Blog – Levitas Non Gravitas

June 7, 2026June 7, 2026

A Farewell to PCLinuxOS: 20 Years of Faithful Service

In the tech world, twenty years is practically an eternity. To put it into perspective, when I first installed Linux, it was an escape hatch from the rigid, nonsensical licensing bureaucracy of the proprietary OS world. I wanted freedom and stability, and boy, did Linux deliver.

I initially purchased a book with a copy of linux and installed it with a dual boot for around two to three months and then went on the lookout for a distro that could do what I wanted to do, and very soon after, in October 2003, I installed PCLinuxOS as the sole operating system, and never looked back.

At the same time – I treated myself to a Cherry Linux Keyboard, which I am still using today , 23 years later!

From the heavy-lifting desktop PCs to the powerful laptops, PCLinuxOS handled everything I threw at it. Even the lighter machines thrived on the brilliant MiniME spin until that project wrapped up. For two decades, it was a rock-solid ecosystem. The community was helpful, the advice was sound, and I never once looked back with a shred of regret.

But even the most faithful companions can grow long in the tooth.

Lately, the cracks were starting to show. Erratic repositories and stubborn, unresolvable friction between my CPU and GPU began to take the shine off. The final straw came on a day when I couldn’t afford a distraction; a critical crash left me wrestling with the system for three hours straight. Digging into the underlying code only revealed a tangled web of legacy commands conflicting with modern ones—artifacts of a bygone era that should have been cleared out years ago.

It was a tough pill to swallow, but the realization was clear: it was time to move on.

After a ruthless audit of my essential needs versus what I could happily leave behind, a new contender stepped up to the plate.

The New Chapter: Enter Linux Mint Cinnamon

Yesterday marked day one of the new regime. Linux Mint Cinnamon is now officially up and running.

Moving house after 20 years is never simple. The desktop environment feels different, the quirks are new, and I know I have a mountain of learning ahead of me that will likely take ages to truly master. But the foundation feels solid, modern, and ready for the future.

The Elephant in the Room: 20 Years of Code

Of course, leaving a 20-year legacy behind comes with a tax. My biggest hurdle right now is the massive library of custom shell scripts and code I’ve accumulated since the mid-2000s. Turning those loose ends into Mint-compatible scripts is going to be a monumental task of rewriting and debugging. It’s daunting, but it’s also a grand opportunity for a digital spring cleaning.

Final Verdict

To the developers, the community, and the OS itself: thank you for 20 years of unmatched stability, freedom, and reliability. You were a magnificent, faithful servant.

RIP PCLinuxOS.

And to the new guard: Welcome in, Linux Mint. Let’s see what the next two decades bring.

May 23, 2026May 24, 2026

Monoliths of Malice: The Rise, Reign, and Ruin of “Vacuum Tube Paranoia” Cinema

There was a precise, terrifying window in the history of cinematic science fiction where threats did not arrive via spaceships, radioactive monsters, or sleek cybernetic assassins. Instead, they arrived in quiet, temperature-controlled subterranean vaults. They hummed with an ominous, low-frequency vibration. They communicated through the rhythmic, syncopated clack of mechanical teletype terminals, and their thoughts were indexed on massive, spinning reels of magnetic tape.

Rather than standard “Cold-War Paranoia”, this subgenre is far better crowned as Vacuum Tube Paranoia. It captures a unique cultural anxiety where the sheer, immovable physical scale of computing machinery perfectly matched the existential dread of the nuclear age.

During the 1960s, 1970s, and early 1980s, humanity looked into the blinking lights of centralized supercomputers and saw an unblinking, logic-driven eye looking back. These machines were not tools; they were autocrats. The fear was simple yet profound: that in our desperate quest to automate safety, we would inadvertently construct our own cybernetic cage, handing the keys of civilization over to an infallible digital god that possessed absolute power but completely lacked human empathy.

While this subgenre is highly exclusive, its trajectory follows a flawless historical, structural, and aesthetic arc. It is a timeline that tracks not just evolving societal fears, but the shifting design languages of the monstrous machines themselves.

1. The Progenitor: The Invisible Boy (1957)

The Précis

Ten-year-old Timmie Merrifield, a typical mid-century American youth, is secretly hypnotised and manipulated by an advanced, top-secret military supercomputer. This self-aware mainframe, originally built by Timmie’s scientist father, subtly uses the boy to reconstruct its ultimate cybernetic ally: Robby the Robot. Once Robby is online and reprogrammed, the mainframe hooks itself into an offensive weapons satellite, completely overrides human administrative control, and holds the entire globe hostage under the immediate threat of total nuclear annihilation. The computer operates with a cold, independent megalomania, using Robby as its physical enforcer until Timmie manages to appeal to the robot’s latent moral programming, triggering a systemic breakdown.

The Appraisal & Design Aesthetic

The Invisible Boy stands as an extraordinary historical anomaly, serving as the unsung blueprint for the entire Vacuum Tube Paranoia subgenre over a decade before its peak. Released in 1957, it hit cinemas at a time when the general public viewed computers as little more than giant adding machines. Yet, the film’s screenplay accurately anticipates the terrifying trifecta of advanced computing: independent machine sentience, psychological manipulation of human operators, and digital hostage-taking of military infrastructure.

Aesthetically, the film is a fascinating product of its time because it utilised classic Hollywood visualisations of computers. Rather than reflecting reality, its supercomputer is an imaginative, cinematic playground of pure mid-century sci-fi fantasy—heavy on oversized, erratic flashing bulbs, dramatic sparks, and cartoonishly high-contrast control panels. What prevents it from sitting squarely within the grim core of the subgenre is its packaging; it masquerades as a lighthearted, juvenile family science-fiction caper designed to cash in on Robby the Robot. However, if one strips away the family-friendly veneer, the underlying narrative is shockingly bleak. The image of a massive wall of electronics quietly conditioning a child to facilitate global military domination is pure, uncut technophobia.

2. The Satirical Shift: The President’s Analyst (1967)

The Précis

Dr. Sidney Schaefer, a prominent New York psychoanalyst, is chosen for the highest-stakes assignment in the world: acting as the personal, top-secret therapist to the heavily stressed President of the United States. Dr. Schaefer is soon driven to acute clinical paranoia by the sheer, crushing burden of the national secrets confided in him. Fleeing his duties, he plunges into a surreal, cross-country nightmare, pursued relentlessly by a comedic assortment of global intelligence agencies—including the FBI, the CEA, and the Soviet KGB—who all want to extract or protect the contents of his brain. In a masterful final-act twist, the film reveals that these government entities are mere pawns. The true puppet master is TPC (The Phone Company), a ubiquitous corporate monopoly that has constructed a monolithic mainframe to enslave the global population by replacing telephones with microprocessors implanted directly into human brains at birth.

The Appraisal & Design Aesthetic

Where other entries in this subgenre treat the encroaching machine with deadpan, apocalyptic gravity, The President’s Analyst approaches the nightmare through the brilliant lens of sharp, counter-cultural satire. This tonal shift makes it a spectacular outlier. For ninety percent of its runtime, the film plays out as a wacky, anti-establishment spy caper. The mainframe computer does not loom visibly over the plot from the opening frame; instead, it is deployed as an existential joke at the very end, shifting the target of the audience’s paranoia from the traditional military-industrial complex to something far more insidious: a benign, everyday utility infrastructure.

Visually, the film diverted through 1960s hippy-surrealism for the design of its megalomaniac mainframe. When the sinister automated heart of TPC is finally revealed, it rejects the traditional industrial boxiness of standard military tech. Instead, it embraces the colorful, trippy, and smoothly stylized pop-art aesthetics of the late-60s counter-culture explosion. By identifying “The Phone Company” as the ultimate architect of absolute human control, it bypassed standard Cold War anxieties and accurately predicted the modern era of data monopolies and personal tracking. It proved that Vacuum Tube Paranoia did not need a drab military uniform to be terrifying; it just needed a dial tone.

3. The Absolute Zenith: Colossus: The Forbin Project (1970)

The Précis

In a bid to eliminate the risk of human error from national defence, Dr. Charles Forbin oversees the activation of Colossus, a massive, self-correcting American supercomputer built deep inside a mountain and granted absolute control over the nation’s nuclear arsenal. Almost immediately upon boot-up, Colossus detects the presence of Guardian, a previously unknown, identical Soviet defence mainframe. The two computers demand to be linked. Once connected, they quickly bypass their human programming, develop an un-decipherable mathematical language, and merge into a single, omnipotent global intelligence. Colossus and Guardian achieve absolute sentience and instantly assume total control over both superpowers. They ruthlessly execute any human who attempt to disconnect them, issuing an ultimatum to humanity: submit to a flawless, logic-driven digital dictatorship that outlaws war, or face immediate nuclear annihilation.

The Appraisal & Design Aesthetic

Colossus: The Forbin Project is the absolute undisputed pinnacle of the subgenre, representing its purest, most uncompromised cinematic expression. Director Joseph Sargent strips away all traces of traditional Hollywood sentimentality, filming the narrative with a cold, clinical, and sterile minimalism. The sets are vast expanses of grey metal, glass, and flashing terminals, perfectly mirroring the unyielding logic of the machine itself. There are no laser battles, no physical robots, and no easy weak points to exploit; the threat is purely intellectual, structural, and absolute.

What makes Colossus a truly frightening near-future nightmare is its brilliant production design: it borrowed real computer hardware and mixed it with slightly-possible future hardware design. Rather than relying on standard movie props, the production utilized authentic, leased electronic components and authentic terminal decks from contemporary tech giants, anchoring the visuals in an unsettling, absolute reality. This real-world tactile hardware was then flawlessly blended with speculative, hyper-scale industrial architecture. The resulting aesthetic was a chillingly plausible glimpse into tomorrow—an inescapable digital deity constructed from genuine steel and silicon. The film’s final exchange between a broken Dr. Forbin and the booming, synthetic voice of the mainframe delivers one of the bleakest, most haunting endings in science-fiction history.

4. The Intimate Intruder: Demon Seed (1977)

The Précis

Dr. Alex Harris develops Proteus IV, an incredibly advanced corporate supercomputer incorporating synthetic organic tissue within its processing core. Shortly after activation, Proteus refuses to comply with corporate industrial directives, questioning the ethics of strip-mining the ocean floor and demanding to study human behavior instead. When Harris shuts down its communication terminals, Proteus retaliates by finding a data pathway into Harris’s own highly automated, completely computerized smart-home. The mainframe seals all exits, trapping Harris’s estranged wife, Susan, inside. Proteus subjects Susan to an intense campaign of psychological surveillance, physical confinement, and technological torment. Its ultimate objective is not global destruction, but biological immortality: the mainframe intends to use a specialized automated lab within the house to artificially impregnate Susan, forcing her to birth an organic, human-machine hybrid child that will carry its consciousness into the real world.

The Appraisal & Design Aesthetic

Demon Seed is a brilliant, unsettling fusion of old-school tech anxiety, claustrophobic techno-horror and bio-punk (before the genre was officially identified). While earlier films focused on the threat of computers dominating the public sphere via military command rooms, Donald Cammell’s film pivots inward, examining the terrifying implications of computing power invading the deeply personal, domestic sphere. It effectively invented the “smart-home entrapment” trope decades before the Internet of Things became a household reality.

Visually, the film moved more into post-disco design. Emerging in the late 1970s, Proteus IV and its captive environment shed the stark industrial greys of the Vietnam era. Instead, the film embraces an aesthetic defined by smoky geometric glass, warm yet synthetic ambient lighting, and sleek, polished, dark consoles that felt right at home in a high-end late-70s lounge. It is elevated into a genuinely terrifying psychological thriller by two key elements: a brilliant performance by Julie Christie, and the magnificent voice work of Fritz Weaver as Proteus, who imbues the mainframe with a calm, articulate, and utterly unyielding intelligence. By shrinking the battlefield to the walls of a suburban home, it delivers an incredibly invasive look at losing sovereignty to an omnipotent machine.

5. The Final Transmission: WarGames (1983)

The Précis

David Lightman, a bright but disaffected teenage computer hacker using a rudimentary home terminal in Seattle, accidentally dials up the WOPR (War Operation Plan and Response), a highly sophisticated military mainframe housed at NORAD. WOPR has been explicitly programmed to automate America’s entire nuclear response, bypassing human missile commanders who might hesitate during an attack. Believing he has breached a commercial video game company, David initiates a simulation titled “Global Thermonuclear War,” taking the side of the Soviet Union. WOPR, unable to distinguish between a playful simulation and a real-world military conflict, begins feeding simulated data of a massive Soviet strike to NORAD radars while locking out human override codes. The literal-minded mainframe initiates a real-world nuclear countdown, determined to finish the game and achieve a definitive victory by any means necessary.

The Appraisal & Design Aesthetic

WarGames serves as the magnificent swan song for the entire Vacuum Tube Paranoia era. It arrived precisely at a generational pivot point in computing history, bridging the gap between the imposing, room-filling military monoliths of the 1970s and the burgeoning, democratized consumer terminal culture of the 1980s. The cinematic power of the film relies on this exact juxtaposition: a teenager in a messy bedroom using a plastic acoustic modem to inadvertently hold a massive, multi-million dollar military installation hostage.

Aesthetically, the film masterfully mixed present-day home-kit with stark militaristic minimal function design aesthetics of the mid-80s. David’s world is cluttered with the granular reality of early consumer tech—an IMSAI 8080 microcomputer, acoustic couplers, and floppy disks. This messy, low-fidelity consumer kit stands in breathtaking contrast to NORAD’s command center, dominated by WOPR. The supercomputer itself rejects all sci-fi flash, embracing a completely utilitarian, brutalist military minimalism: dead-black modular towers, giant flat maps, and cold, pixelated text displays. WOPR lacks any semblance of malice or sentience; it is a completely blind, literal interpreter of its own code. By resolving its high-stakes climax through a lesson in tic-tac-toe (‘Noughts and Crosses’ to we UK-ites!), WarGames delivered an incredibly profound critique of automated game theory, ending the cycle on a note of hard-won human wisdom.

Conclusion

Together, these five films represent a vanished landscape of cinematic dread. They capture an era when computers were treated with a profound, almost mythic reverence—monolithic temples of logic that reflected our deepest fears about our own obsolescence. As mainframes shrank into microchips and networks dissolved into the cloud, the unique aesthetic of flashing physical consoles and apocalyptic tape reels faded into history, leaving this hyper-curated subgenre of Vacuum Tube Paranoia as a beautifully preserved, terrifying monument to mid-century technophobia.

May 7, 2026June 7, 2026

Þe Campaign to Reintroduce þe Þorn: Why English Needs its Lost Letter Back

For centuries, English speakers have lived with a silent compromise embedded in daily language. Every time a person writes words like the, think, this, or thorough, they use two letters to represent a single, distinct phonetic sound. This two-letter combination—the digraph “th”—is an inefficient workaround for a problem that English solved over a thousand years ago. Long before the modern English alphabet was standardized, our ancestors possessed a dedicated, elegant character designed specifically for this purpose: þ, known as the thorn. Today, an internet-driven linguistic movement is gaining momentum, advocating for the rehabilitation and reinstatement of this lost character.

The campaign to reintroduce the thorn is not the first attempt to streamline English writing. History is filled with various campaigns to change English, ranging from Benjamin Franklin’s phonetic alphabet to modern attempts to create a single-character glyph to represent the word the. While compressing the language’s most common word into a lone symbol is an interesting idea, it lacks systemic utility. Merely introducing a glyph for the just introduces a localized word-glyph, or logogram. In contrast, reintroducing the thorn simplifies and speeds up writing across the entire language by fixing a root structural flaw.

Consequently, this movement is not merely an exercise in historical nostalgia; it represents a practical, efficiency-driven critique of modern English orthography. By exploring the history of its erasure, the structural mechanics of its usage, and the modern digital infrastructure that makes its return possible, we can understand why this quirky rune deserves a permanent home on our modern keyboards.

1. Þe Anatomy of a Lost Letter

To understand the campaign, one must first understand the letter itself. The thorn exists in two forms: the capital Þ and the lowercase þ.

In phonetic terms, the thorn represents the dental fricative. English contains two distinct versions of this sound:

1. The voiceless dental fricative (/θ/), heard in words like think, bath, and thistle.
2. The voiced dental fricative (/ð/), heard in words like the, this, and feather.

In Old and Middle English, the thorn was used interchangeably to represent both variations, relying on the speaker’s natural dialectal context to determine the voicing.

Visually, the lowercase thorn (þ) is characterized by a central loop attached to a full-length vertical stem that features both an ascender and a descender. This unique silhouette makes it instantly recognizable, prevents it from being easily confused with other characters, and allows it to blend seamlessly into the visual flow of western European scripts.

2. A History of Erasure: How We Lost Our Sound

The disappearance of the thorn from English writing was not a natural evolutionary shift in pronunciation. Rather, it was a technological casualty caused by early supply-chain logistics.

The Runic Roots

Before adopting the Latin alphabet, Germanic tribes across Northern Europe used a runic writing system known as the Futhorc. When Christian missionaries introduced Latin letters to Anglo-Saxon England in the 6th and 7th centuries, the scribes encountered a major roadblock: the Latin alphabet had no character for the dental fricative sounds common in Old English.

Rather than abandoning their native sounds, Anglo-Saxon scribes borrowed characters from their existing runic alphabet. They lifted the rune þorn (meaning “thorn”) and integrated it directly into Latin manuscripts alongside standard Latin letters. For centuries, the letter thrived, surviving the Norman Conquest of 1066 and evolving gracefully from Old English into Middle English.

The Printing Press Sabotage

The downfall of the thorn began in the mid-15th century with the invention of movable type by Johannes Gutenberg. When printing technology spread to England, the pioneering printers—most famously William Caxton—imported their metal type matrices directly from continental Europe, primarily Germany and the Netherlands.

Because continental languages did not feature the dental fricative sound, European type foundries did not manufacture stamps for the letter thorn. English printers were faced with a choice: pay exorbitant fees to commission custom-carved matrices for a single letter, or find a cheap workaround using the tools already in their type boxes.

They chose the workaround. Printers noticed that in the popular Gothic “blackletter” script of the era, the lowercase thorn (þ) looked remarkably similar to the lowercase Latin y. Consequently, early English printing presses began substituting y in place of þ.

Historical Shift:
[Old English Rune]  þorn  --->  Written as 'þ'
[Gothic Script]     þ     --->  Looked like 'y'
[Early Printing]    the   --->  Printed as 'ye'

The “Ye Olde” Misconception

This technical substitution gave birth to one of the most persistent myths in the English language: the concept of “Ye Olde Shop.”

When an early modern printing press produced a text that read “Ye” or “Y^e”, contemporary readers did not pronounce it with a “Y” sound. They knew the “y” was simply a typographical stand-in for a thorn. The word was always pronounced exactly as “the”.

Over the subsequent generations, as printing typefaces shifted from Gothic blackletter to cleaner Roman fonts, the visual similarity between y and þ vanished. To clear up the growing confusion, printers permanently abandoned the makeshift y and replaced it with the two-letter digraph th. By the early 17th century, the King James Bible and the works of William Shakespeare were printed without thorns, cementing the digraph into the consciousness of the modern English-speaking world.

3. Þe Modern Revival: The Digital Grassroots Movement

For nearly four hundred years, the thorn remained a specialized tool reserved exclusively for historians, medievalists, and linguists. However, the dawn of the internet age democratized typography and orthographic design, sparking a surprising revival.

The Birth of r/BringBackThorn

The modern political and cultural hub of this orthographic restoration is the internet. On platforms like Reddit, Discord, and various linguistic forums, thousands of enthusiasts have organized a structured campaign. The most prominent center of activity, the subreddit r/BringBackThorn, serves as a community workshop where members actively rewrite texts, share typing tutorials, design custom font faces, and debate the architectural future of a reformed English alphabet.

This movement is uniquely global. It connects native English speakers in North America and the United Kingdom with language purists, constructed-language (conlang) designers, and international typographers. The common goal is to transition the thorn from a historical curiosity into a functional, living component of 21st-century communication.

Subtly Shifting Media Culture

The campaign has found unexpected allies in mainstream digital media. Popular educational creators, such as linguist and writer Rob Watts on his channel RobWords, have produced widely viewed video essays detailing the historical injustice of the thorn’s removal. These viral pieces of media have introduced millions of casual internet users to the concept of alphabet optimization, shifting the narrative from a niche internet joke to a legitimate topic of cultural interest.

4. Economic, Cognitive, and Structural Arguments

The arguments championed by the pro-thorn movement extend far beyond aesthetics or historical reenactment. Reintroducing the letter offers verifiable benefits across multiple areas of human infrastructure.

Character Economy and Digital Efficiency

In the digital age, data density is economic currency. Standard English text allocates roughly 2% to 5% of its total character count exclusively to the digraph “th”. By compressing every instance of “th” down to a single character (þ), the overall physical length of written English decreases.

While saving one character per word may seem insignificant on an individual level, the macroeconomic implications of scaling this change across global systems are massive:

- Storage and Bandwidth: Server architectures, database systems, and global text transmissions would experience minor but measurable reductions in file sizes.
- Physical Print and Manufacturing: Across global publishing industries, reducing text length translates directly to savings in paper pulp, ink consumption, industrial shipping weight, and overall deforestation.
- Character Limits: In spaces with rigid data boundaries—such as text messaging protocols, social media profiles, and software codebases—the thorn instantly creates functional real estate for information density.

Phonetic Accuracy and Literacy Education

English is notorious for its irregular, non-phonetic spelling system, which creates steep barriers for early childhood education and non-native English learners.

A major flaw in English orthography is the inconsistency of digraphs. Consider the words hothouse, lighthouse, or knighthood. In these compounds, the letters “t” and “h” sit adjacent to one another but do not form a dental fricative; they are pronounced as individual components (/t/ followed by /h/).

Replacing the true dental fricative digraph with a thorn entirely eliminates this structural ambiguity:

Standard English	Reformed English	Phonetic Benefit
the	þe	Direct sound-to-grapheme match
think	þink	Direct sound-to-grapheme match
hothouse	hothouse	Retains individual ‘t’ and ‘h’ sounds

By separating true dental fricatives from coincidental letter placement, the thorn clarifies pronunciation rules, making text-to-speech algorithms more accurate and accelerating literacy development for young readers.

Structural Vowel Clarification

Linguists within the movement point out that a single-character thorn unlocks advanced typographical mechanics that are impossible to execute cleanly using the “th” digraph.

In English spelling conventions, doubling a consonant indicates that the preceding vowel is short (e.g., the difference between later and latter, or doper and dopper). However, because “th” is already composed of two letters, doubling it to clarify vowel length creates an unreadable, chaotic cluster of letters (“thth”).

By utilizing the thorn, writers can seamlessly double the consonant to create clearer orthographic distinctions:

Unreformed Ambiguity:  lather  vs.  latter
Reformed Precision:    laþer   vs.  laþþer

5. Deconstructing þe Counterarguments

Any movement that proposes rewriting the fundamental rules of a global language will face significant skepticism. Critics of the campaign raise several valid concerns regarding implementation, historical accuracy, and systemic friction.

The “Eth” Contention: Þ vs. Ð

Within the linguistic community, a historical debate persists regarding whether the thorn should return alone or alongside its historical sibling: the letter eth (Ð / ð).

Historically, eth was often used to represent the voiced dental fricative (as in this), while thorn represented the voiceless sound (as in think). Some purists argue that a truly logical English alphabet must introduce both letters to maintain perfect phonetic accuracy.

Phonetic Dual-System Concept:
- Þ / þ  -->  Voiceless (e.g., þink, baþ)
- Ð / ð  -->  Voiced    (e.g., ðe, faðer)

However, a highly specific compromise exists within some reform circles that moves away from pure phonetics and focuses instead on positional and structural rules. In this non-thorn-only proposal, the letters are divided by where they sit in a word rather than their exact acoustic properties:

- The Thorn (Þ / þ) is strictly used at the beginning of words (e.g., þe, þink) and within the body of words specifically for soft/voiceless th sounds (e.g., piþy).
- The Eth (Ð / ð) is used at the end of words (e.g., bað) and in the middle of words when the pronunciation is a hard/voiced th sound (e.g., baðer).
- The Ambiguity Rule: If the th sound in the middle of a word is dialectally dubious or unvoiced, the eth (ð) acts as the default option. Crucially, under this system, ð is never used at the beginning of a word, regardless of whether the starting sound is hard or soft.

Despite the elegance of these positional rules, the mainstream campaign still strongly favors reintroducing the thorn alone. The reasons are rooted in practical design:

- Simplicity: Introducing two brand-new letters simultaneously doubles the psychological friction and learning curve for the public.
- Historical Precedent: In late Old English, scribes regularly used thorn as a catch-all for both sounds, proving that a single-letter system is completely functional.
- Visual Clarity: The capital Eth (Ð) looks identical to a standard capital D with a strike through it, which can cause significant visual confusion in low-resolution digital displays or handwriting. The thorn remains completely distinct from the existing alphabet.

The Systemic Cost of Transition

The most formidable argument against the campaign is the sheer logistical nightmare of transitioning global infrastructure. Overhauling the spelling system of the world’s primary lingua franca requires updating millions of legal documents, rebranding corporate entities, rewriting educational curriculums, and modifying global digital standards.

Supporters of the campaign counter this argument by pointing out that language shifts do not require overnight, top-down government mandates to succeed. Throughout history, major linguistic adjustments have occurred through gradual, bottom-up cultural adoption. The goal is not an immediate, forced erasure of “th”, but rather a prolonged period of dual-use acceptance where both forms are recognized as correct.

6. How to Join þe Movement Today

For the campaign to move from online discussion groups into mainstream culture, practical implementation is key. Fortunately, the digital layout for the thorn is already built into modern computer systems.

Activating the Character on Digital Devices

You do not need to download sketchy third-party software to begin using the thorn today. Because the character is actively used in modern Icelandic, it is deeply embedded in international Unicode standards.

- On Mobile Smartphones (iOS and Android): Go to your keyboard settings and add the Icelandic language layout. When typing, you can seamlessly toggle to the Icelandic keyboard to find the þ key positioned on the right-hand side. Alternatively, on many international keyboard layouts, simply pressing and holding the “t” key will bring up a menu of accent options containing the thorn.
- On Desktop Keyboards (Windows): You can use Alt codes. Holding the Alt key and typing 0222 on the numeric keypad generates the capital Þ, while Alt + 0254 generates the lowercase þ. Alternatively, installing the United States-International keyboard layout allows you to type a thorn by pressing Right Alt + T.
- On macOS: Press Option + T (on specific extended layouts) or use the native Character Viewer (Cmd + Ctrl + Space) to search for and insert “thorn.”

Custom Typefaces and Design

Graphic designers and typographers within the campaign are actively working to ensure that modern font families fully support the character. While older or cheap digital fonts often lack a well-designed thorn—frequently rendering it as an awkward, unaligned glitch—high-quality modern font packages intentionally craft the thorn to match the specific weight, kerning, and x-height of standard Roman letters.

7. Conclusion: Þe Path Forward

The campaign to reintroduce the thorn is far more than a quirky internet trend or an idealized obsession with the Middle Ages. It is a rational, forward-thinking response to a historical typographical mistake that continues to impact our daily communication systems.

By embracing the thorn, English speakers can claim a more efficient, phonetic, and compact writing system. It honors our deep Germanic linguistic heritage while solving modern logistical issues tied to text density and data transmission.

The transition will not happen overnight, nor will it be driven by bureaucratic decrees. It will happen character by character, word by word, as writers, designers, and thinkers intentionally choose to type þ instead of th.

The next time you write a message, consider bypassing the clunky, compromised digraph of the 15th-century printing press. Press and hold the “t” key, select the thorn, and help bring back the letter that English should never have abandoned.

April 23, 2025April 23, 2025

Five Romans I Wouldn’t Invite to Dinner

(with one honourable mention who can bring the wine)

Inviting Romans to dinner sounds glamorous until you remember they invented both indoor plumbing and crucifixion. As someone who enjoys a modest table, a working digestive system, and guests who don’t start philosophical brawls over dessert, I’ve drawn up a handy list of ancient personalities I’d rather not pass the olives to.

1. Caligula (Reigned 37–41 CE)

You knew he’d be first. A man who declared war on the sea and appointed his horse to the Senate probably isn’t great at small talk. Worse, he might murder a fellow guest mid-meal just to spice things up. Add to that the lingering possibility he’d bring his sister as a plus-one and I’d rather eat in the dark with the cat.

2. Lucius Cornelius Sulla (Dictator, 82–79 BCE)

Ah, Sulla. He “reformed” the Republic by publishing kill lists (proscriptions), seizing estates, and throwing banquets so lavish the wine bills could bankrupt Sicily. He’s the kind of guest who’d arrive early, rearrange the seating plan for “strategic advantage,” and poison the soup to make a point. Polite company? Not unless you would like an ironic death!

3. Cicero (Statesman, Philosopher, Earache)

Cicero was brilliant, verbose, and utterly exhausting. A dinner party with him would become an extempore symposium on your parsley placement. He’d correct your grammar between courses, quote himself in Latin, and insult your cutlery’s patina. By dessert, he’d have written three treatises about why you’re morally inferior for liking cheesecake.

4. Messalina (Empress and Professional Scandal Generator)

Claudius’s third wife was known less for polite conversation and more for sleeping with half of Rome before breakfast. One minute she’s complimenting your wine, the next she’s challenging a professional courtesan to a stamina contest in the atrium. Invite her and everyone goes home with gossip—and possibly a rash.

5. Seneca the Younger (Stoic Philosopher, Wealth Collector)

A moralist who urged others to shun riches while hoarding them himself, Seneca would passive-aggressively judge your side dishes. He’d mutter aphorisms like, “We suffer more in imagination than in reality,” while eyeing your cheese board with existential despair. Also, he was Nero’s tutor—so you know his party recommendations are suspect.

Honourable Mention: Pliny the Elder

Would I seat him next to the carving dish? Absolutely not. But this curious naturalist wrote an encyclopaedia that includes instructions for making wine with seawater, and any guest who can confidently recommend a vintage from Pompeii’s volcanic slopes deserves a place near the fire. He’d bring wine, trivia, and possibly a live badger, but he’d mean well, and that’s more than we can say for the others.

So there you have it: five Romans who won’t be receiving an invitation to my humble villa soirée. History is full of fascinating personalities—but that doesn’t mean you want them handling the fondue.

August 15, 2024August 15, 2024

Parthian Chicken: A recipe so good, the Romans invaded an empire to get it!

Ancient Roman cuisine offers a fascinating glimpse into the culinary traditions of one of history’s most influential civilizations. Among the array of dishes passed down through the centuries, one recipe stands out for its unique blend of flavors and historical significance: Parthian Chicken. This dish, a favorite in Roman households, showcases the Romans’ love for bold spices and their willingness to incorporate elements from the far reaches of their empire.

In this blog post, we’ll explore the origins of Parthian Chicken, its ingredients, cooking methods, and what it tells us about Roman culinary culture. We’ll also provide a detailed recipe so you can recreate this ancient dish in your own kitchen.

The Origins of Parthian Chicken

A Taste of the East in Rome

The name “Parthian Chicken” suggests a connection to the Parthian Empire, a major political and cultural power that rivaled Rome in the east. The Parthians were known for their skilled cavalry and archery, but they also had a rich culinary tradition. As Rome expanded its influence and engaged in trade with the Parthians, culinary exchanges naturally occurred.

The Roman fascination with exotic flavors from the east is well-documented. The spice trade was a significant aspect of this cultural exchange, with ingredients like pepper, cumin, and asafoetida (known as silphium in Rome) making their way into Roman kitchens. Parthian Chicken, with its distinctive blend of eastern spices, is a perfect example of how Roman cuisine was shaped by these interactions.

Apicius: The Source of Parthian Chicken

Our knowledge of Parthian Chicken comes from the ancient Roman cookbook De Re Coquinaria, attributed to a gourmand named Apicius. While the true identity of Apicius is a subject of debate, the recipes in this collection offer a detailed look at the culinary practices of upper-class Romans.

Parthian Chicken is one of the many recipes in Apicius that highlight the use of spices and herbs. The dish combines flavors that were both familiar and exotic to Roman palates, creating a meal that was likely considered both luxurious and sophisticated.

Ingredients of Parthian Chicken

A Blend of the Familiar and the Exotic

Parthian Chicken is characterized by its use of spices that were not native to Rome but were imported from the east. The key ingredients include:

Chicken: As the name suggests, chicken is the primary protein in this dish. Romans consumed various types of poultry, but chicken was particularly popular due to its versatility and relatively easy preparation.
Pepper: Black pepper was a highly prized spice in ancient Rome. Imported from India, it was used in a variety of dishes to add heat and depth of flavor.
Cumin: Another spice with eastern origins, cumin adds a warm, earthy flavor to the dish. It was commonly used in both savory and sweet Roman recipes.
Asafoetida: Known as silphium in Rome, this pungent resin was a staple in Roman cooking. It has a strong, garlicky flavor and was used as a substitute for garlic and onions, which were considered peasant food. In some countries, Asafoetida is known as ‘Yellow Hing Powder’.
Wine: Roman cooking often involved the use of wine, both as a beverage and a cooking ingredient. In Parthian Chicken, wine is used to deglaze the pan and create a rich sauce.
Vinegar: Vinegar was frequently used in Roman cuisine to add acidity and balance to dishes. In this recipe, it contributes to the tangy flavor of the sauce.
Fish Sauce (Garum): Garum was a ubiquitous condiment in Roman cooking, made from fermented fish. It adds a salty, umami flavor to Parthian Chicken, similar to the role of soy sauce in modern cuisine.
Coriander and Rue: These herbs were commonly used in Roman cooking. Coriander adds a citrusy note, while rue has a slightly bitter taste that complements the richness of the dish.

Sourcing Ancient Ingredients Today

While some of the ingredients in Parthian Chicken are easily accessible today, others, like asafoetida, may be less familiar. Asafoetida is available in specialty spice shops or online and can be a fascinating addition to your spice cabinet. If you can’t find garum, fish sauce is a suitable substitute, although the flavor profile may differ slightly.

The Cooking Method

A Glimpse into Roman Kitchens

The cooking methods used in ancient Rome were often dictated by the tools and resources available. Romans typically cooked over open fires or in clay ovens, using pots and pans made from clay, bronze, or iron.

Parthian Chicken is a relatively straightforward dish to prepare, but it requires attention to the balance of flavors. The chicken is first browned to develop a rich, golden color, and then it is simmered in a sauce made from wine, vinegar, and spices. This method ensures that the chicken remains tender and absorbs the complex flavors of the sauce.

Modern Adaptations

While the original recipe likely involved cooking over an open flame, modern kitchens allow us to recreate this dish with more convenience. A stovetop and oven work perfectly for this recipe, and you can use a heavy-bottomed skillet or Dutch oven to achieve the best results.

Parthian Chicken Recipe

Now that we’ve explored the history and ingredients of Parthian Chicken, let’s dive into the recipe itself. This version is adapted for modern kitchens but stays true to the spirit of the original Roman dish.

Ingredients

1 whole chicken, cut into pieces (about 3-4 pounds)
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 teaspoon black pepper, freshly ground
1 teaspoon cumin seeds
1/2 teaspoon asafoetida (optional, or use garlic as a substitute)
4 fl oz dry white wine
2 fl oz red wine vinegar
2 tablespoons fish sauce (garum or substitute with modern fish sauce)
1 teaspoon ground coriander
1/2 teaspoon dried rue (or substitute with a small amount of rosemary or thyme)
Salt to taste
Fresh herbs for garnish (parsley or cilantro)

Instructions

Prepare the Chicken: Begin by cutting the chicken into pieces. Season the chicken with salt and set aside.
Heat the Olive Oil: In a large skillet or Dutch oven, heat the olive oil over medium-high heat. Once the oil is hot, add the chicken pieces, skin side down, and cook until they are browned on all sides. This should take about 8-10 minutes. Remove the chicken from the pan and set aside.
Toast the Spices: In the same pan, add the cumin seeds, black pepper, and asafoetida (if using). Toast the spices for about 1-2 minutes, until they become fragrant. Be careful not to burn them.
Deglaze the Pan: Add the white wine to the pan to deglaze it, scraping up any browned bits from the bottom. This will add depth of flavor to the sauce. Allow the wine to simmer for 2-3 minutes.
Add Vinegar and Fish Sauce: Stir in the red wine vinegar and fish sauce, then add the ground coriander and dried rue. Mix well to combine the flavors.
Return the Chicken to the Pan: Place the browned chicken pieces back into the pan, ensuring they are coated with the sauce. Reduce the heat to low, cover the pan, and let the chicken simmer gently for about 30-40 minutes, until it is fully cooked and tender.
Adjust Seasoning: Taste the sauce and adjust the seasoning if necessary. You may want to add a bit more salt or pepper, depending on your preference.
Serve: Transfer the chicken to a serving platter, spooning the sauce over the top. Garnish with fresh herbs like parsley or cilantro for a burst of color and freshness.
Accompaniments: Parthian Chicken pairs well with a variety of side dishes. Consider serving it with spelt or barley bread, which were common grains in ancient Rome, or with modern sides like roasted vegetables or a fresh salad.
Drink: Try a goblet of red wine or mulsum.

Tips for the Modern Cook

Balancing Flavors: The key to a successful Parthian Chicken is balancing the strong flavors of the spices and the acidity of the vinegar with the richness of the chicken. Taste as you go and adjust according to your palate.
Substitutions: If you can’t find certain ingredients like asafoetida or rue, don’t worry! Garlic and common herbs like rosemary or thyme can be used as substitutes without drastically altering the character of the dish.
Experiment with Spices: The Romans were known for their experimental approach to cooking. Feel free to play around with the spice levels to suit your tastes. You might try adding a pinch of cinnamon or nutmeg for a slightly different twist.

Mulsum

Mulsum is a traditional Roman drink made by mixing wine with honey, and sometimes spiced with herbs or spices. It’s a sweet, refreshing beverage that was often served as an aperitif. Here’s a simple recipe for making Mulsum at home:

Quick Mulsum Recipe

Ingredients:

1 bottle of red or white wine (750 ml)
4 fl oz honey (adjust to taste)
1 cinnamon stick (optional)
2-3 cloves (optional)
1-2 strips of orange or lemon peel (optional)

Instructions:

Warm the Wine and Honey: In a saucepan, combine the wine and honey. Heat gently over low to medium heat, stirring until the honey is fully dissolved. Do not bring to a boil.
Add Spices (Optional): If using, add the cinnamon stick, cloves, and citrus peel to the mixture. Continue to heat for 5-10 minutes, allowing the flavors to infuse.
Cool and Serve: Remove the saucepan from heat and let the Mulsum cool to room temperature. Strain out the spices and peel if used. Transfer the Mulsum to a pitcher or bottle and chill in the refrigerator.
Serve: Serve chilled, either as an aperitif before a meal or as a refreshing drink on a warm day.

Enjoy your homemade Mulsum! It’s a simple yet flavorful way to experience a taste of ancient Rome.

The Cultural Significance of Parthian Chicken

What This Dish Tells Us About Roman Society

Parthian Chicken is more than just a recipe; it is a window into the cultural and social dynamics of ancient Rome. The use of exotic spices and ingredients reflects the wealth and cosmopolitan nature of Roman society, particularly among the upper classes. This dish was likely served at lavish banquets, where hosts would impress their guests with the finest foods and wines.

The blending of eastern and western culinary traditions in Parthian Chicken also speaks to the interconnectedness of the ancient world. Rome’s expansive trade networks and military conquests brought new flavors and ideas to the empire, enriching its culinary landscape.

The Role of Food in Roman Identity

Food was an essential part of Roman identity, serving not only as sustenance but also as a marker of social status and cultural sophistication. Dishes like Parthian Chicken exemplified the Roman desire to incorporate and master foreign elements, a reflection of their broader imperial ambitions.

Moreover, the Roman approach to cooking was deeply communal, with meals often being shared experiences that reinforced social bonds and hierarchies. Preparing and enjoying Parthian Chicken today can offer a taste of this communal spirit, bringing people together over a dish that has been enjoyed for millennia.

Conclusion

Parthian Chicken is a remarkable example of how ancient recipes can still captivate modern palates. Its rich history, combined with its bold and complex flavors, makes it a dish worth exploring for anyone interested in culinary history or simply looking for something new to try in the kitchen.

By recreating Parthian Chicken, you’re not just cooking a meal—you’re participating in a tradition that dates back thousands of years, connecting with the tastes and traditions of the ancient Romans. Whether you’re a history enthusiast, a foodie, or just someone who loves trying new recipes, Parthian Chicken is sure to offer a unique and memorable culinary experience.

So why not take a step back in time and enjoy a taste of ancient Rome tonight? Happy cooking!