shithowdy:

le-jardin-inculte:

yokowan:

pronouncingitwang:

at some point in your life you will be boiling fruit, water, sugar, and lemon juice in a pot to make a syrup or jam. the instructions will tell you to simmer for a certain amt of time. your timer will go off and you will look at the pot and go, “hm, this doesn’t look thick enough. maybe i’ll let it go for another 10 minutes.” this is the devil speaking. it’s only so liquid right now because it is at boiling point. it will thicken when it cools down. learn from the follies of my youth and do not let this happen to you

at some point in your life you will be making a sauce or a stew in which you need to add cornstarch to thicken it. and you will prepare a slurry of starch in cold water and think “this looks like way too little starch to thicken this amount of liquid.” this is the devil speaking. cornstarch instantly polymerizes at 95°C and if you add too much it will turn into an impossibly thick goop.

at some point in your life you will be making some sort of cream based dessert that requires gelatin to thicken it. and you will soak some gelatin sheets in water and think “this is too few gelatin sheets for this amount of cream.” this is the devil speaking. it will thicken in the fridge and if you add too much you will end up with milk jelly

at some point in your life you will be baking cookies. you will take the sheet out after twelve minutes as the recipe instructs and the cookies will still be glistening and soft. “these don’t seem cooked enough,” you will think to yourself, “i should place them back into the oven until their edges are nice and golden.” this is the devil talking. this is how you get dry, overdone cookies. the cookies will continue to bake on the warm sheet for several more minutes and then harden up after sitting on a rack for a while. trust the process. trust the process.

Second: The people of Boston were warm and friendly hosts who, I think, may be

Third: Fuck FIFA and every greedy, money-grubbing person involved in organizing the actual World Cup tournament. They gouged at every opportunity, skimped everywhere they could and generally made clear that these happy kilted ramblers living their dream three decades in the making—many of whom will be paying their debts for this trip for years to come—were taken for every penny and left to feel that their safety and enjoyment were of not one iota of concern to those extortionists who should have been celebrating the very presence of the Tartan Army. Over-priced and under-planned. Despite this, the Scots remained stoic and upbeat, determined not to let anyone ruin their party. (I will write more of the fiascos in my next post, for being around the Tartan Army demands positivity, and for now I will respect their intentional joy in the face of such problems.)

So that is why the Scots are in Boston right now, before moving on to Miami where they will face Brazil. I have written before about how Scotland fares in such tournaments, so this blog is not about that. This is about being a part of the Tartan Army and of watching them infect an otherwise bitter world with a sense of their endless joy and infectious good humor. 

My U.S. platoon of the Tartan Army.

So off we headed to Boston, where tens of thousands of Scots were living their best, slightly unhinged lives. The kilt-bedecked had taken over Boston. I don't mean you saw a few of them occasionally. They were everywhere: thousands of them on party boats, at Fenway Park, and in every single bar and restaurant. They were hanging around in the parks (in a non-creepy way), at the museums and other tourist sites—a group of them randomly even posed happily for photos with a newly married couple. And 15,000 of them were in Providence. They waved their flags, sang their songs and, literally, drank several institutions dry.

Upon arrival, we headed to the Black Rose pub. I'd planned to go to Hennessey's, but news had spread that it had run out of beer—36 hours before Scotland's first game. Things happen for a reason and we were obviously meant to be at the Black Rose. After an hour there, I told Amy I'd be happy if by some unhappy twist of fate we would be forced to go home after that.

That's how amazing the Black Rose was. 

As I was waiting at the bar, which was three deep with happy supplicants, the crowd began singing "The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond." 

Everyone was so infectiously upbeat—businessmen, bankers, carpenters, professional caregivers, young roisterers—that Amy and I immediately felt like family. Even in the densely crowded and highly intoxicated bar, people made sure that Amy was ok, people made space for us, spoke to us, sang with us. The spirit of joy filled and inspired us and made us think that it is possible to believe unreservedly in our fellow man. I am not exaggerating. Kumbayfuckingya to my very core.

As we were about to leave and were standing by the door, two exuberant young bucks threw their arms around us, showering us with happy kindness. One asked Amy where she was from, she told him North Carolina. How far was that, he asked. She said about one thousand miles. And, just like that, they burst into the Proclaimers' "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)." Loudly and happily. The bouncer asked them to move on (there was a huge line outside the pub), they left singing. But one of them kept bouncing back in pointing at Amy:

"But I would walk five hundred miles

And I would walk five hundred more

Just to be the man who walked a thousand

Miles to fall down at your door"

His mate would pull him out by the belt of his kilt. 

"Da da lat da!"

He kept bouncing back. 

"Da da lat da!"

Pulled out again.

"Da da lat da!"

Until he had finished the song.

And just like that, Amy was part of the Tartan Army.

This happened to thousands of Bostonians: silly, harmless joy that not even a grumpy Englishman could resist.

Speaking of which, a few minutes later we were standing outside the arid desert of Hennessey's bar near Faneuil Hall. A carnival spirit was in the air. Hundreds of Scots were on the street singing and kicking a soccer ball around. Suddenly, a hush fell and the song began to sputter out. Gradually boos grew. What the hell was going on? 

An Englishman. That's what. In his effing England shirt. 

Now, I tell you without fear of contradiction that in many other settings if a solitary person representing the sworn enemy of another group of soccer fans boldly approached, unpleasantness would have ensued. Violent unpleasantness.

An intruder.

But the Tartan Army, with smiles on their face, let him know of their displeasure. Loud boos. But they let him pass. (I saw a video from Providence where a similar "incident" happened. Here the Tartan Army began dancing with said offending Englishman, who eventually took off his shirt and joined the party! We'd converted one of the bastards!)

And so it continued: Scots playing keepie-uppie with Boston cops, placing cones on Boston statues (more of this later), playing bagpipes on bar counters across the city. A news report on Monday said that Boston establishments had reported three times the business over the weekend as they get on St. Patrick's Day. In Boston. The most Irish city in America!

The first game of the tournament for Scotland was against Haiti and it was a high-stakes, must-win affair. Scotland has never progressed to the knockout stages in eight previous World Cup tournaments. If we were to do so this time, beating Haiti was a must. Also in our group are five-time world champions Brazil and current African champions Morocco. (We have unhappy history with both.)

On the way to the stadium, we were in a jam-packed noisy train. The younger, ebullient members of the Tartan Army were yodelling away their songs on the upper deck. Ewan and I were sitting in the hallway on the ground floor of the split-deck carriage. Across from us was an elderly lady. As the din from upstairs grew, she leant in on her walking stick and looked at me. Then, in a reed-thin voice, she began to sing, ever so quietly to the tune of "My Bonnie Lies over the Ocean." 

"If I had the wings of a sparrow,

And I had the arse of a crow,

I'd fly over Wembley tomorrow, 

And shite on the bastards below, below,

Shite on, shite on, shite on the bastards below."

Moira, right, dispensing wisdom.

This was Moira Brown, a 94-year-old superfan who has attended just about every one of Scotland's games since 1946 when her father took her to Scotland's 1-0 win over England. Since then, she said, she'd missed just a handful of Scotland games and only then because her workplace threatened her with termination if she went. She was marvelous and I was happy to hear, when I asked her, that her secret to longevity was dark rum, my own beverage of choice.

This was indeed a charmed weekend.

Gillette Stadium, where the New England Patriots play, is magnificent, as was the atmosphere. My guess is there were 40,000 Scottish fans and 25,000 equally boisterous and happy Haitian fans. The rendition of Scotland's national anthem, "Flower of Scotland," came in at 125 decibels, the loudest noise ever recorded in World Cup history. 

My son Ewan and I melted. What emotion. It was like that the whole game. There were so many moments of high feeling. On a visit to the bathrooms, when the wait was particularly long, the Haitians applauded after the Scots finished a song and then sang their own songs, which the Scots listened to respectfully and then applauded. Love was in the air. Well, not by the urinals to be fair, but outside.

We won the game, but not easily or prettily. Many a Scot was teary eyed. This meant something—we had not won a World Cup game in 36 years. 

You would think that that was the end of it. Most Scots did not get to their beds until the wee hours of the morning—the game finished after 11 p.m. So peace and quiet could have been expected.

But it was not. The Tartan Army is unstoppable. The very next day there was a gathering of the clans at Evans Way Park in preparation for a march to (on) Fenway Park, where the Boston Red Sox were hosting a Scotland appreciation day.

The gathering before the March.

The gathering itself was the worst picnic ever—there was no food, only booze, though one of the many Boston cops standing by was heard to say he had not seen one single beer. But the march, well the march was quite one of the most spectacular things Boston has seen in many years, as was the atmosphere inside Fenway. The Bostonians approved.

The Tartan Army lit up the atmosphere during the game, with some of the Red Sox players saying it was the best atmosphere they'd ever experienced. And then the Scots wouldn't leave.

Yes, it was quite the weekend. But those were just the big things. The beauty of the World Cup is in the small details. I talk of walking into a restaurant in my kilt. The maitre'd is from Brazil and wishes me well against Haiti, but assures me that his side will prevail in Miami. The diners in the booth beside us are from Morocco. A woman in black jellaba leans over and says that she will be cheering for Scotland in the other games, but come Friday she will be rooting for her country.

The sense of community comes from random Bostonians welcoming you to their city and their country as they pass in the street. It comes when, rather than being merely asked to give directions, two Bostonians told a random Scottish couple that they would drive them to their destinations and did. It comes when tabs are picked up, couches are offered up to homeless visitors, and in a thousand little cross-cultural conversations, however fleeting, that form a bond long remembered.

It comes in the sharing of each others' cultures. The Bostonians who learned our songs—such as they are—felt it. The Scots who learned the joys of baseball—such as they are—felt it. The cops who danced with the Scottish crowds outside Fenway shared it. The fireman who played his bagpipes at the firehouse was part of it, as was the bicycle cop who tried to learn to play a tune on that tortured instrument. The Scots hurtling themselves down the so-called cop slide are doing it. And to see the Scots dancing with Haitian fans or hearing Iraqi fans singing "Super John McGinn" ahead of their game against Norway is to feel something in you akin to the brotherhood of man. This is how it is supposed to be.

Speaking of sharing each others' cultures. The Scots, as I've written about many times before, have a thing about placing traffic cones on statues. It's been a years-long battle waged with the Duke of Wellington outside the Gallery of Modern Art in Glasgow. They put a cone on his head. It is removed. They put it back. So it has gone for decades. The Scots are iconoclastic and anti-authoritarian and, in a wee way, this is how they show it. Naturally, if they like a place they'll want to show it and so, yes, cones began appearing all over Boston much to the bemusement of the locals.

Iconeic.

It's just something we do and, if it hadn't been for the World Cup, you'd never have known that. 

We live in tortured, dangerous times. But a weekend like this with the happy Tartan Army almost—almost—makes you forget that.

“Iran deal ends Trump’s war that revealed limit of US dominance.” — BBC

Step One: Withdraw from any agreement your predecessor made. A truly great negotiator does not inherit a deal; he wipes the slate clean so he can build one from nothing.

Step Two: Bomb them after claiming interest in negotiating. In negotiation, there are no rules, except one: ABB—Always Be Bombing.

Step Three: Claim victory. Announce that the nuclear sites have been completely destroyed. Do not worry if your intelligence officers tell you otherwise. Prematurely declaring “mission accomplished” signals to the enemy that you are well-versed in American military tactics.

Step Four: Continue to claim total victory until the reality becomes undeniable, then repeat Step Two. Demand the enemy’s complete and total surrender. Kill the person in charge, then kill the person you wanted to put in charge. Unpredictability is key to any quality negotiation. Never let them think you know what you’re doing.

Step Five: Mock allies for offering to help. A real negotiator goes it alone.

Step Six: Claim to be close to a deal. (Note: You do not need to actually be close.)

Step Seven: Threaten to destroy their entire civilization, preferably via your own social media platform. Make it clear that you do not want that to happen, and act as if it is beyond your control. To project maximal strength, a dealmaker must project maximal weakness.

Step Eight: Repeat steps five, six, and seven in an order of your choosing. If asked whether you regret claiming total victory, pivot to talking about your enemy’s imminent complete surrender.

Step Nine: Broker a two-week ceasefire. To avoid violating the War Powers Resolution, tell Congress that the war is officially over and you are now in the postwar phase. (Note: You can continue bombing both during the ceasefire and in the postwar phase. There is literally zero chance that Congress will stop you.)

Step Ten: Begin to back off your demand for complete and total surrender. Say that this was never your real goal.

Step Eleven: Send your second in command to negotiate on your behalf during the ceasefire. If possible, send your son-in-law and a real estate developer to help. It is essential for any dealmaker to have someone to blame when things don’t go their way.

Step Twelve (if applicable): If the enemy blocks a waterway, block their blockade. Uno Reverse is the most powerful card in the deck.

Step Thirteen: Extend ceasefire shortly before expiration, citing productive talks. If the enemy points out that there haven’t actually been any productive talks, double down. You must make it clear that you do not bow down to truth.

Step Fourteen: Clarify that you expect the allies you previously mocked to help you.

Step Fifteen (if applicable): Announce plan to help ships get through the blockaded waterway. Scrap the plan a couple of days later. You are not a helper; you’re a leader.

Step Sixteen: Announce that you are close to a deal. Repeat up to a dozen times, regardless of whether you’re in fact close.

Step Seventeen: Resume bombing. Steps Sixteen and Seventeen may be performed concurrently.

Step Eighteen: Sign a “memorandum of understanding” that reopens the waterway (if applicable) and leaves all the real issues for later.

Step Nineteen: If asked how this deal is better than the one you tore up in Step One, or if it was worth the thousands of lives lost, or if this deal actually brings us closer to preventing the enemy from acquiring a nuclear bomb, pivot to claiming that you are now in a “position of strength.” If possible, post videos of your Secretary of War doing push-ups to drive this point home.

Step Twenty: Declare victory for real this time. Mission accomplished.

Yeah, I’m  rans, bu  mos  people can’     ell.
Maybe  hey can  ell I’m nonbinary, bu  mos  days
 hey jus misgender me “hey ma’am” (  hough I’m no ).
I was born  his way, I always knew I was a boy
growing up, bu  back  hen I was called “ omboy,”
which a  leas  had “boy” in  he name. Puber y
blockers weren’  a  hing  hen, bu  sex-change
surgery was and I  ried every angle bu  my paren s
wouln’  buy i , so I s opped asking and grew up
wi h  he wrong hormones coursing  hrough me.
I looked like a sor  of girl, bu  fel  s ill so much
like a guy, bu   hen over  ime, I admi  I grew  o
apprecia e my female  hink bu s  ill, I never did
adjus   o my body, so I wear loose clo hing.
I wear a  rucker cap a lo  (mos  of  he  ime backwards)
and have never been a fan of mirrors bu  I don’ 
wan  surgery anymore because i ’s surgery … and
I have already been  hrough  oo much. I ’s a personal
decision  o live (as I do, a “ hey /  hem) and I was glad
when  hose pronouns became ubiqui ous
because  hen I defini ely fel  more seen. Bu , of course,
“ hey/ hem” since  he las  elec  on isn’  qui e as
accep ed, jus  like I’m no  qui e as accep ed…
Presiden   rump said in his inaugura ion speech
I don’  even exis ! I was in Canada during  ha 
momen , so I didn’  hear him, bu  he said  here are
only  wo genders and  hey are dic a ed by your body
a  bir h.  rump is mis aken on  his, jus  like he is
abou  so many  hings. He go  rid of our  rans flag
and he go  rid of our le  er “   ” in LGB   bu  he can’ 
ge  rid of me no ma  er wha  he  akes away
or how he spells ha e.

J Brooke’s debut collection, I Can Tell You the Version That Will Make You Take My Side (Driftwood Press) is out today.

I am Emperor Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus Caligula, successor of Tiberius, Son of the Divine Germanicus, and Supreme Commander and Holder of Tribunician Power, Pontifex Maximus. And I decree, in regard to the upcoming White House UFC event…

It’s a bit much, right? Like even for me. Pretty gauche, no?

Caged brutes pummeling one another bloody on the historic lawn of the Executive Mansion? All to celebrate President Trump’s birthday?

Come on, what are we doing here?

I might have been guilty of some runaway self-indulgence from time to time. I mean, I used to literally drink pearls and once declared war on Neptune.

But is America really going to sully its iconic symbol of democracy with Dana White’s CTE speedrun machine? Why can’t Trump keep his bloodsport / ego strokefest in the coliseum where it belongs? This whole ordeal is really giving mad kings a bad name.

And what’s next? Pete Hegseth’s hardcore backyard wrestling in the rose garden? How about a JD Vance dunk tank on the south lawn? Or Stephen Miller as a carnival geek biting heads off live chickens and guessing immigrants’ weights? I’m just saying, this is beneath the most sacred of America’s institutions.

I know this might seem surprising coming from me. And don’t get me wrong, I’m no stranger to bread and circuses. But considering that the price of bread is currently skyrocketing, Trump spending millions on a red-white-and-blue-drenched octagon is a real slap in the face to John Q. Plebeian.

Besides, there’s an appropriate time and a place for brutality and violence. It’s like I was saying to my trusted advisor/horse the other day: The orgies stay on the orgy ships, and the beheadings and burnings stay in the gladiator arenas, or the prisons, or the slave quarters, or sometimes on the orgy ships. But I don’t spill blood at home. For one, that’s where all my stuff is. And two, I like to keep business and pleasure separate. Mostly…

Of course, maybe I’m expecting too much from the modern world. As you can imagine, things were very different in Ancient Rome during my four-year rule. Allow me to set the scene:

I was a megalomaniac leader completely unmoored from reality. I declared war on the environment. I led many unsuccessful invasions and declared victory anyway. I built monuments to myself and insisted that my minions worship me as their god. I engaged in heinous sex acts and even lusted after my blood relatives. And finally, I routinely humiliated senators and political adversaries with childish nicknames like “Little” Marco Naevius, “Sleepy” Tiberius, and “Crooked” Cassius Chaerea.

Again, everything I’ve just described must be completely foreign to the United States in 2026.

Also, the majority of Roman citizens celebrated my eventual assassination. Not sure if there are any parallels there…

Regardless, the concept of restraint is timeless. While I am obviously 100 percent on board with the ruling class engaging in debauched carnality and unpunished murder (is that still a thing in 2026?), please, let’s try to keep it classy.