navigation

Showing posts with label Flower. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Flower. Show all posts

England’s Best World Cup XI (2026)

Every tournament, England fans end up having the same argument.

Who exactly is our best team, our best 11 in 2026.

So as I smashed my Fastasy Premier League mini leagues again this season, I started thinking about how you’d actually build an England side if you stripped away reputation, nostalgia, social media hype, and all the endless “he’s world class” noise that follows certain players around (you know who you are).

Instead, I kept it simple.

Goals matter. Assists matter. Clean sheets matter too. Simple isn’t it for the best team.

For this little experiment, goals are worth 5 points, assists are worth 2, clean sheets are worth 5, and defenders or goalkeepers playing in teams that concede one goal or fewer per game get another 2 points.

Straight away, something interesting happens.

The side starts picking itself.

Not the most exciting England team. Not the most fashionable one either. But probably the one best built to survive international tournament football, which is often slow, tense, tactical, and decided by moments rather than domination.

The Formation

I’ve gone with a 4-3-3.

Not because it seems to be a trendy formation right now, but because it still gives the best balance between defensive shape and attacking threat. 

Also, the England squad don’t spend enough time together to play complicated systems properly, so you need a structure players either play in today or can understand very quickly.

Also a good 4-3-3 played well naturally shifts shape during matches as you gain possession then defend.

Without the ball it should become compact and difficult to break down, plenty of pressing. With the ball, we need our forwards out wide to stretch the pitch while the midfielders push up and support the attack in a coordinated layer rather than chaos.

Most importantly, it stops England trying to squeeze four number tens into the same side and hoping for magic. Like we have done before.

My Team

GK: Jordan Pickford

People still seem strangely reluctant to give Pickford proper credit, but England’s defensive record with him is excellent.

I think he actually suits tournament football. He’s vocal, aggressive, quick off his line, and usually reliable when the pressure rises. He also has that slightly unhinged goalkeeper energy that great international keepers seem to possess.

You don’t always need the world’s best goalkeeper. Sometimes you just need one who consistently turns into a nightmare to beat in tournament football.

RB: Kyle Walker

I don't like the guy, and there are technically better right-backs available.

But Walker still gets in because recovery pace saves goals.

International football becomes dangerous when games stretch late on. One loose pass, one tired midfielder, one counter attack, and suddenly a centre-back is isolated. Walker cleans up situations most defenders simply cannot recover from.

His experience matters too. England sides in the past have sometimes looked mentally fragile in big moments. Walker rarely does, and he has that "hoof it out" mentality that I love on the back line.

CB: John Stones

I hate to admit it because I hate his style of play, but England still look calmer when Stones plays.

He carries the ball well, often reads danger early, and can (on good days) give the whole side composure. International football is full of nervous clearances and rushed decisions. Stones slows games down when England need control. For me though he still loves to play the with the ball at his feet too much.

He also suits a back four far more naturally than some of England’s other centre-back options.

CB: Marc Guéhi

Not flashy. Not constantly discussed. Just dependable.

Guéhi feels like one of those players managers quietly trust because he does the boring bits properly. His positioning is good, he stays calm under pressure, and he rarely turns matches into unnecessary drama.

That matters more in tournaments than people admit.

LB: Lewis Hall

This is probably my boldest selection, but I've already spoken to a few lads at work today and he'd be in their teams too.

Hall gives England something they often lack from deeper areas: genuine energy and width without becoming reckless. Modern full-backs have to contribute going forward now (like old fashioned wing-backs). Sitting deep for 90 minutes just invites pressure.

Hall also looks very comfortable receiving the ball in tight areas, which England badly need against compact sides that like to push.

DM: Declan Rice

Automatic selection here, I'm not a fan of Arsenal, but they are a solid unit.

Rice does the ugly work that allows other players to shine. He covers space quickly, protects the defence, wins second balls, and stops transitions before they become dangerous; he also likes to sometimes play an attacking role when his teams are in control, he's never reckless about it.

And while I hate agreeing with a friend of mine, you're right Owen, you notice players like Rice most when they’re missing.

CM: Jude Bellingham

Bellingham is the complete modern tournament midfielder.

He scores goals, creates chances, carries the ball through pressure, and seems completely unfazed by big occasions. There’s also a physical edge to him that England sides have sometimes lacked in midfield.

He already plays like somebody who believes he belongs at the highest level. That confidence spreads through teams.

CM: Cole Palmer

This was the hardest call, he's not had the best domestic season, but he's a player that likes to be noticed, so he's on the ball a lot, and hes got a decent distribution.

Palmer is there for goals, assists, and the big moments.

Palmer also has something slightly unusual for a young player. Nothing about him seems rushed. He plays at his own pace, even when matches become frantic around him.

That calmness feels very useful in knockout football.

RW: Bukayo Saka

Saka is probably England’s most complete attacking player right now.

He's a very reliable player. He has some intelligent movement with and without the ball. He's solid defensively when needed, and just consistent.

He rarely disappears from matches completely, which is surprisingly rare for attacking players, especially at international level.

I suppose in one word, he's trustworthy.

ST: Harry Kane

I really wish he wasn't, but I think he's still England’s best striker my a mile.

He gets himself into excellent positions and the goals keep coming, he has a excellent passing range which causes problems for defenders dropping too deep.

There are quicker forwards available. But better finishers? Strikers that are pretty decent at set-pieces and hardly misses penalties ... probably not.

LW: Anthony Gordon

International football desperately needs runners, and boy can this lad run.

Too many technically gifted teams become slow because everyone wants the ball into feet (yes Liverpool and Spurs, I'm looking at you).  Gordon stretches defences constantly, he runs beyond defenders, attacks space aggressively, and forces teams backwards.

All this creates room for Kane, Bellingham, and Palmer to operate centrally.

You can see it in defenders, there's something slightly irritating about playing against him.

So that's it

The interesting thing about building a side by simply scoring players is how quickly the balance started to show.

The best international football rarely goes to the prettiest side, it normally goes to the team that stays organised, survives difficult moments, and has enough quality to punish mistakes when they come along.

This England side feels closer to that than some of the wildly attacking versions people keep trying to build on paper every summer.

Letting Them In (Mild Horror)

Yes, that ending works much better. Here’s the updated HTML with the SPAG fixes and that changed line. ```html

I thought I was just tired.

That was the strange thing about it. I didn’t feel dangerously exhausted. I wasn’t falling asleep at my desk or drifting off in meetings. I just felt slightly out of step with myself, like my brain was lagging behind everything else by a fraction of a second.

We’d just come back from holiday and the shift back into normal life had completely wrecked my sleep pattern. One week I was wandering around Spain in the sunshine with no alarms and nowhere urgent to be, then suddenly it was back to work, deadlines, emails, and lying awake at three in the morning staring at the ceiling for no obvious reason.

The night before had felt fairly normal. Not great sleep, but enough to get through the next day. At least that’s what I thought until I checked my sleep app the following morning.

SLEEP: 2hrs:11mins

Deep: 33%

Light: 24%

REM: 8%

Awake: 35%

I remember staring at the screen for a while because the numbers didn’t even seem possible. I’d spent longer than that lying in bed. Somehow my brain had barely switched off at all, although I thought I was asleep. Initially confused, I then blamed my sleep app for just being wrong, but ... I was very tired.

The effects of my tiredness started showing almost immediately at work. Nothing dramatic, just little mistakes that kept irritating me because they weren’t the sort of mistakes I usually make. Typos in emails. Wrong filenames. At one point I wrote down a project delivery date that had already passed. Tiny things, but enough to notice. Enough that I started feeling uneasy about how disconnected my thoughts felt.

Physically, I felt OK, but couldn’t stop the urge to yawn all the time and my eyes were feeling gritty in that way they do late at night.

Around eleven that morning I went and got a couple of minutes of fresh air, then to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea.

Our large workplace kitchen sits off a long corridor to the office, and the lights outside are motion activated. They always take a second or two too long to register you and burst into life, so when you open the kitchen door the corridor sits in this awkward half-darkness for a moment.

I pushed the door open and something black and low to the ground moved quickly past my feet.

This wasn't a case that I thought I saw something, I mean I physically reacted to it. I bent my legs instinctively to avoid it bumping into me. The reaction was immediate, completely automatic, like somebody avoiding a dog running across their path.

Then the corridor lights flicked on, I looked around, but nothing was there.

No shadow disappearing around the corner. No bag on the floor. No movement at all. Just an empty corridor and the gentle hum of fluorescent lighting.

I stood there for a few seconds, the door had shut behind me and the tea was still sloshing around in my mug, trying to process what had just happened. The unsettling part wasn’t what I’d seen. It was how convincingly real it had felt. My body had reacted before my brain had time to question it.

I shook it off as a trick of the light, got back to my desk and carried on with my day, although I kept replaying the moment in my head. Every now and then I’d catch myself glancing down corridors slightly too quickly, or looking twice into empty rooms without really meaning to, but probably subconsciously looking for something.

That evening as my wife and I settled in to watch some TV, I picked up my phone and started reading about sleep deprivation.

That was probably a mistake.

Once you start reading deeply enough into severe sleep loss, you realise how fragile the brain actually is. People who miss enough REM sleep begin experiencing something called REM intrusion, where fragments of dreaming begin bleeding into waking consciousness. Hallucinations, movement in peripheral vision, shadow figures, distorted faces. The brain, desperate to complete the dreaming cycle it’s been denied, starts forcing parts of it into reality.

At least that’s the official explanation.

The thing that bothered me was how similar all the accounts sounded.

People described the same shapes. The same movement. The same feeling that whatever they’d seen wasn’t random. Some of them even described the exact same instinctive reaction I’d had, where their body responded before their conscious mind did. I found a couple of online forums, and Reddit provided some fascinating discussions around sleep, hallucinations, and narcolepsy.

Much of my research made me a little uneasy, not fearful, mainly because what I felt seemed strangely familiar.

That night I barely slept at all. Partly because my sleep pattern was already ruined, but mostly because every time I started drifting off I kept thinking about that thing in the corridor. My rational brain knew there had been nothing there, but another part of me seemed less convinced.

At around half past two in the morning I got up to get a glass of water. As I walked back upstairs I glanced absent-mindedly into the spare bedroom and saw someone standing beside the window.

I stopped instantly. There were only two of us in the house, and that wasn't my wife standing there.

The figure didn’t move. It was tall, unnaturally still, one arm hanging slightly lower than the other. For a moment I genuinely believed somebody had broken into the house.

Then I switched the landing light on and the room was empty. I went around the house and checked all the doors and windows, but I didn’t sleep properly after that.

The next few days became increasingly difficult to explain away. I started noticing movement where there shouldn’t be movement. A dark figure at the far end of a supermarket aisle that disappeared when I reached it. Someone sitting motionless in a parked car outside work who vanished the second time I looked. Once, while driving home late in the evening, I became convinced somebody was sitting silently in the back seat behind me.

That one frightened me enough that I had to pull over, get out of the car, and check the back seat and boot.

The strange thing is that these 'visions' never move once you properly focus on them. You only ever catch the movement beforehand, that brief glimpse of approach at the edge of your vision. Once you actually look at them directly, they’re completely still.

Watching. Waiting.

By then I was sleeping with the television on because silence had started making me uncomfortable. Every creak of the house sounded deliberate. Every dark reflection in the windows made me pause slightly longer than it should have.

Everywhere else I was becoming more wary of opening doors and walking into rooms, mildly worried about what I might see.

The exhaustion was building. The less sleep I got, the more often I saw them. Then seeing them made sleeping even harder. It became a loop that fed itself night after night.

I tried all the sensible explanations first.

Stress. Fatigue. Anxiety. Too much caffeine. Too much alcohol. Eating late at night. Poor sleep hygiene.

I went to the doctor. I cut down caffeine and alcohol completely, and I stopped eating after 8pm. I tried meditation apps, sleeping tablets, breathing exercises, all the normal advice people give you when your brain starts betraying you a little ... but none of it helped.

Three nights ago I woke at around four in the morning and saw one standing beside the bed, not near it, beside it.

Tall. Thin. Completely motionless. Its face looked almost human in the same way mannequins look almost human. Close enough at first glance, but wrong in tiny ways once you looked properly. The eyes were too still. The expression slightly delayed, like it was copying what a human face should look like rather than understanding it naturally.

I couldn’t move at first. Not because I was particularly scared, but because some buried instinct was telling me not to fully acknowledge what I was looking at.

The thing leaned closer until its face was inches from mine, and then it whispered something.

Not words exactly. More like a thought pressed directly into my head.

You’re letting us in. You’re letting us in. You’re letting us in. It kept repeating.

I don’t remember falling asleep afterward, but I woke properly just after sunrise with the bedroom empty and my heart hammering hard enough to hurt.

I called in sick to work that morning. I was too exhausted and my mental state just wasn't in the right place.

I was sat on the sofa all morning, casually aware that life was happening around me, but also deeply aware that something just wasn't right. These events just didn't feel like hallucinations, they felt very real. I continued my research, trying to understand what was happening. My thoughts wouldn’t settle. Even sitting still, I felt wired and exhausted at the same time.

Around lunchtime my wife casually asked why I’d been standing in the garden during the night.

I shot her a puzzled look and told her I hadn’t.

She looked immediately uncomfortable, like she regretted mentioning it at all, then quietly said she’d seen me through the bedroom window sometime around three in the morning.

Apparently I’d been standing completely still at the bottom of the garden facing the house. I was just staring up at the bedroom window.

Last night I finally understood what they are.

People think sleep deprivation causes hallucinations because the brain is failing. I don’t think that’s true anymore.

I think exhaustion weakens something. Some barrier between us and whatever these things are. That’s why they stay hidden in microsleeps and fragments of REM sleep, appearing only in glimpses and peripheral movement at first. They need you exhausted before you can properly perceive them.

And once you do, they start getting closer, much closer.

They don’t kill people. At least not physically. What they want is quieter than that. They replace you slowly, and carefully.

By the time it happens properly, nobody notices at first. You still remember names, routines, conversations. The thing now wearing you uses your memories like instructions from a manual.

Only the people closest to you sense something wrong. A slight delay before you smile. An odd flatness behind your eyes. Moments where you become strangely still and distant without realising it.

Tonight I’m trying not to sleep. But every time I blink I catch movement near the bedroom door. Something standing there patiently in the dark.

Waiting.

And deep down, somewhere beneath the exhaustion, I think I already know the worst part.

I don’t think they’ve been trying to get into the house.

I think they’ve been trying to get into me.

Biscuit Moon (Kids)

Once the rain had stopped, little drops of water still clung to the windows outside Freddie’s bedroom.

“Freddie!” Mum called from downstairs. “Are you ready yet? Nana and Grandy will be here soon!”

“I can’t find it!” Freddie shouted back.

“Can’t find what?” asked his mum, but Freddie didn’t respond. His head was tucked under the bed.

After looking under his bed for the third time, Freddie looked in one of his many toy boxes, then under his chair. But his bright red racing car was nowhere to be seen, and this wasn’t just any car. This was his favourite one.

There was a knock on the door.

"Freddie" his dad called, "Nana and Grandy are here."

Freddie sighed. A moment later he heard Grandy’s cheerful voice.

“Where’s our little man?” he shouted upstairs.

Freddie slowly walked downstairs. “What’s wrong?” Nana asked gently.

“I can’t find my car,” Freddie mumbled. “I wanted to show you it.”

“The bright red one?” said Grandy.

Freddie nodded sadly.

“Well,” Nana smiled, “the rain’s stopped now, and it’s turned into a lovely bright day.”

“And,” she added cheerfully, “I happen to know the park has some excellent puddles today.”

That made Freddie smile a little.

So off they went.

The park smelled fresh after the rain. Tiny puddles glittered along the winding paths, and the wet grass sparkled in the sunshine.

Whilst Nana and Grandy walked side by side, Freddie raced ahead in his little green wellies. He held his hands out like he was holding a steering wheel, and as he raced along, he made a quiet “brum, brum, brum” noise.

SPLASH.

He jumped in a little puddle.

SPLASH.

He jumped in an even bigger one that sent water flying everywhere.

Nana laughed. “I think that puddle nearly got Grandy!”

“Nearly?” said Grandy. “I think it soaked my socks!”

Freddie giggled and ran off again.

They watched ducks swimming across the pond. They counted dogs. They spotted a squirrel playing in some nearby trees.

By the time Freddie finally sat beside Nana and Grandy on a wooden bench, his cheeks were warm and pink from all the running.

As Freddie sat between them, Grandy gave Nana a knowing smile.

“What?” Freddie asked.

Grandy looked down at Freddie as Nana put an arm around her little grandson.

“Shall we tell Freddie about the Biscuit Moon?” he said quietly.

Nana’s eyes widened slightly.

“Oh…” she said quietly. “Yes. I think he’s old enough now.”

Freddie sat up straight and looked at them both.

“The Biscuit Moon?” he asked.

Nana reached into her bag, pulled out a small packet of biscuits, and handed them around. “Oh yes,” she smiled. “The Biscuit Moon.”

“Before you eat one,” Grandy whispered, “you have to snap it in half.”

“All at the same time,” Nana added. “Quite right, Nana,” Grandy replied. “I almost forgot that.”

Freddie held his biscuit carefully in both hands and watched Nana and Grandy raise theirs.

“One, two, three,” Nana said.

On three, they all broke their biscuits into two pieces.

“Good,” Nana smiled as she took a bite from hers.

“But what is the Biscuit Moon?” Freddie asked as he took a bite from one of his halves.

Grandy looked up at the pale daytime moon hanging above the clouds.

“Well,” he said quietly, “most people think the moon only comes out at night to shine.”

“But really,” Nana added, “the Biscuit Moon listens.”

Freddie looked up at the sky. “Listens to what?” he asked.

“Just listens,” Nana replied. “But it always seems to leave a little bit of happiness behind.”

“Nobody really knows how it works,” Grandy smiled. “It just does.”. “Not huge things,” continued Grandy. “Just little bits of happiness.”

“Like what?” Freddie asked.

Nana thought for a moment.

“Feeling better after being poorly,” she said, “or finding an extra sweet in your pocket when you think you’ve finished them.”

“Seeing someone you really hoped to see,” added Grandy.

“Or spotting a rainbow when you least expect it,” continued Nana. “Just something special and magical.”

Freddie looked down at the last half of the biscuit still in his hands.

“The Biscuit Moon seems to like shared biscuits best,” Nana explained softly.

So the three of them sat together on the park bench and finished eating their biscuits while the breeze rustled the trees around them.

And high above them, faint and pale in the bright afternoon sky, the moon quietly listened.

Freddie smiled to himself. It was probably just one of those funny little stories grandparents liked to tell.

Still, as he walked home between Nana and Grandy, holding both their hands, he secretly hoped the Biscuit Moon might really be listening after all.

The next morning, Freddie woke early.

The sunlight shone a beam of light across his room and over his blanket.

He rubbed his eyes, yawned, and was about to drop off to sleep again, when he spotted something, and then suddenly froze.

There, sitting neatly beside his pillow, was his bright red racing car.

Freddie grabbed it quickly. “The car!” he shouted, racing downstairs.

Mum looked up from the kitchen.

“You found it then?” she smiled.

“Did you put it there?” Freddie asked.

Mum shook her head.

“No, Freddie. But I’m pleased you found it again.”

Freddie looked down at his favourite toy.

Then he remembered the park. The biscuits. The story. The pale moon in the daytime sky.

A tiny smile spread across his face.

Very quietly, so only he could hear, Freddie whispered:

“Thank you, Grandy and Nana. And thank you, Biscuit Moon.”

Carters of Knottingley Brewery

There’s something strange about finding history on your own doorstep. I've lived in and around Knottingley for a very long time, I've spent years drinking beer, and more recently started writing about it, yet I had no idea that Knottingley once had its own proper brewery. Not a small operation either, but a serious one with tied houses, its own identity, and a long run in the town.

Once I found it, I couldn’t unsee it. And once I started reading more, the thought crept in… what if it came back? Not as a museum piece or a nostalgia exercise, but as a living Yorkshire beer again. This isn’t a business plan, it’s more of a running note, somewhere to collect the story and see where it leads.

The early days

Carters begins around the turn of the 1800s, built on a partnership that brought together three very different people and strengths.

  • Mark Carter came with brewing knowledge from an established family
  • Edward Gaggs brought money and local influence through his work in limestone and shipping
  • Robert Seaton added financial weight through banking. 

It’s a strong mix when you look back at it now, and it explains how quickly things moved.

At first, brewing took place in older buildings near the town, but that changed within a few years. By 1807, land at Mill Close had been bought, and by 1808 to 1809 a purpose-built brewery stood at Hill Top alongside Lime Grove (opposite where Morrisons is today). That quick and dramatic shift says a lot. This was never a side project; it was set up to be a proper, long-term operation.

Building a proper brewery

Through the early 1800s, the brewery established itself as a known local producer. By 1822 it appears in trade directories as “common brewers” at Mill Close, which gives a sense of its standing at the time. The site itself had real advantages, with deep bore water drawn from limestone, likely early use of steam power, and strong links to local transport and industry. It grew alongside the town rather than sitting outside it.

The Carter family years

The Carter name stayed central as ownership passed through generations. In 1836, Mark Carter stepped back and John Carter took control, and then in 1873 George William Carter succeeded him. By this stage the brewery had moved beyond being just a local concern; it had scale, structure, and a recognisable identity, it wasn't starting to become known as a never capable brewer of decent ales.

One detail from this period stands out more than most. In 1877, the brewery registered a trademark featuring a Talbot dog taken from the Carter coat of arms. It’s a small piece of history on the surface, but it carries real weight. If the name ever returned, that symbol would be the natural bridge between past and present.

Expansion and peak

In 1892, the business became a public company, with Carters’ Knottingley Brewery Company Ltd formed to acquire the brewery, Lime Grove, and 66 tied houses for £170,000 (approx £28m in todays money, that's not much less than the £33m it cost Tilbury Brands to buy BrewDog in March 2026). That figure alone tells you the scale of the operation at the time, and it marks the point where the brewery was fully established as a regional player.

At its peak, Carters was producing somewhere around 6,500 to 7,000 barrels a year (about 2m pints to you and me) and controlling close to 68 licensed houses. That puts it firmly in the category of a serious Yorkshire brewery rather than a small local outfit.

Trouble and takeover

The early 1930s brought problems. Internal struggles, legal disputes, and pressure on the business began to take their toll, and by 1935 the end came quickly. The brewery was taken over by Bentleys, and brewing in Knottingley stopped that same year.

The name didn’t disappear overnight, but the brewing itself did, and that was the turning point. What followed was less about beer and more about ownership on paper.

The slow disappearance

After the takeover, the brewery became part of a much larger chain. It moved through Bentleys, then into Whitbread, then Interbrew, and eventually into AB InBev. That corporate path explains why the local identity faded, as the brand was absorbed into something much bigger.

By 1965, the Hill Top site was sold off, and not long after it was demolished and replaced with housing. At that point, the physical brewery disappeared completely, leaving only records and fragments of the story behind.

Where that leaves it now

So what’s left today is not a building or a working brewery, but something just as interesting. There’s a clear founding story, named people, production figures, tied houses, and even a registered trademark with a strong visual identity. That’s more than most modern breweries ever start with, and it gives the whole idea a different weight.

The idea that won’t go away

This is the part I keep coming back to. There’s a difference between inventing a brand and picking up a dropped one. Carters isn’t made up; it existed, it brewed, and it mattered locally. Bringing it back would not be about pretending nothing changed, but about continuing the story in a way that feels honest.

If it ever did return, it would need to stay grounded. Yorkshire first, a clear link back to Knottingley, a modern take on the Talbot symbol, and no overblown claims about heritage. Just a straight line from then to now, with a long pause in the middle.

Where this goes next

For now, this stays as a working note. A place to collect dates, names, ideas, and the odd bit of inspiration as it comes along. It might grow into something more practical over time, or it might simply remain a record of a brewery that used to exist and still probably should.

Either way, it’s not going anywhere now I’ve found it.

 




 

Carling Black Label UK Review

So here I am, currently sat in Spain, in the sun, drinking a proper Spanish lager … and my mind has wandered back to a recent beer review I did in the UK.

I’m not sure you can call the return of Carling Black Label to the UK the most anticipated launch of the year … but it’s definitely stirred things up.

Molson Coors have brought it back alongside their standard Carling, and opinion seems split right down the middle. No middle ground. People either shrug at it… or take a swing.

Let’s be honest. Regular Carling at 4% ABV has never been a world-beater. It’s cheap, consistent, and on the right day, usually stood next to a BBQ, it does a job. Crisp, easy, and gone before you’ve really thought about it.

I’ve never exactly been its biggest fan. I had it down at 4 out of 10 at one point. I even preferred the Aldi version, Carters, which tells its own story.

So when Carling Black Label landed at 4.7% ABV, I was curious more than excited.

And to be fair … it is a step up.

It’s got a bit more about it. Slightly maltier. A touch more hop character. The extra strength gives it a fuller mouthfeel, and it doesn’t disappear quite as quickly as the standard version. It feels like it’s trying to be taken a bit more seriously.

Just to be clear, this isn’t the 5.5% South African version, which has a bit of a following. This UK one sits lower and feels more like a tweaked Carling than a full reinvention.

That probably explains the reaction. If you already don’t like Carling, this won’t win you over. But if you’re happy with a no-nonsense lager and just want a bit more body and flavour, this gets closer.

Here’s my full review if you want to see it properly poured and talked through:

Watch the video review

It’s not going to change the beer world. But it’s better than I expected… and that’s probably enough.

Give it a go. You might be pleasantly surprised.

One last thing. You’ll see people saying this is just Madri in a different coat. I’ve done a side-by-side comparison … and it isn’t.

Private London: A Good Read, I Just Expected More

Private London by James Patterson and Mark Pearson is another entry in the ever-growing Private series, and once again the short, punchy chapters keep the pace moving quickly.

I enjoyed the story overall, but this one felt a little uneven compared to the others I’ve read so far.

It actually started very strongly, then seemed to take a bit of a nosedive before a decent plot twist in the middle pulled me back in again.

By around the two-thirds mark I’d pretty much worked out what had happened, which spoiled some of the tension towards the end.

One thing that also stood out was some of the "high-tech" elements in the story. The book is around 14 years old now, and some of the technology that once felt futuristic now feels a little dated.

That said, it’s still a decent, easy-to-read thriller and another solid holiday read. Just not quite as gripping as the other books in the series that I’ve picked up so far.

Score: 7/10

 

Others in the Private series I have read and reviewed:

#1 Private
#2 Private London
#22 Private Dublin

We’re Claiming Compensation for Sun Loungers Now?

Just read this on the BBC News and honestly… I had to comment.

BBC News - German tourist wins payout after losing sun lounger race

A German tourist has won compensation after repeatedly failing to get a sun lounger during a family holiday.

The man reportedly paid £6,211 for an all-inclusive holiday in Spain, but found that other guests were reserving loungers early in the morning, leaving his family without places together around the pool.

A court awarded compensation of £852.89 after ruling that the hotel failed to provide the expected holiday experience.

I honestly think I’ve heard it all now.

Now before anyone jumps in… I do actually understand the frustration. If I’d paid more than £6,000 for a family holiday, I’d probably expect to be able to sit around the pool together too.

But there are a few things in this story that I’d genuinely like to understand.

First of all, did the guests complain to the hotel or tour operator at the time? Surely you have to give somebody the chance to put things right before taking legal action afterwards.

Secondly… were they also not up early trying to get loungers?

Because let’s be honest, nobody discovers "the great sun lounger race" by accident. If you know towels are going down at 7am, chances are you’ve been down there at 7am yourself at least once.

And another thing… were there actually no loungers available at all, or just none together?

Because those are two very different complaints.

Anyone who has stayed at a busy family hotel abroad knows the drill. You either get down early, accept sitting separately, or spend half your holiday glaring at people who have "reserved" loungers with a paperback and a single flip-flop.

I just wonder where this sort of thing ends.

Can people now claim because the lifts broke and they had to use the stairs? Been there, done that.

Or because it rained for two days during a beach holiday? Been there too.

What about exchange rates moving against you while you’re away, so everything suddenly costs more than expected?

Or because the "sea view" involved leaning over the balcony, squinting between two palm trees, and technically spotting a blue line in the distance?

Or because the hotel buffet chips were somehow both undercooked and cold?

Or because the evening entertainment was a man with a keyboard murdering ABBA songs while dressed like a cruise ship magician?

At some point holidays stop being holidays and start becoming consumer disputes with swimming pools attached.

Don’t get me wrong, hotels should absolutely provide what they advertise, and some hotels genuinely do a terrible job managing lounger shortages. But part of me feels that modern holiday culture has become obsessed with compensation.

Sometimes things just go wrong.

Sometimes the pool is busy.

Sometimes you end up three floors up because the lift is broken.

And sometimes somebody called Klaus has put a towel on six loungers before sunrise and vanished until lunchtime.

That’s not a legal case… that’s just being on holiday.

H10 Salou Princess Review

Stayed: 2–9 May 2026
Room type: Half Board, double room with twin beds
Overall score: 8/10

We stayed at the H10 Salou Princess in Salou (Spain) from 2–9 May 2026, in one of their double rooms with twin beds. There were no double bed rooms available for our stay.

From the moment we stepped into the lobby, the hotel had a more grown-up feel to it, which we liked straight away.

This stay also felt a little different for us, as we are starting to look at areas in Spain for retirement. Salou, or the surrounding area, may well end up on our shortlist.

The room was a typical size for this kind of hotel, with a TV, air conditioning, fridge, safe box at €3 per day, free WiFi, and a balcony. The bathroom had a bath with shower over it.

Our room looked out over the front of the hotel onto a busy main road. The road starts to get busy from around 7:30am, and traffic noise is only  slightly noticeable during the day, but we did not think it was too bad at all.

Accommodation

The room was clean and well appointed. It was a typical size for this type of stay, and nothing felt old or worn out.

Everything worked as it should, and the room felt properly maintained throughout our stay.

It would have been nice to have a couple more power sockets. We had three, which was fine, but there were no USB charging points, so bring plug-in USB chargers or a power supply. First world problems, I know.

Pools and facilities

There is one large main pool with a kids pool next to it, and plenty of loungers around the pool area.

The pool was clean, and the lifeguards were attentive. Towels were available from reception for a small refundable deposit.

They also have four Balinese beds, also known as Bali beds. We used them on three of the days we stayed, at €25 per day.

They added a lovely touch of luxury around the pool, and as it was my wife’s birthday, it felt like a nice treat for her too; plus up by the top beds (#3 and #4), it tended to be very quiet.

Food and drink

The more grown-up feel carried through into the dining area. It was well laid out and served buffet-style food, but the whole experience felt calmer and more relaxed.

Breakfast was a typical mix for this kind of European hotel, with both English and Continental options.

There was fresh fruit, sausage, eggs, bacon, beans, mushrooms, yoghurt, pastries, cereals, cold meats, cheese, and a surprisingly good choice of alternative milks, including plant, oat, and almond milk.

Hot drinks and fruit juices were included at breakfast.

Dinner had the usual mix of soup, pasta, salads, fish and meat dishes, fried food, chips and wedges, plus a show cooking area.

Drinks were not included with dinner. We stuck to the 1 litre bottles of filtered water at €2, which was enough for the two of us.

This is where the different clientele at this hotel showed. Lots of people were drinking water, soft drinks, or wine. It was not families downing pints of cheap Spanish lager.

Sweet treats were always available, including ice cream, small cakes, puddings, and fresh fruit.

As a vegetarian, I did find the choice a bit limited. There was always something to eat, but it was not always especially interesting. Salads and pasta are fine, but over a longer stay it would become repetitive.

Surely it cannot be too difficult to put on a couple of proper vegetarian dishes, such as curry, lasagne (strangely a day after putting this review live, a lovely vegetarian lasagne was available!), or something similar.

My carnivore wife liked the food and the surroundings so much that we ended up going Full Board for the last four days.

BTW, if you want to upgrade from Half Board to Full Board, do it officially at Reception rather than paying for the extra lunches in the restaurant, it was a much cheaper way to do it).

Because the dining experience felt more formal, there were no overloaded plates and very little waste to be seen. Overall, it was a decent dining experience, apart from the lack of vegetarian options.

Busy times for the restaurant:

Breakfast busiest after 9:30
Lunch wasn't particularly busy at all
Dinner busiest after 20:30

Staff and service

As you would expect in a good hotel today, the staff were friendly and helpful throughout our stay.

In the restaurant, the waiting staff were attentive, and we were always seated very quickly. Plates were cleared fast, and the service felt well organised.

Atmosphere

The atmosphere was quiet and chilled.

It seemed to attract a slightly older clientele, which gave the hotel a more relaxed and informal feel. That suited us perfectly.

Other facilities

I think the hotel wristbands are new for 2026. They act as your room key, but you can also add money to them and use them for payment around the hotel.

The hotel seemed to have live entertainment most nights, including local bands and tribute acts.

The Legends Sports Bar reminded me of a mix between an old, dark English pub and an Irish pub. It was cosy, with dark beers and Spanish beers available.

If it is still on, the Bock Damm Negra Munich is a gorgeous beer. Voll-Damm is also a lovely beer.

There was also a small café by the pool for quick bites, opening from 12:30. It served things like chips, hot dogs, pizza, soft drinks, and alcoholic drinks.

There is apparently a sauna and gym in the hotel, but we did not use them.

Top tip: when we were there, the top terrace, past the first two Bali beds and up the steps, was nice and quiet.

The Verdict

H10 Salou Princess is a clean, friendly, and well-located hotel with a slightly older clientele and a relaxed feel.

It felt more grown-up than some of the family-heavy hotels in Salou, and that made a big difference to the stay.

The room was clean, the staff were excellent, the pool area was pleasant, and the food was good overall.

The main downside for me was the limited vegetarian choice. It was not terrible, but it could be much better with just a bit more thought.

Overall, this was a really enjoyable stay, and it is definitely somewhere we would consider returning to.

Scores

Accommodation: 8/10
Location: 9/10
Food and drink: 7/10
Staff: 9/10
Atmosphere: 8/10

Overall score: 8/10

A clean, friendly, well-located hotel with a more grown-up feel. Relaxed, informal, and a very good base for a stay in Salou.

A Move to Spain!

We are actually considering a move to Spain, follow our journey here.

Private: A Fast-Paced Start to the Series

I’ve just finished Private, the first book in the series, while away on another break in Spain. I tend to only read fiction when I’m on holiday, and this time I brought this and Private London with me.

Written by James Patterson and Maxine Paetro, this feels like a strong introduction to the Private series. It’s a fast-paced crime thriller and another real page turner.

Set in Los Angeles, the story feels very cinematic. I’ve never actually been to LA, but it all felt clearly laid out, almost like watching it unfold on screen.

What stood out most was the way multiple storylines move along at a quick pace. The authors trust the reader to keep up, which keeps things engaging without over-explaining.

That said, the plots aren’t especially deep or complex. But I’m on holiday, and this is exactly what I want. An easy, exciting read that keeps the tension moving and tightens nicely towards the end.

Another Patterson book that I couldn’t put down until I’d finished it.

Score: 9/10

Others in the Private series I have read and reviewed:

#1 Private
#2 Private London
#22 Private Dublin

Antisemitism and the Semitic Confusion

This note comes off the back of an online discussion I had with someone who believed antisemitism means racism against any “Semitic” people; I would have thought that a grow man would have understood the difference, but you live and learn I suppose.

I spent time explaining that “Semitic”, originally coined in the late 18th century originally refers to a group of languages, including Hebrew and Arabic. It was (and still is) a linguistic label, not a race or a single group of people.

“Antisemitism” came later, in 19th-century Europe. This term was used specifically to describe hostility towards Jewish people. From the start, it was used in that narrow sense, and that meaning has stuck.

So while the words share a similar root, they don’t line up in meaning.

You can criticise countries, governments, or policies without it being antisemitic. The line is crossed when it targets Jewish people as a whole or leans on old stereotypes.

This is one of those cases where knowing the history of a word clears up a lot of confusion.

I'm on Holiday ... but I'm not!

I used to find it really difficult to switch off from work when I was on holiday.

In fact, I got to loathe the idea of a “holiday” because it often became another way of saying I was working from a different chair, or a different country, I would respond to emails and messages no matter where I was, what I was doing, or who I was with. Even when I was on holiday with my children, work still found a way in.

But over the last couple of years, something in me has changed; here I am now, waiting for a flight to Spain with my wife, and work could not be further from my mind.

And honestly, it feels brilliant.Want to know how I flicked that switch?

1. I’m gone

As my holiday gets closer, I let people in the business and key suppliers know I’ll be away.

Not half away. Not “still checking emails” away. Properly away.

I’m on holiday, and I’m gone. Period.

I think giving people clear notice before you leave is a great form of professional respect. Everyone knows where they stand, and nobody is left guessing. And you can start to get support to get some major projects closer to a answer before you leave.

2. The handoff

I hate the soft handoff with a passion; you know the one: “I'm going away, but you can contact me if it’s an absolute emergency.”

It's a statement that sounds helpful, but it keeps the door open; and once the door is open, work starts to creep in, and lots of things become an emergancy and need your attention ... but you allowed it.

So now what I do is I assign clear owners to every active project and/or task before I go away. Everyone in the business knows what is happening, who is responsible, and what needs to move forward.

More importantly, they know I trust them to make decisions while I’m not there, and I have some decent processes in place with plenty of checks and balanced.

My goal is to return to projects that have moved on, not a pile of “waiting for your approval” emails.

To be honest, I’m not that important anyway. I only thought I was 😀

3. Become a digital loner

I never used to mute work notifications; then I started muting them, but that still meant I could check them whenever I wanted. And of course, I did.

Now I go further, and II now delete key 'work' apps from my phone while I’m away, Outlook, Teams, and the softphone app, they all go, so I physically can't be interrupted, or be tempted to take a look. I can always easily reinstall them when I get back anyway. 

If I’m not looking at work messaging apps, I’m not thinking about work problems. It sounds a bit extreme, but the psychological weight that lifts is pure bliss. 

4. Buffer day(s)

I used to get back home after a holiday and go straight back to work the next day. In fact, once we got back early in the morning during the week, and by the afternoon I had logged back on. 

Now I make sure I have at least one full buffer day, preferably two. This gives me time to acclimatise and get back into a normal daily rhythm before I get cracking with work again. 

During these buffer days, I do not reinstall apps. I still count them as holiday days… because they are!

 

These four things alone have made my breaks calmer, cleaner, and far more peaceful.

And to be honest, they are usually well overdue.

Herbert Henry Scaife

Herbert Henry Scaife was my paternal great grandad.

He was Private 205681, 2/4th Battalion, King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry, part of 187th Brigade in the 62nd (2nd West Riding) Division. He was born in Snaith in 1886, enlisted at Knottingley, and was killed in action on 27 November 1917 during the Battle of Cambrai.

He had no known grave. His name is commemorated on Panel 8 of the Cambrai Memorial at Louverval, Nord, France.

I never knew him, of course. But I am incredibly proud of him. To me, he was a hero.

There is another thought I keep coming back to with my great grandad. Herbert had a son before he went to war. My grandad, Austin William Scaife, was born in 1913.

If the timing had been different, even by a couple of years, I would not be here writing this.

That is always a strange thought to sit with. 

Before France

Herbert had previously served with the Durham Light Infantry. His earlier numbers are recorded as 59279 and Private 96547, before he later became Private 205681 with the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry.

For a long time, I knew very little about Herbert’s actual military service. Then I came across a report in the Pontefract and Castleford Express from August 1918.

The article explained that Herbert had enlisted on 30 October 1914 and first went to France on 28 August 1915 with the Durham Light Infantry. It also confirmed that he was wounded in November 1915 and returned to England for treatment.

That changes his story quite a bit.  He was not pulled into the Army by later conscription. Herbert was an early volunteer. He joined only a few months after the outbreak of war and reached France during 1915, long before conscription was introduced in 1916.

Like many First World War soldiers, Herbert held more than one service number during his time in the Army. Numbers were issued by individual regiments and often changed when a man was transferred, reclassified, wounded, or moved between battalions.

It is not yet fully confirmed which Durham Light Infantry battalion he served with, although the timing suggests one of the New Army battalions, possibly the 9th Battalion.

Herbert Scaife
Pontefract & Castleford Express   |   30th August 1918   |   Page 3
A Knottingley Soldier Long Reported Missing
Now Reported Deceased

Pvte Hbt Scaife, K.O.Y.L.I., the husband of Mrs Margt Scaife of Albert Cottages, Knottingley, was reported missing on November 27th 1917.

Every endeavour has been made to obtain reliable information concerning him, but without success. The British Red Cross stated in April last year that every possible enquiry had been instituted, all ineffectually.

The Military have now written the widow that he is dead. Pvte Scaife joined the army on October 30th 1914 and went to France on August 28th 1915.

He was wounded in November of that year and came back to England for treatment. He was drafted again to France on November _th 1917 and three weeks later was reported missing.

He leaves beside the widow two children.

Why did Herbert go to war?

I sometimes wonder what drove him to sign up.

It is easy to think of it as simple national pride, but it was rarely that straightforward. For men like Herbert, it was often a mix of duty, pressure, family responsibility, and the feeling that ordinary men were expected to do their bit.

Britain did not have full conscription at the start of the war. Men volunteered throughout 1914 and 1915. Herbert joined the Army on 30 October 1914, only a few months after war broke out.

Herbert was born in 1886, so he was around 28 years old when he enlisted. He was also already a husband and a father.

That changes how I think about him.

He was not some unattached young lad chasing adventure. He was a man with a family. He had already built part of his life before the war took him away from it.

The newspaper report from 1918 also stated that he left behind a widow and two children.

We may never know exactly what he felt when he left. Duty, pressure, fear, pride, resignation, all of them may have played a part. There was no television and no social media. Most people experienced the war through newspapers, official announcements, posters, rumours, and conversations in the street.

The message around him was often that Britain was doing its duty, that the war had to be fought, and that ordinary men were expected to answer the call.

But what affects me most is this:

Herbert had already survived the war once.

He went to France in 1915, was wounded that same year, and returned home to recover. At some point afterwards, he was transferred into the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry and drafted back to France again in November 1917.

By then, he already knew what modern war looked like. He had seen the trenches before. He knew the danger. He knew what shellfire sounded like. He knew what happened to men there.

That changes the way I think about him even more.

He did not go into Cambrai as someone chasing adventure or glory. He went back because soldiers were needed again.

Three weeks later, he was reported missing.

1915: Training and first service with the Durham Light Infantry

Because Herbert went to France on 28th August 1915, his early training must have taken place before then.

His training would have involved route marches with full kit, rifle practice, bayonet drill, trench digging, night exercises, gas drill, and repeated inspections. At this time Herbert has the service number 59279.

The men had to learn how to move as a unit, obey orders quickly, and keep going when tired, wet, cold, and hungry.

This was not glamorous training. It was marching, drilling, digging, cleaning equipment, waiting for orders, and doing it all again the next day.

17 September 1915: France

Herbert’s medal card records his qualifying date as 17 September 1915 (so he has been over there a little over two weeks, with France as his theatre of war.

That date does not tell us exactly where he was standing on that day, but it does tell us that he had crossed from Britain to the Western Front.

He would probably have travelled by rail to a south coast port, then crossed the Channel by troopship. After landing in France, soldiers were often moved inland by train, sometimes in French railway wagons marked “40 hommes / 8 chevaux”, meaning 40 men or 8 horses.

For Herbert, this was the point where the war stopped being training, speeches, posters, and kit inspections. It became real.

1915 to 1916: The Durham Light Infantry period

The exact Durham Light Infantry battalion Herbert served with has not yet been confirmed.

Research suggests he may have been with one of the Durham Light Infantry’s New Army battalions, possibly the 9th Battalion, because the timing of his arrival in France fits that story. I believe that around this time his service number was 96547.

If that is correct, Herbert would have experienced the Western Front long before he joined the 2/4th KOYLI.

Life at the front was usually built around rotation. A battalion would spend time in the front line, then support trenches, then reserve, then rest.

Rest rarely meant comfort. It often meant carrying supplies, cleaning kit, repairing roads, moving ammunition, and preparing to go back to the front line.

Research suggests Herbert may have lived through trench conditions in late 1915: mud, lice, rats, cold meals, wet socks, shellfire, sentry duty, and the constant need to stay alert. But it wasn't to last long, a piece written after his death in the Pontefract and Castleford Express showed that he was wounded in November 1915, and he came back to England for treatment.

Transfer to the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry

By the time he later served with the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry, he was not new to war, already transferred back to England because of a wound in November 1915, he was drafted again to France in November 1917 (2 years later), this time he became part of The King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry.

I suppose it makes sense, men moved to where the Army needed them; units took losses, drafts were sent forward, and soldiers were reallocated between regiments and battalions, or in Herbets case, just drafted into a new division and regiment.

So Herbert became Private 205681 in the 2/4th Battalion, King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry.

The 2/4th Battalion KOYLI was part of 187th Brigade in the 62nd (2nd West Riding) Division.

January 1917: The 2/4th KOYLI in France

The 2/4th KOYLI landed at Le Havre on 15 January 1917.

From January 1917, the 62nd Division concentrated in the Third Army area between the rivers Canche and Authie.

February to March 1917: The Ancre

The 62nd Division’s first listed fighting on the Western Front came during the operations on the Ancre, from 15 February to 13 March 1917.

This placed the division in the hard, damaged country left by the Somme fighting. The men would have found broken trenches, shell holes, wire, mud, and villages reduced to ruins.

Herbert’s future battalion was now learning, or relearning, the rhythm of front-line life within a new division.

March to April 1917: The German retreat to the Hindenburg Line

In March 1917, the German Army withdrew to the Hindenburg Line. The 62nd Division took part in the British advance that followed.

The battalion that Herbert would eventually join would have moved through abandoned and destroyed ground. The German withdrawal left roads blocked, wells damaged, buildings ruined, and traps behind.

The British were advancing, but they were advancing into devastation.

This was not the old image of men sitting still in trenches that we are used to seeing in those documentaries on the History channels on a Sunday afternoon; it was movement, patrols, uncertainty, and the constant risk of hidden machine guns or shellfire.

3 to 17 May 1917: Bullecourt

The 62nd Division fought at Bullecourt during the Second Battle of Bullecourt, from 3 to 17 May 1917.

Bullecourt was part of the wider Arras fighting. It was a grim and costly battle against German positions linked to the Hindenburg Line.

The experience of soldiers here would have included heavy shellfire, attacks over broken ground, damaged trenches, and the shock of seeing modern defensive fire at close range.

By this point, the battalion was no longer new to war.

Summer and Autumn 1917: Holding the line

After Bullecourt, the division remained on the Western Front. The months between major battles were still dangerous.

Herbert’s daily life may have included trench repair, wiring parties, sentry duty, ration carrying, lice, rats, cold meals, wet socks, and the constant need to stay alert.

Wiring parties repaired or added barbed wire entanglements, often at night, close to No Man’s Land.

Men “stood-to” at dawn and dusk, meaning they were on high alert with weapons ready, because those were common times for attacks.

Letters from home mattered. So did hot tea, dry socks, and a few hours of sleep. Small things became big things.

November 1917: Moving towards Cambrai

By November 1917, the 62nd Division was in the Havrincourt sector, south-west of Cambrai. This is where Herbert rejoined the war (possibly 3rd to 6th November)after two years out, back in England recovering from a wound he sustained in 1915.

This area mattered because it sat in front of the Hindenburg Line. Cambrai itself was an important German supply centre, and the ground around Bourlon Ridge became one of the key objectives.

The 187th Brigade included the 2/4th KOYLI. Herbert, fresh again to war, was now moving towards the battle that would take his life.

20 November 1917: Havrincourt and the opening of Cambrai

The Battle of Cambrai began at about 6.30am on 20 November 1917.

The attack was unusual because it used tanks in large numbers. The British also used a predicted artillery barrage, a method where guns were aimed using calculations rather than a long registration bombardment. That helped preserve surprise.

The 62nd Division attacked near Havrincourt. The 187th Brigade advanced with the 2/5th KOYLI on the left and the 2/4th KOYLI on the right.

The 2/4th KOYLI attacked through the German defences around Havrincourt. The division pushed through the Hindenburg Line and helped take Havrincourt, then advanced towards Graincourt and the approaches to Bourlon Ridge.

For the men involved, this must have been a strange day. Tanks were moving ahead, artillery fire was crashing over the German line, and ground that had seemed impossible to cross was suddenly being taken.

But success came at a cost. The 2/4th KOYLI suffered heavy casualties on 20 November, with more than 200 killed, wounded, or missing.

21 November 1917: The advance slows

On 21 November, the early momentum began to fade.

The British had made a large gain, but they had not fully taken Bourlon Ridge. German resistance stiffened, and counter-attacks began around the newly captured ground.

Herbert’s battalion may have been involved in holding captured positions, reorganising after the first attack, moving supplies forward, and preparing for further action.

After a major attack, battalions rarely became neat and tidy again straight away. Men were missing, companies were mixed, officers had been hit, communications were in disarray, and nobody had eaten, rested, or slept properly.

22 November 1917: Towards Bourlon

By 22 November, fighting had developed around Fontaine, Anneux, and the approaches to Bourlon Wood.

The 62nd Division had advanced far, but it was now exposed. The German Army was recovering from the shock of the first day and bringing in reinforcements.

The men in this area would have faced shellfire, machine-gun fire, confused orders, and difficult movement over broken ground.

The battle was changing from a breakthrough into a hard fight to hold and extend the gains.

23 November 1917: Bourlon becomes the objective

On 23 November, the fighting increasingly centred on Bourlon Wood and Bourlon Ridge.

The 62nd Division had been heavily engaged since the opening day. Other units were brought into the fight, but the West Riding men had already helped open the way.

Herbert and the 2/4th KOYLI were likely still close to the Havrincourt, Graincourt, Anneux, and Bourlon area during this period.

The exact company-level position is not confirmed from the records I have seen so far.

24 to 26 November 1917: Waiting, holding, and moving under fire

The days between 24 and 26 November are difficult to place exactly without the battalion war diary page in front of me. It is something I would like to look at properly one day. But the wider battle gives us a strong sense of what was happening.

Herbert’s battalion was likely either holding captured ground, moving between support and forward positions, or preparing for renewed action around Bourlon.

These days may have been worse than the opening attack in some ways.

There was waiting. There was shelling. There was the strain of not knowing when orders would come. Men tried to sleep in trenches, dugouts, or shell holes. Rations and water had to be brought forward. Wounded men had to be carried back.

Late November in northern France was cold. Wet boots, mud, frost, tiredness, and fear would all have been part of the experience.

27 November 1917: Herbert’s death

Herbert was not immediately reported dead. Like many soldiers lost during the fighting at Cambrai (and many other battles), he was first listed as missing.

For months, the family waited for news while enquiries were made through military channels and the British Red Cross. Missing men were sometimes found wounded, captured, or recovering in hospitals, so families often lived with hope for a long time after the fighting had ended.

But we know that no reliable information about Herbert was ever found.

So, in August 1918, more than eight months after he disappeared during the fighting around Bourlon Wood, the Army finally informed his widow that he was now presumed dead.

Because his body was never identified or recovered, Herbert’s name is remembered on the Cambrai Memorial at Louverval rather than on a marked grave.

So officially Herbert Henry Scaife was killed in action on 27th November 1917. The date is shockingly important, Herbert has been drafted and back in the war for only three weeks!

By the 27th, the battalion had already been in action for a week.

War diary records for the division show continued fighting around Bourlon Wood and the nearby village. The ground was contested, and attacks were met with strong resistance.

Herbert was in or near the forward positions during this phase, likely somewhere between Anneux and Bourlon, where the fighting was at its most intense.

Casualties were heavy. Units were reduced in strength, and control was difficult to maintain once attacks began.

It was during this fighting that Herbert was presumed killed in action.

I was lucky enough to visit the Cambrai Memorial at Louverval, France, on 23 September 2017, almost one hundred years after Herbert was killed.

It is a beautiful, peaceful place. I remember standing there thinking that if he could not rest back home with his family in Yorkshire, he would probably have liked this quiet spot.

We left a small posy of poppies for him.

RIP Great Grandad Scaife.

 



Timeline

1886: Herbert Henry Scaife is born in Snaith.

1913: His son, Austin William Scaife, is born.

August 1914: The First World War begins. Herbert is around 28 years old and already a father.

30th November 1914: Private Herbert Scaife joined the army.

Spring to early summer 1915: Herbert likely enlists in the Durham Light Infantry. This date is estimated from his service number and the fact that he was already in France by September 1915.

28th August 1915: Herbert enters a theatre of war in France with the Durham Light Infantry.

November 1915: Herbert is wounded and returned back to England.

15th January 1917: The 2/4th KOYLI lands at Le Havre. If Herbert was already in France, he may have joined the battalion there.

15th February to 13th March 1917: The 62nd Division takes part in operations on the Ancre.

March to April 1917: The division advances during the German retreat to the Hindenburg Line.

3rd to 17th May 1917: The division fights at Bullecourt during the Arras fighting.

Summer to Autumn 1917: Herbert serves through the routine dangers of the Western Front. Exact battalion positions need the full war diary.

November 1917: After recovery and recuperation, Herbert is drafted back into the war, this time as a Private in the Kings Own Light Infantry (205681), at this time, the 62nd Division moves into the Havrincourt sector, south-west of Cambrai.

20th November 1917: The Battle of Cambrai begins. The 2/4th KOYLI attacks on the right of 187th Brigade near Havrincourt.

21st to 26th November 1917: Research suggests the battalion remains in the Cambrai battle area as British forces push towards Bourlon Ridge and fight to hold captured ground.

27th November 1917: Herbert is killed in action during the Cambrai fighting, most likely connected with the fighting around Bourlon Wood and Bourlon village.

Command

The 2/4th KOYLI was part of 187th Brigade, 62nd (2nd West Riding) Division.

The battalion commander during the Cambrai fighting is recorded as Lieutenant-Colonel R. E. Power.

The 62nd Division was commanded by Major-General Sir Walter Braithwaite.

Medals

Herbert’s medal card shows that he entered a theatre of war on 17 September 1915. That means he qualified for the 1914–15 Star.

He would also have been entitled to the British War Medal and the Victory Medal.

Together, these three medals were sometimes known as Pip, Squeak, and Wilfred.

All unfortunately lost or misplaced, but the memory of Herbert hasn't gone. 

Why I’m here

I keep coming back to my grandad, Austin William Scaife.

He was born in 1913, before Herbert went to war. If Herbert had gonea nd joined the army earlier, or if life had unfolded in a slightly different order, Austin may never have been born.

And if Austin had not been born, I would not be here.

That makes this story feel very close.

It is not just military history. It is family history. It is the thin thread that connects a man born in Snaith in 1886 to me, sitting here more than a century later, trying to understand where he went and what happened to him.

Remembering Herbert

It is hard to write about someone you never met and still feel close to them.

But I do.

Herbert Henry Scaife was not just a name, a number, or a line on a memorial. He was a man born in Snaith who lived and enlisted in Knottingley, trained for war, crossed to France, endured the trenches, fought at Cambrai, and never came home.

His name is at Louverval because his body was never found. That feels unbearably sad, but it also means his name stands with thousands of others who gave everything and were not brought back.

I am proud of him.

I never knew him, but I know enough.




 

ASAP … is that really what you want?

I really struggle with the term “ASAP”.

People use it all the time in (so called) professional environments, but it does not tell me anything useful. It sounds urgent, but it gives me no clear direction on your timescales and I end up guessing what you mean, and that might mean that I miss your deadline.

If you work with me, it is worth knowing this. The term winds me up so much, mainly because most of the time it is being used to mean something else.

The issue is simple. “ASAP” stands for “as soon as possible”, which really means I will get to it when my current workload allows. If I am fully booked until Thursday, then Friday morning is the earliest I can realistically do it.

That is not me being awkward. That is just how time works.

The problem is that most people do not use it that way. When someone writes “ASAP”, what they usually mean is “I need this now”. They are trying to show urgency, but they are doing it without giving a proper deadline, proper instructions.

That is where it falls apart.

If you want something done quickly, you need to be clear about when you need it. Without that, I have to make a judgement call. I have to weigh it up against everything else I am doing, and I might get that call wrong.

There is also a knock-on effect. If something genuinely urgent comes in after your request, it will take priority. Your task then moves back, because it was never tied to a clear time in the first place.

So the word meant to speed things up can actually slow them down.

There is a straightforward fix.

Say what you mean.

If you need something by a certain time, write the time. If it is urgent, say how urgent it is in a way that I can act on.

“Send me those files ASAP” becomes “Send me those files by 4pm today.”

“I need a reply ASAP” becomes “Please reply by midday tomorrow so I can finish this.”

“ASAP please” becomes “This is high priority. Can you do this in the next two hours?”

Now I know where it fits. I can plan properly, and you are more likely to get what you need.

If you really do mean “whenever you can fit it in”, then fine, say “ASAP”. Just be aware that it might not be today, or even this week.

If there is a deadline, say it.

Being clear is not a small thing. It shows respect for other people’s time, it removes guesswork, and it keeps work moving.

“ASAP” is not clear. It is vague, and vague is where problems start.

You can also read about why I hate deadlines

Does AI Think We’re As Dumb As We Act?

We’re in the middle of a proper digital shift. The kind where AI is being lined up to crack genetics, sort climate problems, and push science forward in ways we’ve never seen.

And yet, at the same time, people are asking it how to eat an apple.

I wish that was an exaggeration. It isn’t. I came across someone asking a chatbot for “instructions on eating an apple properly”, and it stopped me for a second. Not because it’s funny, but because it says something weird about us.

We’ve built something incredibly powerful, arguably the most impressive computer "brain" we’ve ever created, and we’re using it to skip over the basics of being human. The small stuff we used to just figure out. Buying a present for a six-year-old. Making toast under a grill. Matching socks.

They are decisions or questions that aren't particularly difficult. None of it ever needed improving.

But now it’s easier to ask than to think, so we ask, and we stop thinking.

You do start to wonder what’s going on behind that blinking cursor. While engineers are stress-testing logic and capability, the system is quietly working through questions about egg boiling and jumper washing. If it had awareness, you’d imagine it raising an eyebrow.

It doesn’t need to take over. It just needs to wait.

Because the real test isn’t what AI can do. It’s what happens when it isn’t there. The moment the Wi-Fi drops, and you’re stood in front of a toaster or a birthday card with no prompt, no shortcut, no answer ... that’s when things get interesting.

We like to think we’re becoming more efficient. Smarter, even.

But I've just realised that there’s a fine line between efficiency and dependency, and it feels like we’re edging closer to it without really noticing.

Next time you’re about to ask AI something simple, something you already half know the answer to, it’s probably worth pausing.

Not out of principle. Just to prove you still can.

Everything Was Already Here

It’s a strange thought when you sit with it for a minute and let your mind delve into it, that nothing around you is really “new”.

Every object you can see, your phone, your desk, the road outside, even the food you eat, all comes from the same limited set of elements that have always been here. We haven’t invented new matter. We’ve just got very good at rearranging what already exists.

Steel isn’t new. It’s iron, carbon, heat, and process.
Plastic isn’t new. It’s oil, broken down and rebuilt.
Glass is just sand that’s been pushed to its limits.

Even the complicated stuff, electronics, medicines, fuels, it all traces back to the same building blocks. And when you think about it, we’ve just become really good at using these elements.

I've never too sure whether this concept is reassuring or a worry!

All the progress, all the industries, all the things we take pride in as “made by us”, are really just clever transformations. We take what the planet gives us, and we reshape it into something useful, or sometimes something pointless. But as we use all this stuff, does it mean that at sometime we might run out fo something vital!

It does make you look at waste differently as well.

If everything we use is part of a closed system, then nothing really disappears. It just changes form and ends up somewhere else. Landfill isn’t “away”. It’s just a different version of the same materials, sitting in a different place.

I Do Not Owe My Future Self an Apology

Not sure if you would class this as an epiphany or just an interesting thought.

I’ve just updated my profile on nownownow.com, and one of the questions was something like, “Have I had a recent epiphany?”

For no special reason, the thought struck me that I do not owe my future self an apology for who I am today.

I think the life I have led, and the life I lead today, is a good one. My current level of knowledge is very good, and my current emotional capacity is also strong. My daughters are doing well, I have a beautiful wife, and I’m heading into the near future with retirement (and the freedom that brings) starting to feel real.

If I spend my life trying to become someone my “future self” won’t be ashamed of, I risk living a life that isn’t mine.

Perhaps that is the real epiphany.

I suppose, like could do today with my past self, my future self will look back and realise that every “mistake” or “flaw” I have today was actually a necessary stepping stone.

I don’t owe an apology for being what is effectively a work in progress. That’s just called being alive.

Ode to the Sherbet Lemon

The humble sherbet lemon. I’m not sure there are many better sweets out there.

You’ve got that lovely, long-lasting hard outer shell. Then, just as you settle into that flavour, the shell thins or cracks, and you hit that zesty sherbet fizz. It’s an instant shift from calm to chaos, and it keeps your taste buds interested.

That reaction, when the fizz hits your tongue, feels like a tiny party going off in your mouth.

They’re never too sweet, which makes them dangerously moreish. Worth keeping in mind they’re around 20–25 kcal each.

Per sweet:

  • Calories: 20–25 kcal
  • Carbohydrates: 5–6g
  • Sugars: 4–5g
  • Fat: 0g
  • Protein: 0g

They also work brilliantly as a palate cleanser, and you’ve got the citrus base to thank for that.

There’s something genuinely interesting about them. Proper nostalgic too. I spent plenty of time in sweet shops in the 70s, and these always stood out.

I’m struggling to think of a better sweet. I was fond of a Fizz Bomb back in the day… but that’s one for another post.


 

The Doll at Platform Five (Mild Horror)

You get used to seeing the same things on the morning train. Same faces, same conversations, same bloke spilling coffee on his tie before we’ve even left the platform. But that morning, something different caught my eye, and my nose.

There was this faint smell in the carriage, like smoke, or maybe burnt dust off a radiator. It was difficult to place. It wasn’t like the typical smoke you get from a fire. It just seemed unusual. Nobody else seemed to notice. A woman across from me was laughing into her phone, and the fella next to her was hammering his keyboard like it owed him money.

I sniffed again. It was there, all right. Acrid, but oddly old, not the clean, chemical kind of smoke you get nowadays. Something heavier, like coal or charred cloth. Then, just as quick as it came, it was gone.

I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, and no-one else seemed concerned, so I just put it down to one of those things.

As the train slowed into the station, I glanced past my reflection and up at the big glass hotel that sits just beyond the tracks. In one of the second-floor windows stood what looked like a child-sized doll. Pale face, expressionless, perhaps a little sad. It was dressed in old-fashioned clothes, Victorian, I guessed. Its head was forward, but looking over me and the carriage I was in. It seemed to be looking out across the city.

It was the sort of doll that definitely belonged in a museum, not a hotel. It was so out of place, but I couldn’t stop staring. I couldn’t help wondering why someone would take something like that to a hotel. By the time the train stopped and I stepped onto the platform, I looked up again. The doll was gone.

Next morning, there it was again. Same window, same doll, motionless. Nobody else seemed to notice. Too busy scrolling through newsfeeds and emails to look out of the window.

Then suddenly something inside me dipped, like stepping off a kerb you didn’t see. My pulse thudded in my ears, and there was that whiff of smoke again, curling at the back of my throat, dry and unpleasant.

It stuck in my head all morning. Over lunch, I started poking about online. The hotel’s website was all brick, glass, and chrome, all “boutique luxury” and “city views”. I wanted to see what had stood there before. A few clicks later, on one of those old map archives, I found it. The Slate Wharfe Workhouse, right by the old cut of the Wharfe, just south of the railway lines.

A miserable place, by the sounds of it. I found a grainy photograph. It looked miserable too. Soot-blackened brick, barred windows, smokestacks in the distance. Then I came across a snippet from a 1908 newspaper: “Fire at Slate Wharfe Workhouse. Many Saved by Workhouse Labourer.”

The article was short. They thought the blaze started in the laundry. Most of the children were dragged out by a labourer who went back inside again and again until the roof came down. The report said he’d tried to reach the last child, a girl seen trapped at an upstairs window, banging at the barred window as the flames took hold. Her body was never recovered.

That night, I dreamed of heat and smoke, and child’s hands pressing at the windows.

Next morning, I made sure to sit by the window in the carriage again. As we slowed past the hotel, there she was again, the doll, staring out. I lifted my phone and took a picture. When I looked at it later, I felt something cold tighten in my chest.

The doll was there, yes… but behind it, faint in the reflection of the glass, was the outline of a man. His face was partly lost in the glare, yet the shape of it, the hair, the eyes, the jaw, it looked horribly familiar.

It looked like me.

I don’t know what to make of it. But sometimes, when the train brakes before the platform and the air smells faintly of hot metal, I catch that old taste of smoke in my mouth… and once, I swear, I coughed up a fleck of soot.

And this morning, as I sat there trying not to look at the window, my phone buzzed with a new photo, no message, no sender.

It was my photo of the doll.

Only this time, its head had turned… and it was looking straight at me.

An original short story by Andrew Scaife
© Andrew Scaife, 2026. All rights reserved.