Bye Bye Fatman

Bye Bye Fatman I'm a 50something year-old celebrating family, inter cultural life and trying to live a healthier lifestyle.
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I"m a 50something bloke on a mission to lose weight and transform my health and wellness.

24/12/2025

Chilling on the Royal Livingstone Express, a vintage train linking Zambia and Zimbabwe, as we celebrate our wedding anniversary. It’s like the Orient Express, just without the murder. Happy anniversary, Debra ❤️

Things I avoid discussing in Zambia 🇿🇲 Disclaimer: This artice is written with my tongue firmly in my cheek so don’t sla...
24/12/2025

Things I avoid discussing in Zambia 🇿🇲

Disclaimer: This artice is written with my tongue firmly in my cheek so don’t slaughter me for treason!

Over time, making videos and writing short essays online, I’ve learned that there are certain topics it’s best for me to approach with extreme caution. Not because I don’t have opinions, but because some subjects are absolute social media minefields.

One of them is African women’s beauty. Especially hair. I’ve learned this mostly by watching others step on the rake before me. If I say I love natural hair, I’m wrong. If I say I love wigs, I’m wrong. If I say I like a particular style, texture or look, I’m definitely wrong. The safest position is silence, admiration and minding my own business. The same goes for eyebrows, eyelashes and make up. I value my peace and, quite frankly, my life.

Another topic I tread very carefully around is music, particularly Zambia’s international artists. Zambia has one genuinely global artist and that is Sampa The Great. Global stages, global festivals, global reach. The fact that she is based in Australia somehow disqualifies her for some people, which makes no sense at all. She is Zambian and she represents Zambia on the world stage. End of discussion.

But do I say this online? Absolutely not.

Because someone will immediately tell me that an artist who has a few streams in Malawi is “international”. And technically, yes, crossing a border makes it international. But we all know there is a difference between regional success and genuine global reach. Still, this is not a hill I am willing to die on.

So instead, I smile, nod and say what I am supposed to say.

I love Yo Maps. He is the best ever.

And then there is the third topic I absolutely do not touch.

Nshima.

Let me be very clear. I like nshima. I eat nshima. I respect nshima. But eating it every single day? That is where I quietly bow out of the conversation. It can be a little bland and a little boring if we are being honest, especially when eaten daily. I could not do it. I admire those who can.

The problem is versatility. Nshima does what it does and it does it well. But it is no match for the Irish potato, which is, quite simply, God’s own vegetable. Boiled, roasted, mashed, fried, chipped, baked, stewed, the potato turns up for every occasion and never lets you down.

So again, I keep my mouth shut.

Some lessons you only learn by surviving the internet.

New look unlocked. Somewhere between Walter White and Bye Bye Fatman. Same head, slightly less chemistry, still cooking ...
24/12/2025

New look unlocked. Somewhere between Walter White and Bye Bye Fatman. Same head, slightly less chemistry, still cooking up a transformation. Let’s just say the beard is doing some heavy lifting right now and the glow up is very much a work in progress.

24/12/2025

One of the happiest days of my life did not happen in a church, a registry office close to home, or surrounded by a crowd. It happened quietly, almost improbably, in the middle of a life lived across borders.

My wife and I boarded a plane from Shanghai, carrying little more than documents, hope and our four month old daughter. We checked into a hotel in Hong Kong, slept for a few hours, and the next day we were married. No fuss. No spectacle. Just love, commitment and the quiet certainty that this was right.

Afterwards we ate pizza, had a beer, laughed, and later toasted our marriage with champagne and oysters at the airport. Then we flew back through the night, landing in Shanghai in the early hours of Christmas morning. Tired, happy and married.

By the time the sun came up, we were back together as a family. Christmas Day was spent not just celebrating the birth of Christ, but quietly celebrating us. Husband and wife. Parents. A family made official, not by geography or paperwork, but by love.

Looking back now, that journey still amazes me. Flying out. Getting married. Flying back. All in time for Christmas with our children. It was not conventional, but it was ours. And it remains one of the happiest chapters of my life.

24/12/2025

An anniversary tribute to
my wife as she walks, talking about all the things I love and find beautiful about her. Some of it is serious. Some of it is playful. All of it is real.

There’s a lot of research that shows couples who laugh together, joke together, tease gently and fool around are far more likely to sustain long, healthy relationships. Laughter builds connection. Playfulness builds trust. Humour softens the hard days and keeps love from becoming heavy.

We fully endorse that philosophy. We don’t take ourselves too seriously. We flirt. We joke. We laugh at each other and with each other. And beneath the banter is deep respect, affection and commitment.

Love doesn’t always need grand gestures. Sometimes it just needs laughter, a camera phone, and the freedom to be silly together.

happyanniversary

24/12/2025

Sometimes we undersell where we live.

Not because it is not special. But because it becomes familiar. Days and afternoons by the Zambezi River start to feel normal. And that is the danger. You begin to take the extraordinary for granted.

But it never lasts long.

The light shifts. The water moves. The scale of it hits you again. And you remember that this is one of the most beautiful places on the planet. Not as a holiday. Not as a backdrop. But as everyday life.

I think the understatement is in me. That English Irish wiring. Don’t gush. Don’t overstate. Keep things measured. Even when what is in front of you is breathtaking.

But sometimes it is worth saying it out loud. This place is exceptional. And living here is a privilege.

Today is our wedding anniversary and here is our story of  How We Ended Up Getting Married in Hong Kong 🇭🇰 Debra and I d...
24/12/2025

Today is our wedding anniversary and here is our story of How We Ended Up Getting Married in Hong Kong 🇭🇰

Debra and I didn’t rush into marriage. We actually wanted to get married for a long time before it finally became possible.

We met in Zambia, but not long after that I moved to France. Debra joined me there on a Schengen visa and visited a couple of times. Michael was born in France and for a while we felt partly settled. But visa realities meant we could never stay permanently, so we moved on again, this time to Nigeria.

It was in Nigeria that we started seriously asking how we could actually get married. That’s when things became complicated. I’m British with an Irish passport. Debra is Zambian. We were living in a third country. Both the UK and Zambia require residency before marriage, usually around thirty days, and with work, visas, and travel costs, that simply wasn’t realistic.

After Nigeria, we moved to China. Same problem, different country.

Eventually someone suggested Hong Kong. Two of my closest friends were living there and helped us look into it. To our surprise, it was possible. You could register your intent to marry, wait the required period, then fly in for the ceremony without being resident.

So while we were living in Shanghai, I flew to Hong Kong to register our intent to marry on Christmas Eve 2018. A few weeks later, on 23 December, Debra and I flew down together with Emily, who was just four months old. Michael stayed behind in Shanghai with Debra’s sister.

On Christmas Eve we went to the registry office. My best friend since we were four years old and his wife were our witnesses. Their children were the only other people there. Small, simple, and deeply meaningful.

Afterwards we went for beers and pizza, then champagne and oysters at the airport, before flying back to Shanghai and getting home around 3am. We woke up the next morning as husband and wife, in time to be together as a family for Christmas Day.

At the time, the process felt frustrating. But looking back now, it’s one of my favourite stories about us. Debra flew into Hong Kong, got married, and flew out. It’s the only time she’s ever been there.

A few months later, we celebrated properly in Zambia with friends and family, mainly from Debra’s side, with some from Europe too.

Everyone has their own marriage story. This one is ours. And having our wedding anniversary on Christmas Eve means that day will always be extra special. The kids are excited for Christmas, but Mummy and Daddy always make sure we steal a little time to celebrate us too.

Love finds a way, even through borders, visas, and half the world.

Raising Children Between CulturesRaising children between cultures is a privilege, but it is also layered and complex. O...
23/12/2025

Raising Children Between Cultures

Raising children between cultures is a privilege, but it is also layered and complex. One of the first contrasts you notice is the difference in social norms. Much of Europe is shaped by the idea of the nuclear family, smaller, more contained, more private. In Zambia, and across much of Africa, family is expansive. It reaches well beyond parents and siblings. Aunties, uncles, cousins and grandparents are part of everyday life, not occasional visitors. Neither model is better or worse, but they require different ways of thinking about belonging, responsibility and care.

Living in Zambia does not mean abandoning Europe. The UK and Ireland remain part of our children’s heritage, even though they live far away. Some European values are worth holding on to, open communication, critical thinking, and encouraging independence. Others naturally soften when you live in a place where community, shared responsibility and collective care are stronger. Parenting becomes a process of choosing what to keep, what to adapt, and what to let go.

Language is often raised as a concern, but for us it has been more gain than loss. English is widely spoken in Zambia, and in educated circles it is often used at a very high level, so language has never been a barrier. What our children gain instead is exposure to Zambian languages. That brings cultural depth and practical understanding. Language becomes a bridge to people and place rather than a marker of difference.

There is also something I think of as cultural fatigue, though children experience it very differently from adults. Adults worry about identity, belonging and where they fit. Children, most of the time, just want to play, laugh and be children. They adapt far more easily than we often assume. At some point, as they grow older, they will need to understand their identity more consciously. That moment will come, but there is no rush. Our role as parents is not to force answers early, but to prepare them gently for what lies ahead, to give them confidence, language and pride in who they are when those questions naturally arise.

At the centre of it all, we have built our own family culture. We are still a close unit of five, but our home is open. Family comes and goes. People drop in. Someone is always visiting or staying over. The house is rarely quiet and the children are never bored. They are growing up knowing that family is not only who you live with, but who shows up, who cares, and who makes space for you.

That sense of belonging, rooted in love rather than labels, is what we hope they carry with them wherever life takes them.

Leave the Past Where It BelongsNow that I’m in my mid-fifties, I feel comfortable offering advice from time to time. One...
23/12/2025

Leave the Past Where It Belongs

Now that I’m in my mid-fifties, I feel comfortable offering advice from time to time. One piece of advice I stand by is this. Leave people behind if they no longer add value to your life.

That sounds harsh, but it’s honest.

People change. The people we sat next to at school are not the same people ten, twenty, or thirty years later. We’ve all evolved. Our values shift. Our worldview changes. And staying connected to someone simply because you shared a childhood is not, on its own, a good enough reason to keep them close.

As you move through life, you meet new people who fit the season you’re in. They understand your reality. They share your priorities. They speak your language. Sometimes that means quietly drifting away from people you once knew well. It can feel sad if you’re sentimental. But it’s also just life.

In my own case, there are maybe two people from school days I still see when I’m back in England, if timing allows. A few from college too. But the overwhelming majority? I’m largely indifferent about ever seeing them again. Not out of dislike. We’re just different people now.

I left my hometown over thirty years ago. I’ve not lived in the same city. Our lives took very different paths. In some cases, our values no longer align. I haven’t become more conservative with age, which often surprises people. So I ask myself, honestly, what do we still have in common?

That’s also why I find high school reunions baffling. What for? Why would you want to relive that? Unless adulthood has been so disappointing that you’re desperate to return to a time when life felt simpler, I don’t really see the point. Maybe that sounds cynical. Maybe it is. But it’s how I feel.

One of the reasons I love working in education is this. Young people are always looking forward. They’re not obsessed with who they used to be. They’re focused on who they’re becoming. That mindset keeps me alive.

Even in my mid-fifties, I want to keep looking forward. I’ve had happy times. I carry good memories. But I’m still making them. I intend to keep making them. I’m not done yet. I haven’t finished leaving my footprint, whether that’s in my immediate world or beyond it.

I refuse to rest on my laurels just because of my age.

So stop looking back all the time. Honour the past, but don’t live in it. Build forward. Grow forward. Live forward.







23/12/2025

I did not marry my wife for a Zambian visa. If that was the plan, I’ve done a pretty terrible job of it. We married for love. Full stop. Long before permits, residency rules, or immigration headaches ever entered the conversation. Thirteen years together, nearly eight years married, three children later, and somehow people still want to reduce our story to bureaucracy.

Would I love one day to be a citizen or permanent resident of Zambia? Of course I would. This is my home. My wife’s home. My children’s home. That would be an honour, not a strategy. But love came first. Love always came first.

Anyone who thinks marriage is an immigration shortcut has never been married, never raised children, and never built a life across cultures. Our marriage was not about borders. It was about choosing each other.

And we do not need to justify that to anyone.

Whose Lives Matter in the HeadlinesOnce you notice it, you cannot unsee it.Watch how the BBC and other major Western new...
23/12/2025

Whose Lives Matter in the Headlines

Once you notice it, you cannot unsee it.

Watch how the BBC and other major Western news agencies report disasters around the world and a clear hierarchy emerges. It is not written down anywhere, but it is deeply embedded in how stories are framed, whose lives are centred, and whose suffering is reduced to background noise.

To be fair, when British citizens are directly affected by a tragedy, it is entirely reasonable for a British public broadcaster to focus on those individuals. A national news channel will naturally emphasise stories from its home nation. That in itself is understandable.

What becomes troubling is what happens when those affected are not from the home nation.

When a plane crashes in Europe, North America or Australia, even if no British citizens are involved, the coverage is still intimate and human. We are told how many people died, but also who they were. Names are shared. Photographs appear. Journalists interview grieving families. We hear about careers, children, future plans cut short. The tragedy is personalised. These are people we are invited to relate to.

When the same disaster happens in Africa or large parts of Asia, the tone shifts dramatically. Suddenly the story becomes abstract. The victims are reduced to a number. A statistic. A body count. Names are rarely mentioned. Faces are seldom shown. Families are almost never interviewed. The lives lost are framed as unfortunate, but distant. Almost expected.

This contrast cannot be explained simply by national interest. It reveals something deeper.

There is a quiet hierarchy at work in the Western imagination. Some lives are treated as universally relatable, even when they are foreign. Others are treated as interchangeable, even when the scale of loss is immense. Anglophone countries sit at the top. Northern and Western Europeans follow. Then Southern and Eastern Europeans. Then East Asians. Africans almost always sit at the bottom, their suffering reported as a constant rather than a shock.

This hierarchy is rooted in white privilege and a worldview shaped in the Global North. A worldview that still positions itself as the centre of the world, with others existing at the margins. It is the same mindset that decides who is called an expatriate and who is called a migrant. Who is a victim and who is a problem. Who is humanised and who is anonymised.

Media organisations would strongly reject the idea that this bias exists. But bias does not need to be intentional to be real. It lives in editorial choices. In whose stories are told fully and whose are summarised. In who is granted individuality and who is reduced to numbers.

When African or Asian lives are reported primarily as statistics rather than stories, it sends a powerful message. Some lives are worth knowing. Some grief deserves space. Some loss is background noise.

This is not about attacking journalism. It is about asking for honesty and reflection. If all lives truly matter, then dignity in death should not depend on skin colour, passport or proximity to the Global North.

Until that changes, the headlines will continue to reveal not just what happened, but how the world still ranks human worth.






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