Blogging Volumes

In possibly the most talked-about single act of protest the climate movement has achieved thus far, last October, two young people from Just Stop Oil threw a can of Heinz cream of tomato soup on Van Gogh’s world-beloved Sunflowers painting. Phoebe and Anna We know what the humans thought of it. Thanks to extensive global press coverage, social media ‘virality’, and the fact that it made enough of an impression to become a talking point in everyday conversation, we’ve gotten the picture, so to speak, of public opinion. But what about the microbes living in the soup that was thrown? What did they think, being transported at high speed through the air, to be splattered on the glass in front of a masterpiece? What would the cow, tortured and slaughtered to put the cream in the cream of tomato, think of the action? What about the tomatoes? These are laughable questions. According to everything we’ve been taught by anthropocentric society, the opinions of plants, animals, microbes and inse...

This   speech was delivered at Newcastle Civic Center on the 20th of November 2022, as a part of the Trans Day of Remembrance. This event is here to talk about the violence faced at the end of many trans people's lives. But it must be remembered that this violence begins right at the start of a trans person's life, when they breathe their first gasp of oxygen in this world, and based on one body part, a category is stamped on that person without their knowledge. That category bleeds out into their every social interaction, their every blink in the mirror, every time they step out of their home, every time they come back to their home, every time they shop for clothes or sing or eat or cry or don't cry or laugh or hug someone or get spat at on the street or get told they're beautiful or watch a romcom with a man and a woman after the last romcom with a man and a woman after the last twenty one years of their life looking at men and women and not seeing themselves, and th...

This week, I left Just Stop Oil. Since April this year, I have given months of my life, multiple arrests, my mind, my voice, my heart and my energy to Just Stop Oil. It’s cost me a relationship, the respect of some friends, and caused many arguments with my family. The arrests mean I’ll likely struggle to work in the education sector, and limit my general career prospects. More than that, working for Just Stop Oil has come at the cost of my mental health. I’ve noticed myself reading less, sleeping badly, spending most of my days angry, in despair, and have developed bad habits of toxic resentment that will take a long time to work beyond. My issues with Just Stop Oil started right at the first talk I went to, given by two people I’ve got deep love and respect for and have been on arrestable actions with since. Their messaging was about “the truth”, and about how high-profile “sacrifice” is needed to stop oil before we reach a “tipping point”. This initial talk exhibited all the problem...

A couple of weeks ago, I sprayed bright orange paint all over the windows of an Aston Martin storefront in London, then gave a speech about the climate emergency we're living in. I quoted the UN's Secretary-General, who has called our government "dangerous radicals" for pushing through genocidal oil and gas expansion policies that will, in no uncertain terms, kill millions of people, predominantly in the Global South. I reminded people of the context of my action: floodwaters from monsoons and glacial melt ripped 33 million people from their homes, permanently obliterating schools, hospitals, and crops across Pakistan, just last month . 16 million of those scattered from safety were children. Our moral situation right now is this: we act on the climate crisis and save billions from the horror of forced migration over the coming decades, or we get distracted by division, and allow billionaires to profit on the largest genocide the world has ever seen. Most of the comme...

Lauren is still getting used to her world. Her world is still getting used to Lauren. She stumbles where she would swoosh, stammers where she would speak, sits slowly, still unsure of how to swing a skirt over even a low bench. She still sings; music moves her the same, although "man, I feel like a woman" now sends shockwaves, shivers, spineward. Lauren gets looks. Lauren gets looks of curiosity from children, of love from those who know her, who know where she comes from; Lauren gets looks like Lauren came into the world on the bottom of a boot. A boot that had walked through a hundred miles of shit. Lauren gets looks from herself, posing back at herself, posing as herself, posing. She poses. In front of clothes-shop windows, reflection as feminine as the mannequins without heads who stare with their slender shoulders into the flowing of bodies on the street. Lauren looks at the looks she gets, lucky to get good looks or to feel good-looking and even luckier to not care. Tho...