Episode 155

Once upon a time, in the not-so-distant past of 2020, a quaint little Facebook group dedicated to cycling enthusiasts was enjoying its glory days. It was a haven for discussions about the best bike trails, gear reviews, and sharing the sheer joy of cycling. But then, like a derailleur going haywire, things took an unexpected turn.

It all started innocuously enough with a post about bike lane safety. But before anyone could say "Schwinn," the comments section exploded into a battleground of pronouns. Suddenly, the group wasn't just about cycling anymore; it had become a crucible for debates about gender identity, preferred pronouns, and the perceived sins of cis-normativity. The once harmonious cycling group had morphed into what could only be described as a Pronoun Dystopia.

Cyclists who just wanted to discuss the merits of carbon vs. aluminum frames found themselves navigating a labyrinth of linguistic landmines. Every post required a preface: "Before I share my thoughts on the best pedals for mountain biking, let me first state my pronouns are they/them." Even the bots that moderated the group seemed confused, occasionally chiming in with their own preferred pronouns.

The tipping point came when someone innocently posted a picture of their new bike. What should have been a simple "Nice ride!" thread turned into an 800-comment debate on the ethics of gendering inanimate objects. "Is your bike a 'he' or a 'she'?" one member inquired. "Why does it matter?" another retorted. "Bikes have no gender!" proclaimed a third. Meanwhile, the poor bike owner just wanted to know if anyone had tips for adjusting the seat height.

By 2022, many of the original members had fled to quieter pastures, creating offshoot groups where the focus remained squarely on cycling. But like all trends, the Pronoun Dystopia began to wane. People started to realize that while pronouns are important, perhaps a Facebook group about cycling wasn't the best place for these debates.

Fast forward to 2024, and there's a palpable sense of normality creeping back in. The great pronoun debates have largely subsided, replaced once more with discussions about the best biking routes, upcoming cycling events, and the eternal debate of road bikes vs. mountain bikes. It’s as if the group collectively exhaled and decided that maybe, just maybe, they could focus on their shared love of cycling without getting bogged down in identity politics.

There’s a newfound balance in the group now. Discussions are respectful, and while pronouns are still respected and acknowledged, they’re not the central topic of every conversation. It's a refreshing change, like the wind in your hair as you coast down a hill on a sunny day.

In the end, the cycling Facebook group weathered the storm of the Pronoun Dystopia and emerged stronger. Members learned a lot about each other, about respect, and about the importance of focusing on common interests. So here’s to 2024, a year where we can finally get back to what really matters: the joy of cycling, the thrill of the open road, and the never-ending quest for the perfect bike seat.

Music:

Buffalo Springfield - For What it's Worth
The Drifters - Up on the Roof

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Episode 154

England. The country that gave the world the beautiful game, only to continually break our hearts with it. Supporting the England football team is like riding an emotional rollercoaster that’s perpetually stuck in a loop of thrilling climbs and devastating drops. It's an exercise in both loyalty and masochism, and the recent Euro final against Spain was no exception.

There we were, once again, donning our Three Lions jerseys, our faces painted with the St. George's cross, and our hearts full of hope. The anticipation was palpable. Could this be the year? Could we finally bring football home? Spoiler alert: No. Football has its bags permanently packed for Spain, it seems.

As the game kicked off, there was a collective roar from living rooms and pubs across the nation. We were ready, our spirits high and our faith unshakable. Fast forward to the second half, and there we were, watching Cole Palmer equalize. "Here we go again," we thought, "this is it, the comeback kings are back." But then, in typical England fashion, we conceded late, and our dreams were dashed once more.

The post-match scenes were as predictable as the plot of a soap opera. Grown men in Gareth Southgate waistcoats crying into their pints, kids asking their parents why football hates England, and everyone else wondering why we put ourselves through this emotional wringer every couple of years. Being an England supporter is energy-sapping work, akin to running a marathon with lead boots on.

We invented this game, for crying out loud! The irony is rich. It’s like we’re the chefs who created a Michelin-starred dish but keep burning it in our own kitchen. Other nations must look at us with a mix of sympathy and amusement, much like you’d watch someone who insists on assembling IKEA furniture without the instructions.

Every tournament, we dust off our flags, dig out our vintage '66 World Cup jerseys, and declare that this is our year. We put our hopes and dreams into players who promise much but deliver heartbreak. Harry Kane, our noble captain, might as well be called the Duke of Disappointment at this point. It’s not his fault, of course. The lad does his best, but it's hard to lead a charge when the universe seems to have a vendetta against your team.

And then there’s Gareth Southgate, the man with the plan, the waistcoat-wearing wonder who has restored our faith and then shattered it with the same devastating efficiency. He’s the dad who promises a trip to Disneyland but takes you to the local funfair instead. We love him, we hate him, we want him to stay, and we want him to go. It’s complicated, like any long-term relationship.

So why do we keep coming back for more? Why do we subject ourselves to this endless cycle of hope and despair? Because we’re England fans, that’s why. It’s in our DNA to believe that one day, somehow, we’ll get it right. That the stars will align, the gods of football will smile upon us, and we’ll finally win that elusive trophy.

Until then, we’ll keep cheering, keep believing, and keep getting our hearts broken. We’ll toast to the highs, cry through the lows, and come back for more. Because that’s what it means to be an England supporter. And who knows? Maybe next time, football really will come home. Or maybe not. Either way, we’ll be there, waving our flags and daring to dream.

Music:

Shirley Bassey - History Repeating
The Jam - A Town Called Malice

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Episode 153

Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed listeners of our humble podcast, it’s time for me to eat a slice of humble pie. Or, in this case, a whole bakery's worth. I've been banging on for weeks about how England didn’t stand a chance in the Euros. I mean, I’ve been more negative than a grumpy cat in a rainstorm. And now, here I am, being made to eat my words by none other than Ollie Watkins, who's just fired England into the final.

Ollie, mate, I owe you a pint, a pizza, and possibly my firstborn. Seriously, folks, I was convinced England’s chances were as dead as my nan’s social life. But, Ollie Watkins decided to take my skepticism, wrap it in a nice package, and kick it straight into the back of the net.

Let’s get real for a second. I was more certain of England losing than I am about gravity keeping my beer on the ground. I was out here saying things like “England? Win? Yeah, and pigs might fly.” Turns out, the only thing flying was Watkins’ shot into the goal. I’ve been more wrong than a man showing up to a nudist beach in a three-piece suit.

So, here I am, hat in hand, eating crow, and any other idioms that describe the glorious sensation of being utterly and completely wrong. Ollie Watkins, if you’re listening, I hope you’re enjoying this as much as I am. Actually, probably more because I’m not enjoying this at all. I’m a comedian, not a bloody psychic.

To my loyal listeners, I apologize for my negativity. Clearly, my crystal ball was cracked, and my tarot cards were drunk. I’ll try to be more optimistic moving forward, but no promises. I’ve still got trust issues from all those missed penalties in the past. But hey, if England brings it home, I’ll happily eat my words again. And this time, I’ll wash them down with a pint of victory ale.

Here's to hoping the final is as fantastic as Ollie Watkins making me look like a complete idiot. Cheers, folks!


Music:

Primal Scream - Moving on Up
Pulp - Do you Remember the First Time

4o

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