknd’s 2024 “After Hours Til Dawn” tickets are trading hands like miniature bearer bonds—only with more glitter and a higher failure…
The World According to Miriam Margolyes: How One Roly-Poly British Dame Became the Planet’s Guilt-Free Conscience By L. V. Salinger, International Correspondent, Somewhere Between Heathrow and Existential Despair There are ambassadors who arrive in gilded limousines, and then there is Miriam Margolyes—stout, septuagenarian, and armed with the vocal register of a Victorian foghorn—who simply materialises…
