So here we are again. The start of a new year—depending of course on your calendar of choice. Yet again we were lured past midnight on New Year’s Eve by the promise of big fireworks (Caversham, you did not disappoint. House Beast Millie slept through the lot) and actual house guests. Thai takeaway and half a bottle of Kraken is a good way to put 2025 in the rear-view mirror.
Inevitably, even though I know the whole situation is a social and political construct loosely hanging onto seasonal cycles and I really should be doing this on the Winter Solstice, I have an an itch to clean up and get ready for the next twelve-month of challenges. Give Harvette a clean and fettle after our Kentish adventure, de-Christmas the house and begin work on the longer-term plans for C’s lady-shed at the bottom of the garden, the ongoing trash-heap in the garage and improvements to the office.
Who knows, I might even try to squeeze some writing in there somewhere.
We go again. Let’s have it.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you plan to spend 2026, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
You might want to settle in for this one. If your knowledge of The X-Men only extends as far as the movies or (strongly recommended) animated TV shows, well, the comics have left you far behind.
The past few years of X-tremely X-aggerated aXtion have focused around the living island of Krakoa, which has allowed all mutants to reincarnate into newly cloned bodies if they die—effectively, immortality. Krakoa becomes a haven and home nation for mutant kind. All are welcome, even the bad guys.
One such villain, the mad scientist Mister Sinister, decides he’s unhappy with just being a cog in the big wheel and tweaks the reincarnation protocol to subtly rewrite the personalities of anyone who dies. They become—not slaves, but certainly more amenable to his way of thinking. Krakoa becomes One Nation Under Sinister.
But his plans are bigger than simple domination. He is in a race against time and a vast artificial intelligence for the ability to transcend the bounds of physical existence, subliming to a higher plane. To that end, he is using the powers of a mutant, Moira McTaggart, who, when she dies, resets the entire timeline. He can experiment to his heart’s content, using Moira as a save point if things go pear-shaped.
Got all that? The above is very basic background. I’ve left out a ton of fairly important stuff to get you up to speed.
Sins Of Sinister (yes, finally) explores a timeline where the titular bad guy can’t get to his Moira, and the future runs out of his control. Over a thousand years, we see cloned aspects of Sinister plot against him and build their own vast empires, as alien civilisations raise banners against them crazy Earth types.
As wild-eyed over-caffeinated space opera goes, this can’t really be beaten. Largely overseen by British writers like Al Ewing and Kieron Gillen and a superstar lineup of artists, Sins Of Sinister is utterly, deliriously bonkers. If you’re a fan of the X-verse and are reasonably conversant with the last five years of storyline, you’ll have a blast. If not, you won’t have a clue what’s going on. As such, I can’t really recommend Sins Of Sinister to anyone but a very narrow tranche of readers. A real shame, because this sort of craft and invention really should be more celebrated.
Rob is watching…
The Night Manager, season two. Just as twisty, turny and remorseless as the original. Has it really been ten years since the first one? The legacy of the evil Richard Roper continues to poison everyone he came into contact with. A new heir is carrying on the work he started, and Jonathon Pine must again step out of the shadows to confront this new threat. Please stop calling this Tom Hiddleston’s audition for Bond. The Night Manager is far, far more interesting than that tired old franchise.
Rob is listening…
to Beck. Specifically the opening track to Morning Phase, which I included as part of a melancholy, slightly indulgent playlist I made for myself on the eve of my birthday. No, you can’t listen to it. But the three-note chime which punctuates this song slipped into my bones and has been a sort of sonic balm through the Christmas season. A quiet source of comfort.
Rob is eating…
Go on, guess. The same as you, probably.
Although I did come up with a sort of slumgullion relish/condiment frankensauce made up from blitzed and strained pomegranate seeds, half a jar of cranberry sauce and a couple of teasponns of gochujang. Sorta fruity spicy ketchup vibes.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
Zip-through cardigans. As age slides onto my shoulders, I find comfort in dressing like a grandad. In this cold weather, cardys are very practical—warm enough if you need to pop down to the corner shop for a pint of milk (especially if you choose one with a funnel neck), easily shed when you’re back indoors. The full zip adds a further element of friction-free use, and yes, there are usually pockets. I never pretended to be fashionable or stylish, so embracing the cardy feels like a quiet statement in itself.
Another project for the new year, I suspect. We currently have Averna, Montenegro, Cynar and good old Campari in the house. The idea of a home-made amaro is extremely tempting for a fresh spin on my beloved Negroni.
I touched on this a bit in last week’s post and, well, you all had just better watch out. I believe I am about to enter my grumpy old man era. No more Mr. Nice Rob.
I am. Stop laughing.
I live two minutes walk from the nearest pub, five minutes from two Co-Ops, a pharmacy and a chippy, and yes, probably fifteen minutes from Caversham centre which has everything C and I need. The choices we made when moving to Reading twenty-some years ago centred on this sort of accessibility. Anyone who claims fifteen-minute cities are a conspiracy or attempt to limit our essential freedoms is talking bollocks or trying to sell you something.
The joy of the first Star Wars movie was how hand-crafted it all felt. A lived-in universe, grubby, a bit shonky, cobbled together out of materials which could be cheaply acquired or re-tasked.
Which was exactly how the ground-breaking special effects of the film came to the screen. A long and geeky read, this, but well worth it. Industrial Light And Magic were very well named.
It takes game to recognise game. One of our best writers on legal matters, DAT Green, knows whereof they speak when celebrating Jane Austen as an elegant and sharply observant commentator on the vagaries of nineteenth-century property and inheritance law.
I have sometimes been asked why I spend time and effort on The Swipe every week. Although it’s pleasing to see reader numbers creep up over the last twelve months, there’s certainly no financial reason for banging out ten links and a song for 10am on a Saturday morning. The simple answer—I do it because it’s fun.
I’m not crying, you’re crying.
The History Of One Tough Motherfucker
The town of Valdez came up as a question in last week’s University Challenge, which made me even happier to have read this mind-expanding long read from Erin Kissane. It takes us through a report into one of Alaska’s most terrible earthquakes before retasking it as metaphor to make some pretty salient points ablout where we stand as a culture. Well worth the time.
I really hoped the AI bubble would have popped by now. Oh well, fingers crossed for 2026. While we wait, I present a couple of links which I fully endorse, ensuring you know Excuses And Half Truths remains hand-crafted and human-made. Flawed, fallible, fabulous and deeply in love with the m-dash.
Chuck Wendig Vs Six Non-existant Cats
A little January calender from Austin Kleon to finish us off. If you were planning on starting a new daily venture in January use this, cross off every day you manage something, and feel merit in the process of sucking less.
(Yes, I know you’re getting this three days in. Best crack on, then.)
We Outro with a little piece of Heaven. The Cocteau Twins live in San Francisco in 1991 during the Heaven Or Las Vegas tour. Headphones on, please, and let this wash over you.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
EXCUSES AND HALF TRUTHS 