Just Passing Through Podcast

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Episode 161

So there I was, a disciplined warrior of fitness and health, a paragon of self-control, fasting until 2 PM like a monk on a spiritual quest. I was the kind of person who could walk past a donut shop without even a twitch in my resolve. But then, I got a peek behind the curtain of retirement life. Four days off—four glorious, structure-free days. What could go wrong?

Turns out, everything.

Day one, I woke up with the sun shining through the windows, the birds chirping outside, and I thought, "You know what? I deserve a treat." Next thing I know, I'm face-deep in a bowl  12 PM, feeling like a rebel without a cause. The gym? A distant memory. I traded my kettlebells for the TV remote, and my workout gear for pajamas—yes, the ones with the elastic waistband because, well, you know.

Day two, I was firmly entrenched in the chaos. Breakfast? Why not. Second breakfast? Sure. Elevensies? Don't mind if I do! My fridge, which once housed kale, quinoa, and righteous intentions, was now a crime scene of leftover pizza and half-eaten bags of chips. I wasn't just off the wagon; I was driving it straight into the nearest fast-food drive-thru.

By day three, I was on a first-name basis with the delivery guy. I forgot what "clean eating" even meant—was it when you wipe the crumbs off your shirt before grabbing the next snack? And lifting? The only thing I lifted was the lid of another box of donuts. My muscles started texting me, "Miss you, bro." I left them on read.

Day four arrived, and I realized I had become the very thing I swore to destroy: a retiree without a mission. I had fallen so far, so fast, that I half-expected to find myself in one of those "Before" pictures on a fitness ad. You know, the kind where the guy looks like he’s been wrestling with doughnuts instead of dumbbells.

But as I clawed my way back to the land of structure and discipline, I learned a valuable lesson: Life without routine is like a treadmill with no speed control—you either stand still or fly off into the junk food aisle. Retirement might be a long way off, but I've seen the darkness that lies beyond the 9-to-5, and let me tell you, it's paved with potato chips and procrastination.

So, here’s to getting back on track, one broccoli floret at a time. Because chaos is fun for a weekend, but I'd rather spend my golden years lifting weights than lifting pizza boxes.

Put it Off - Dolly Parton
Suede - Trash

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Episode 160

In a shocking and bizarre turn of events, reports have emerged that immigrants crossing the U.S. border are opting to eat cats and dogs rather than risk a meal at Burger King. The reason? According to some, the food at Burger King is just that bad.

One anonymous source close to the situation explained, "Look, these people have been through hell to get here. They’ve faced harsh conditions, crossed dangerous terrain, and survived on almost nothing. But once they set foot in the U.S., they’re confronted with the so-called 'food' at Burger King, and frankly, they’re saying ‘no thanks.’"

Rumors have swirled about the quality of food at the popular fast-food chain, with one recent immigrant reportedly stating, "I’ve eaten things you wouldn’t believe to survive, but I draw the line at that Whopper. I saw the sign, I smelled the grease, and I decided my best bet was catching a stray cat instead. At least that’s fresh."

Another, trying to blend into American culture, took a bite of a Burger King chicken sandwich but had an immediate change of heart. "I thought, ‘This is what Americans eat? I’ve been lied to.’ My friend had better luck grilling a street dog behind the parking lot. A little seasoning, and it was way better than that so-called burger."

The trend has sparked a wave of confusion among Burger King locations near the border, where staff have noticed a sudden drop in immigrant customers. One manager in El Paso commented, "I don’t get it. We’re offering them a flame-grilled experience, but they’re heading off to catch pigeons and stray animals instead. It’s disheartening."

The immigrants’ newfound preference for street food over fast food has raised eyebrows across the nation. One nutritionist weighed in, saying, "Look, I’m not saying eating cats and dogs is a healthy choice, but after looking at the sodium and fat content in some of these fast-food meals, I can see why they’re making that decision."

Meanwhile, local shelters have seen a rise in missing pets, with one border town vet joking, "Who knew the secret to avoiding fast food indigestion was just a little bit of fur?"

Burger King, in response to the unexpected PR nightmare, has released a statement assuring customers that their food meets “strict safety guidelines” and does not pose the risk of the "gastrointestinal adventures" reportedly being caused by street cuisine.

But the immigrants, fresh off their perilous journeys, seem to have made up their minds. As one weary traveler put it, "I’ve eaten some strange things to get here, but after that trip, I just can’t do a Whopper. I’d rather take my chances with the alley cats."

Whether this becomes a lasting trend or simply another chapter in the complex world of immigration and food remains to be seen. But one thing is certain: when it comes to fast food, even after enduring the harshest conditions, some immigrants are saying, "No thanks, Burger King. I’ll stick to the street menu."

Steve Jones Duff McKagan - Elected
John Lennon - Power to the People

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Episode 159

So, I’ve just come back from the UK, right? Honestly, I’ve eaten so much cheese, I’m practically sweating cheddar. I’m talking the full Monty – Brie, Stilton, Red Leicester – the whole cheese board. It’s like I went on a one-man mission to prop up the British dairy industry. You know it’s bad when you have a full English breakfast, and you’re sprinkling cheese on your bacon. I was that guy.

And let me tell you, when you’re not used to it, your stomach goes, "Nah, love, we don’t do this anymore." I’m in Japan, right? Lovely country, great food, but they’re mostly lactose intolerant. This means I’m safe from the dairy demons. You know, the moment I touched down in the UK, it was like my body went, "Well, there’s no lactose intolerance here, is there? Fill your boots!" Before I knew it, I was ordering triple-cheese pizzas like they were going out of fashion.

By the end of it, I was having cheese dreams – and not the good ones where you're floating on a cloud of mozzarella. No, it was like I was being chased by a giant wheel of Wensleydale down a hill, with no escape. It was a cheesy nightmare. But could I stop? No chance! Cheese became my best mate, and I was like, "Just one more slice, come on." Like a junkie, but with cheese.

Anyway, I get back to Japan – and I’m lugging around an extra two kilos of pure cheese weight. I swear to God, if the cheese had any more power over me, I’d have to apply for dual citizenship. The thing is, the Japanese are mostly lactose intolerant – God bless 'em – and thank God for it because if I lived in a country that embraced dairy the way the UK does, I’d be banging on even more than the two kilos I already did. I’d have a dedicated cheese fridge, a fondue fountain in the kitchen, and be mainlining cheddar in the mornings.

But here, in Japan, it’s all rice and fish. Proper food, innit? I’ve never been so happy to see a plate of sushi in my life. It’s like my stomach took a bow and went, “Finally! Some bloody relief!” Honestly, my body feels like it’s been through a traumatic experience – a cheese-induced hostage situation, and it’s only just come out the other side.

And then – wait for it – my old employer here in Japan gets in touch. “Fancy coming back to work?” Coming back?! Mate, you had me stuck in endless meetings with nothing but vending machine coffee and "ganbatte" pep talks. No, ta, pal! The last time I worked there, I nearly lost my mind from the company-wide emails about whose bento smelled like fermented nightmares. I’m not going back to a place where the daily excitement is a new brand of instant ramen in the breakroom. No way, mate, I’ve just survived the cheese apocalypse; I’m not signing up for round two in the land of never-ending overtime.

So here I am, two kilos heavier, recovering from a dairy binge, and politely telling my old boss in Japan to jog on. Japan, thank you for your lactose intolerance. You’ve saved me from a life of cheese addiction and workplace purgatory.

Music: 

Kulashaker -Hush
James - Getting Away wit It

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Episode 158

So, Oasis is reuniting in 2025? I should be excited, right? Back in '94, they were the kings of my world. I was 23, full of piss and vinegar, and those Gallagher brothers were the soundtrack to my wild, reckless youth. Nights spent dropping pills, sniffing powder, and guzzling pints like there was no tomorrow, all while shouting along to "Wonderwall" like it was some kind of anthem.

But now? Now I’m in my 50s, and the idea of reliving those days feels about as appealing as a night on the town with a dodgy curry and no bathroom in sight. I’ve swapped late-night benders for early mornings with the dog, and the only thing I’m popping these days are multivitamins. The thought of seeing those lads on stage, possibly looking as knackered as I feel, just doesn’t hit the same.

Sure, Oasis made the 90s unforgettable, but do I really want to see them now, when my knees creak louder than their guitars? The idea of watching them belt out tunes while I sip on a ginger tea just feels… well, tragic. Nostalgia’s a funny thing—it’s like a pint of Guinness: great at the time, but too many years down the line, it’s just not worth the hangover.

Music: Oasis

You know the anthems!!!

Keep on downloading folks.

Darren.

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Episode 157

Ah, Britain—a land of rolling hills, quaint tea shops, and, apparently, rioting racists who couldn’t run a mile even if you promised them a free sausage roll at the finish line. Yes, the recent uproar in some corners of the nation has done more than just disrupt the peace. It’s exposed the far right for what they truly are: a motley crew of pie-pinching, high-blood-pressure enthusiasts who wouldn’t look out of place on the set of a particularly greasy episode of "Britain’s Got No Talent."

Let’s be honest here—nothing says "serious political movement" quite like a bunch of middle-aged men huffing and puffing their way down the high street, red-faced and sweaty, looking like they’ve just polished off the last steak bake at Greggs. If you squint, you could almost mistake them for disgruntled customers who’ve just found out that Greggs is all out of cheese and onion pasties. But no, these chaps have a cause, though it’s hard to take them seriously when half of them look like they’d trade their Union Jack flags for a half-price deal on sausage rolls.

It’s not just the waistlines that are expanding; it’s the irony too. Here we have a group of people who, on the one hand, preach about the purity of the nation, and on the other, seem to spend an inordinate amount of time loitering outside Greggs, clutching brown paper bags filled with the very pastries they’ve just nicked from under the nose of the bewildered cashier. Their so-called "uprisings" often seem to coincide with a shortage of steak bakes, as if their fury is fueled not by some misguided ideology, but by hunger pangs.

You can almost picture the scene: a local pie shop, the heart of the community, suddenly overrun by an army of red-faced, heavy-breathing blokes in ill-fitting tracksuits. "Give us our country back!" they bellow, but their words are muffled by the mouthfuls of flaky pastry they’ve just inhaled. It’s a sight to behold—a patriotic protest turning into a pie-eating contest before your very eyes. If only the revolution were televised; the nation could tune in, popcorn in hand, to watch as these self-styled saviors of Britain struggle to button their trousers.

One can’t help but marvel at the sheer audacity. These are the people who claim to protect British values, yet they can’t seem to walk past a Greggs without succumbing to the lure of a hot, buttery pastry. Perhaps they’re just misunderstood; maybe their entire movement is just an elaborate ploy to protest the lack of gluten-free options. It’s not xenophobia—it’s dietary distress!

Their rallies, if you can call them that, are less a show of force and more a parade of poor life choices. The aftermath often resembles the aftermath of a particularly rowdy office Christmas party—except instead of photocopied body parts and bad karaoke, you’re left with a trail of discarded pastry wrappers and the faint smell of indigestion.

And so, as Britain watched these "patriots" huff and puff their way through the streets, one thing became clear: the far right isn’t just dangerous, it’s also delightfully absurd. They may talk big, but their actions—particularly the ones involving baked goods—speak louder than words. In the end, it turns out that the greatest threat to Britain’s far-right isn’t immigration or multiculturalism; it’s a well-stocked Greggs and the rising threat of heart disease.

Music:
The Loving Spoonful - Summer in the City
Three Dog Night - Joy to the World

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Episode 156

Swapping Zushi's Sun for Bradford's Clouds: A Tale of Two Cities

As the summer sun beams down on the golden sands of Zushi, Japan, I find myself in a bittersweet state. Zushi, with its shimmering sea and vibrant beach life, is my haven. Every summer, the beach transforms into a lively playground where locals and tourists alike bask in the sun, indulge in water sports, and enjoy the relaxed, seaside atmosphere. Yet, this year, I must leave this paradise behind for the sake of family and friends. My destination? Bradford, UK—a city known more for its industrial history than its holiday appeal.

The thought of trading Zushi's idyllic beaches for Bradford's concrete jungle feels like a cruel twist of fate. Here in Zushi, the sea is a comforting constant, its waves gently lapping at the shore, creating a soothing soundtrack to my summer days. The vibrant blue waters invite swimmers, surfers, and paddleboarders, while the soft sands provide the perfect spot for sunbathing and beach volleyball. The scent of saltwater and sunscreen fills the air, and the days are long and lazy, filled with laughter and the simple pleasures of seaside living.

In contrast, Bradford is a stark departure from this seaside utopia. Nestled in West Yorkshire, it is a city defined by its industrial past. The old mills and factories tell a story of a bygone era, and while there's a certain charm to its gritty, urban landscape, it’s not exactly what one envisions when dreaming of a summer holiday. The weather, too, is a far cry from Zushi's sun-soaked days. Grey skies and drizzle are more common than sunshine, and the closest thing to a beach is likely a pebbled riverside.

However, what Bradford lacks in coastal charm, it makes up for in the warmth of its people. My family and friends are the heart and soul of my connection to this city. Every summer, I make the pilgrimage to Bradford to reconnect with loved ones. The embrace of family, the familiar laughter, and the shared stories create a different kind of warmth, one that no amount of sunshine can replace.

In Bradford, I trade beach parties for barbecues in backyards, and seaside strolls for walks in lush, green parks. The city is home to a rich cultural tapestry, and I find joy in exploring its vibrant arts scene, sampling delicious curries on the famous Curry Mile, and visiting historical landmarks like the National Science and Media Museum. There's a sense of community in Bradford that's hard to find anywhere else, and despite its urban setting, the nearby Yorkshire Dales offer a taste of nature's beauty, albeit a different kind from Zushi's sandy shores.

Yet, I can’t help but feel a pang of longing for Zushi’s beach life. The contrast is stark, and as I pack my bags, I dream of the sea breeze and the warm sands. But I remind myself that this sacrifice is worth it. The bonds of family and friendship are powerful, and sometimes, the best memories are made not in the perfect settings, but in the company of those we hold dear.

So, as I prepare to bid farewell to Zushi’s sun-drenched shores and embrace the overcast skies of Bradford, I do so with a mix of reluctance and anticipation. I'll miss the sea, the sand, and the endless summer days, but I look forward to the hugs, the laughter, and the shared moments with family and friends. After all, holidays are not just about the destination, but about the people we share them with. And while Bradford might not be everyone's idea of a summer getaway, for me, it's a reminder that home is where the heart is, even if it means trading a beach fo

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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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Episode 152

Why, oh why, do I do this to myself? Here I am, a 53-year-old man, dragging myself out of bed at the ungodly hour of 4 AM in Japan, all to watch England play football. Yes, England. The team that insists on playing with my heartstrings like a cat with a ball of yarn.

So there I am, half-asleep, barely conscious, clutching my mug of coffee like it's a lifeline. The Euros are on, and it's England versus Switzerland in Germany. Penalties. Again. My nerves are shot. We win, but it's like watching a drunk tightrope walker: thrilling, terrifying, and you’re just glad they didn’t fall.

Next up, Holland. Great. More anxiety. I swear, watching England play is like having a second job that pays in heart palpitations and grey hairs. But then there's Saka. That lad. He steps up and scores his penalty, shoving it right up the arses of those racist idiots who abused him online three years ago. Talk about sweet revenge! If I wasn't so tired, I'd have danced around my living room.

But seriously, why do I put myself through this? The time difference is killing me. My internal clock is so messed up I wouldn't be surprised if I started sleepwalking. And the games! England are winning, but badly. It's like they’re playing a game of "How can we make this look as difficult as possible?"

I know, I know. I could just record the games and watch them at a reasonable hour. But where’s the fun in that? Live football is like a live horror movie: you can't look away, even though you kind of want to.

So here I am, anxiously waiting for the game against Holland. My brain’s yelling, "Why are you doing this? Get some sleep!" But my heart's whispering, "Come on, you know you love it." And it's right. For all the stress and early mornings, there's nothing like the thrill of the game, even when it feels like it might just kill me.

Besides, if Saka can face down his demons and shut up the racists, I can face a few early mornings and a bit of anxiety. Bring it on, Holland. Bring. It. On.

Music:

Take Me Out - Franz Ferdinand
Feel It Still - Portugal.The Man

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