The Weekly Squeeze: How Much Is the Fish?

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This week’s mood: tired, raining, dogs staring out of the window. Still raining. Meanwhile, the world continues its ambitious journey up its own arse.

Trump says he asked Google about renaming the Atlantic. Google hasn’t independently confirmed the conversation. Apparently, being president now involves treating geography like a hotel portfolio. Sir, leave the dolphins out of your branding exercise.

Personally, I’d like Google Maps to rename my sofa The Autonomous Republic of Leave Me the Fuck Alone.

At least my territorial ambitions come with a blanket.

Musk responded to possible congressional scrutiny with sword metaphors. Trump declared imported wind turbines and their components a security concern. A billionaire wants a sword; a president fears windmills. Don Quixote would like his fucking royalties.

So I became Batman. The bullshit signal went up. Eazy and Hazel ate the Robin costumes. The most sensible staffing decision of the week.

Closer to home, France is dealing with the aftermath of violent clashes and fires alongside peaceful protests on October 17. Germany’s “Gen Z regelt” is mobilising for Halloween, with support from Die Linke and warnings about extremist involvement. The organisers reject violence. Good. Better education is a demand; somebody’s burning car is not an argument.

In Corporate Hunger Games: over 100 applications since June, one human conversation, and enough CV revisions to qualify for a literary prize. Everyone has advice. Most of it comes with a checkout.

I’m considering a farm in Sweden. If I’m shovelling shit, I’d like to identify the animal responsible.

Somehow, I also released music as Dani Lemonade: Lemon Baby, Pandemic Magic, Welcome to the Grift Show, Bad Idea, Trouble Looks Good on Me, Space Odyssey and All Tricks, No Treats—including Sim Salabim and the Industrial and Techno mixes of Welcome to the Sh1t Show!

An accidental soundtrack to current affairs. Listen through Zesty Lemon Records. My remaining patience has been converted into bass.

There was one peaceful moment: two deer beside hay bales, looking like giant snails with antlers. Excellent pace. Strong boundaries. No campaign speeches.

On Sunday, we’re off to ADE for Scooter.

“How much is the fish?” could now pass for a Trump economic briefing. Add an ice cream van and some questionable directions, and you’ve practically written the next rally.

At least Scooter’s nonsense comes with a beat.

Still tired. Still unimpressed. But for a few hours, the loudest man in the room will be one I deliberately paid to hear.

The bullshit signal can wait. I’m going dancing.