What's Next?

Finding a path forward when the path behind you has been anything but a straight line.

(A group of people tied Union flags high on lampposts in Luckwell Road and Duckmoor Road in Bedminster, South Bristol, on the evening of Wednesday, September 10, 2025 - Bristol Post.)

A satirical commentary on modern community tensions, Bristol life, and the endless cycle of digital noise - September 2025.

You see, I have no idea what’s next, as far as the environment outside of my building is concerned. Having learnt of a tribe of three exclaiming their new kingdom north of the border yesterday, my trip into the surreal the day before, and the even more surreal journey into the even more surreal the day before that—and all of which I have recorded in writing, by the way—the home gym of my mind has exhausted every single, metaphorical thinking muscle in my head.

Yet, here I am, soldiering on, determined to reach beyond the front line and into mental enema territory. As per usual, I have no idea what I’m talking about, but probably even more so as the laxative of the world outside the safety of these walls continues to work its way through.

Marcus Aurelius suggests that the most profound “retreat” isn’t a physical place but a mental state. By stepping back from external chaos, cultivating stillness within your thoughts, and focusing on what you can control (your actions, judgements, and perceptions), you can find a deep sense of peace and renewal. The front line, and beyond, I speak of, is, therefore, one of hope.

So it is that I learnt something today, called the ‘Socratic Paradox,’ attributed to the ancient Greek philosopher Socrates. He famously said, “I know that I know nothing.” The story goes that the Oracle at Delphi declared Socrates the wisest man in Athens. Socrates, in his characteristic humility, couldn’t believe it. He sought out people who were considered wise—politicians, poets, and artisans—to prove the oracle wrong. However, he found that whilst they all claimed to know a great deal, they actually knew very little.

Socrates concluded that his own wisdom lay in his awareness of his own ignorance. Well, doesn’t that just sum me up? Except with metaphorical ‘L’ plates, of course. So... yes. The more I know, the less I know. And, quite possibly, the less I know, the better.

This wisdom feels particularly relevant in our current age. However, I seem stuck in this world of phone tech, where it seems every part of my existence is now recorded, and items of absolutely no real consequence to me pop up faster than spring daffodils, and keep on coming.

Sometimes, I wish I were born a far more intelligent person than I am. You know, more able to cope with the tsunami of shit I find myself caught in, that never really existed before some plonker invented the mobile phone. On the plus side, though, it also provides me with the means to flush it all away in the form of these articles I write, whatever this is, like the great tempest that has brewed in a South Bristol teacup.

The South Bristol Flag Saga.

The whole affair has unfolded with all the glorious, flag-waving absurdity one could ever hope for. It appears that in the grand theatre of suburban life, the most pressing matter of the day is a high-stakes, low-stakes game of flag-on, flag-off.

The players in this thrilling drama are, on one side, a group of residents who, with the patriotic fervour of a thousand football matches, tied St. George’s flags to every available lamppost. On the other side, an equally passionate group of neighbours who, with the righteous indignation of a thousand angry tweets, decided these flags must simply go.

What followed was a confrontation of epic proportions, a true clash of titans where the battlefield was a quiet residential street and the weapons were accusations, camera phones, and, allegedly, one unfortunate lamppost flag that became a bone of contention. One can almost hear the stirring soundtrack as the drama unfolded: accusations of theft and assault, a man in a blue sweater “aggressively trying to get up in our group’s faces,” and a claim that a woman was “knocked to the ground” in the noble pursuit of flag retrieval.

It’s the kind of story that reminds us that whilst the rest of the world worries about climate change and economic collapse, some people are truly dedicating their energies to what matters: who gets to put up, or take down, a small piece of cloth.

The police, bless their hearts, were called to this thrilling scene. One can only imagine the look on the officers’ faces as they received the report: a flag-related kerfuffle. After a mediation session that felt more like a polite hostage negotiation, a truce was brokered. The agreement? A perfectly British, passive-aggressive compromise.

One side will continue to put up flags, the other will continue to take them down, and if they happen to bump into each other, they’ll simply ask for their flags back. It’s a system so flawlessly ridiculous that one group has already resigned itself to the endless cycle of flag-raising and flag-lowering. It’s a testament to the human spirit’s capacity for both petty squabbles and utterly pointless, ongoing campaigns.

As the police spokesperson dutifully noted, they responded to a report of “verbal abuse” and a push, but “neither wished to pursue a formal complaint.” It’s almost as if the true victory was never about winning the war, but about enjoying the theatrics of the battle itself.

The saga continues with even more drama: teddy bears with knitted messages of “hope” and “community” appeared, only to be swiftly vanquished by the flag-waving brigade. More flags went up, only to be taken down, and then, inevitably, put up again. This isn’t just a dispute; it’s a performance art piece, a symbolic struggle for the soul of a neighbourhood, all played out with a delightful lack of consequence.

In the end, everyone got exactly what they wanted: a bit of drama, a whole lot of fuss, and a glorious, unending cycle of flag-related shenanigans that proves, once and for all, that some battles are simply too important to ever be won. So let them fly their bloody flags, so what? After all, it gives everyone something to talk about.

A Meditation on Modern Noise.

The South Bristol saga, in all its ludicrous glory, proves that whilst my mind may be a home gym exhausted by the world’s grand-scale chaos, the real workout is found in the relentless, nonsensical skirmishes that fill the gaps. Whether it’s the imagined teatime disputes of suburban life or any of the countless other performance art pieces we call “community engagement,” the pattern remains the same. The flags, the tweets, the constant notifications—they are all part of the same great, unending cycle of noise, a perpetual-motion machine of human folly.

Now, whilst all of this satirical flag-waving unfolds in my imagination, it’s worth noting that real flag controversies have indeed erupted across Bristol and beyond. South Gloucestershire Council leaders have condemned “intimidating” and “divisive” behaviour surrounding unauthorised flag displays. North Somerset Council has spent £6000 painting over flags—money that could have filled 200 potholes. In some areas, genuine community tensions have escalated to serious incidents. The absurd and the alarming often dance closer together than we’d like to admit.

And as I finish “flushing” this one away, embracing perhaps that Socratic wisdom of knowing nothing in a world determined to know everything, I can’t help but exhale, look out the window at the same absurd world, and once again, wonder... what’s next?