Not because of party politics, but because of character, leadership, and the damage I believe he has done to ordinary Americans.
In my view, he has deepened division, openly enriched himself and the wealthy elite, and shown very little regard for the hard working people who actually build and sustain America.
As a veteran, I also find his comments about fallen soldiers being “suckers and losers” deeply offensive and impossible to ignore. Especially from someone whose family wealth helped him avoid military service himself. That speaks volumes to me about respect, sacrifice, patriotism, and integrity.
Then there’s the long-documented association with Jeffrey Epstein and the infamous “grab them by the pussy” remarks about women — comments that revealed a level of arrogance, misogyny and disrespect I simply cannot support from any public figure, let alone a president.
Leadership should unite, serve, and elevate people. I believe America deserves far better.
People ask this question as if life comes with a neat little ordnance survey map.
Five-year plan. Ten-year projection. Colour-coded ambition. A LinkedIn post with a sunrise photo and the words “grind now, shine later.”
But if there’s one thing fifty years on this spinning blue green space marble has taught me, it’s this:
Life rarely sticks to the plan.
And honestly? I’m alright with that now.
The 9–5 Plan? Retirement.
Simple as that.
Not because I hate work. Not because I’ve suddenly developed dreams of becoming one of those people who drinks wine at noon and talks about property prices.
But because after decades of alarms, routines, deadlines, and dragging yourself through days even when your head or body isn’t entirely on board…
You start to realise peace has value too.
At fifty, my career plan for the day job is retirement somewhere on the horizon. Not a dramatic exit. No fireworks. No emotional farewell montage.
Just quietly stepping away from the grind and finally exhaling properly.
I think there comes a point where you stop measuring success by productivity and start measuring it by time.
Time to think. Time to breathe. Time to notice things again.
And I’d quite like a bit more of that.
But Here’s The Important Part…
Retirement isn’t the end of anything for me.
It’s the beginning of focusing on the things that actually make me feel alive.
The scribbles. The photography. The side hustle that never really felt like work in the first place.
Poetry has been with me for over twenty years now — helping me process the noise in my head, the chaos of life, and all the things that are easier written than spoken.
And photography?
That’s become another way of slowing the world down long enough to really see it.
A bird balanced on a branch. Morning light through the trees. A face caught in an honest moment.
Tiny fragments of life most people rush straight past.
So What’s The Plan?
The plan is simple.
Work less. Create more.
I want the poetry and photography to become the thing I pour myself into once the 9–5 finally fades into the background.
Not because I’m chasing fame. Not because I expect to become some millionaire artist living in a converted lighthouse drinking artisanal coffee.
But because creativity gives me purpose.
And purpose matters.
Especially as you get older.
I don’t think people talk enough about that part of retirement — the need to still be something beyond your former job title.
Some people garden. Some travel. Some spend their days playing bowls, or bingo in the village hall.
Me?
I’ll probably still be scribbling in notebooks and crouching awkwardly in bushes trying to photograph birds that absolutely refuse to stay still long enough for a decent shot.
And honestly… that sounds pretty perfect to me.
Success Looks Different Now
When I was younger, career plans sounded bigger.
More ambitious. More impressive.
Now?
Success looks quieter.
A peaceful morning. A camera in hand. Words flowing onto a page. Enough time to enjoy the people I love. Enough headspace to appreciate ordinary days.
That’s the goal.
Not endless hustle. Not climbing another ladder just to discover it’s leaning against the wrong wall.
Just a life with a little more meaning… and a little less noise.
So what’s my career plan?
Retire from the job.
Lean fully into the art.
Keep writing. Keep photographing. Keep finding beauty in ordinary moments.
And if I’m lucky…
Spend the next chapter of life doing the things that made surviving the earlier chapters worthwhile.
The last live performance I saw was Judge Jules at The Foundry — and what a night that was.
There’s something magical about live music when the bass kicks in, the lights blur, and for a few hours the outside world fades into obscurity.
Judge Jules absolutely owned the room; the energy was relentless, nostalgic, and uplifting all at once, and the atmosphere was pure electric. It’s like you were among old friends (that you’d only just met) who like you were just there for the music.
As someone who spends most of his time buried in poetry, photography, and thought, it was great to step into pure noise, rhythm, movement and a state of musically induced euphoria for a change.
Sometimes the soul needs a poem… and sometimes it just needs a dance floor.
People often (wrongly) assume community involvement has to mean standing on a stage in front of the local press with a giant cheque, organising massive events, or constantly shouting about “making a difference.”
Truth is, I think it usually starts much smaller than that.
For me, one of the biggest things I try to do is support local businesses whenever I can. Independent cafés, market traders, small shops, local creatives — the people who put their heart and soul into what they do.
Places with character. Places with stories. The sort of places that still remember your name when you walk through the door. That sense of community and connection is something I value deeply, and it’s something I’ve written about before when talking about places like the market in Totnes and the small family-run cafe culture I love so much.
I shop local because I genuinely believe communities survive through the people willing to invest back into them.
And because I have a platform through my writing and social media, I also try to publicly promote local businesses, markets, events, and good people doing good things. Sometimes all it takes is sharing a post, recommending somewhere to others, or encouraging people to support independent traders instead of automatically heading to the big chains. Small gestures matter more than people realise.
The other side of my community involvement is a little quieter.
I’m a member of a fraternal organisation — Freemasonry — and while it’s often misunderstood, one of the biggest parts of it is charity and supporting local causes. Over the years, we’ve helped raise money for community groups, local charities, and people who simply needed a hand when life became difficult.
It isn’t something I talk about constantly, because I’ve never believed charity should be performative, but it’s something I’m proud to be part of. The sense of brotherhood, mutual support, and community responsibility genuinely means a lot to me.
At the end of the day, community involvement doesn’t always have to be loud.
Sometimes it’s supporting the local café instead of the (tax avoiding) multinational.
Sometimes it’s sharing someone’s business page because you know they’re struggling.
Sometimes it’s quietly raising money behind the scenes for people who need it most.
And sometimes it’s simply showing up consistently for the place and people around you.
What’s a job you would like to do for just one day?
Funny question, that.
Because my first instinct is to say something sensible, something practical. Something that sounds like it belongs on a CV rather than in a silly daydream.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from scribbling my way through life, it’s that the honest answers are rarely the sensible ones.
So here it is—
If I could do any job for just one day… I’d spend it looking after giraffes.
Not for the glamour (I imagine there isn’t much when you’re elbow-deep in hay and whatever else comes with the territory), but for the quiet of it. The kind of quiet you only really get when you’re stood beside something that doesn’t rush, doesn’t shout, doesn’t demand explanations.
Just… exists.
There’s something about the idea of it that feels right.
Feeding them, watching those impossibly long necks sway as they move, seeing the world from a slightly different height—literally and otherwise. No emails. No noise. No rushing about trying to keep up with everything.
Just you, a creature that couldn’t care less about your worries, and a moment that asks nothing of you except that you’re there.
And maybe that’s the point.
Not the giraffes, really—though I wouldn’t complain—but the stillness. The stepping outside of your own head for a while.
Because sometimes, the best job in the world… is just one that lets you breathe a little.
Pull up a chair, grab a coffee… and let’s have a little natter about brands.
Not the flashy, billboard-plastered, “look at me” kind of brands. Not the must have ones that shout the loudest or charge the earth.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learnt while muddling my way through life, it’s this:
Comfort beats style. Every. Single. Time.
The Truth About “Favourite Brands”
I’ve been asked before—what’s your favourite brand?
And the honest answer?
I don’t really have one.
Never have.
Never really felt the need for one either.
You see, I’ve never been one for chasing labels or trying to keep up with whatever’s currently strutting its stuff in shop windows. Life’s complicated enough without worrying whether your T-shirt has the “right” name stitched into it.
Give me something that fits well, feels right, and doesn’t make me itch, tug, or regret my life choices halfway through the day… and I’m happy.
Because when you’re comfortable, you’re not thinking about what you’re wearing.
And when you’re not thinking about what you’re wearing… you can just get on with living.
That Said… There Is One That Keeps Turning Up
Now, I did say I don’t really have a favourite.
But if I’m being honest (and I try to be, even when it ruins a good dramatic build-up), there is one that seems to sneak its way into my wardrobe more often than not…
Zoo York T-shirts.
Not because they’re trendy. Not because they make some grand statement.
Just because… they’re comfortable.
Simple as that.
They sit right. They feel right. They don’t try too hard.
And there’s something I quite like about that.
It’s Never Really Been About the Brand
If you’ve spent any time here before, you’ll know I’m not overly fussed about appearances. Never really have been.
Jeans, a T-shirt, and something on my feet that doesn’t complain more than I do—that’s about as complicated as it gets.
Because the older I get, the more I realise…
It’s not about looking the part. It’s about feeling alright in your own skin.
Final Thought (Before the Tea Goes Cold)
So no… I don’t have a favourite brand.
Just a preference for comfort, a soft spot for a decent T-shirt, and a quiet appreciation for anything that doesn’t make life more awkward than it already is.
If it happens to say Zoo York on the front?
Fair enough.
If it doesn’t?
Also fair enough.
Because at the end of the day… it’s just a T-shirt.
List the people you admire and look to for advice…
When people ask “who do you admire?” they’re usually expecting something neat, polished, maybe even a little bit safe.
Those who know me, know that’s never really been my style.
I don’t look up to people who make things tidy.
I look up to the ones who make things real.
The ones who stand on a stage, or behind a mic, or in front of a page… and bleed a little truth into the room.
The kind of truth that doesn’t sit comfortably.
The kind that makes you shift in your seat.
Or nod a little too hard because, yeah… you’ve felt that too.
For me, that’s people like Kyle Tran Myhre — better known as Guante.
There’s a sharpness to his work. Not just clever for the sake of it, but purposeful. Words aimed like arrows at the things that need questioning. Systems. Assumptions. The quiet nonsense we’re all taught to accept.
He doesn’t just write poetry.
He uses it.
And that matters.
Then there’s Neil Hilborn.
If you’ve ever heard him perform, you’ll know what I mean when I say it doesn’t feel like performance.
It feels like confession.
Messy. Honest. Unfiltered in a way that most people spend their entire lives trying to avoid.
He showed me that poetry doesn’t have to wear a suit and tie.
It can sit on the floor, back against the wall, saying the things you’re not supposed to say out loud.
And Rudy Francisco…
There’s a rhythm to his words that pulls you in before you even realise it. But underneath that rhythm is something deeper.
Compassion. Anger. Humanity laid bare.
The kind of poetry that doesn’t just want to be heard…
It wants to change something.
And that’s the thread that ties them all together for me.
They taught me that poetry doesn’t have to be:
Polite. Stuffy. Or locked away behind big words and bigger egos.
It can be angry.
It can be passionate.
It can be messy as hell.
More than that…
They taught me it can be useful.
Not in the “tick a box” kind of way.
But in the way that it can raise awareness. Start conversations. Shine a light into places people would rather keep dark.
The kind of poetry that says:
“Look at this. Listen to this. This matters.”
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from watching, reading, and listening to voices like theirs…
It’s this:
Words don’t have to be perfect to mean something.
They just have to be honest enough to land.
Still scribbling. Still learning. Still trying to say something that matters.
Now I’m not going to dress this up in political jargon or start throwing party names about. That’s not what this is. If you’ve spent any time reading my ramblings, you’ll know I’m more interested in the human side of things — the bits that actually matter when the noise dies down.
So…
Do I vote in political elections?
Yeah.
I do.
Every single chance I get.
And here’s why.
People fought for that right.
Not metaphorically. Not in some “strongly worded letter” kind of way.
I’m talking real fights. Real sacrifice. Real people who stood up, got knocked down, locked up, and in some cases… never made it home.
All so that you and I can walk into a polling station, put a mark on a bit of paper, and have our say.
That’s not a small thing.
That’s not something you shrug off because it’s raining or because “they’re all the same anyway.”
That’s something people paid for.
Now here’s the part that might ruffle a few feathers…
If you don’t vote…
What exactly are you complaining about?
Seriously.
You can’t sit on the sidelines, opt out entirely, and then shout at the scoreboard like you were part of the game.
It doesn’t work like that.
You don’t have to like every option on the table — most of the time, none of them are perfect. Life isn’t neat like that. But having a voice, even an imperfect one, still matters more than having none at all.
Look, I get it.
It can feel pointless.
Like one vote doesn’t make a difference.
Like the whole thing’s already decided before you even lace your boots.
But if everyone thought like that, nothing would ever change. Ever.
And history — the real kind, not the polished textbook version — shows us exactly what happens when people stop engaging.
So yeah… I vote.
Not because I think it fixes everything.
Not because I trust every smiling face on a poster.
But because I respect the fact that I can.
Because others couldn’t.
Because others died trying to make sure I could.
And because if I’m going to have an opinion about how things are run…
Life doesn’t come with a map. No neat lines, no tidy directions, and certainly no guarantees it’ll all make sense when you look back on it. It’s messy, unpredictable, and more often than not… completely off-script.
I’ve spent years trying to figure it out—through the noise, the chaos, the dark places you can’t point to on any map but know all too well when you’re there.
And somewhere along the way, I realised something.
Direction doesn’t always come from plans or big ideas.
Sometimes… it comes from a person.
For me?
It’s Mrs Bob.
My co-pilot. My constant. The one who keeps me steady when the world tilts a bit too far off balance. The one who believes in me when I’m not quite managing it myself.
Not in some made for Disney fairy-tale, everything’s-perfect kind of way.
The Ramblings of Bob Christian 