Author: AngryWolf

A Thank‑You, A Reality Check, and a Mild Threat from AngryWolf

Before anything else:

To everyone in the Entertainment Capital of the World who works in bars, restaurants, clubs, hotels, venues, and nightlife — thank you.

You keep this city alive. You keep it running. You keep it fun.

You do it with patience, professionalism, and corporate‑approved civility.

I, on the other hand, bring a different perspective—always honest, occasionally blunt, and never scripted.

No filter. No script. No “corporate tone.”

Just the truth.

Bars Pay for Everything — So Support Them

Bars don’t stay open because people “love the vibe.”

They stay open because people support:

• The bar
• The kitchen
• The staff
• The entertainment

Every single thing you enjoy inside a bar costs money — their money.

Those sports packages?

Not $14.99.

Not $29.99.

Not “my cousin streams it for free.”

Bars pay more than your mortgage to legally screen sports.

And the ability to show 30 different events at once?

That’s not magic or “just plug in a TV.”

That’s a commercial setup that costs more than your car.

So don’t bring your own food.

Don’t sit outside with your illicit vodka like you’re starring in a low‑budget spy thriller.

Don’t treat the bar like a free community center with beer taps.

Look around at the shuttered businesses.

That’s what happens when people “support local” with their mouths instead of their wallets.

And let’s be honest:

This isn’t a tourist problem. Locals are among the worst offenders. They just get too comfortable.

Karaoke: My Sanctuary, Your Stage

I don’t host karaoke for the tips.

I host because my neurodivergent brain doesn’t do “small talk,” “mingling,” or “pretending to be nice.”

It’s not an act.

I just don’t have a brain that works that way.

The booth is my sanctuary.

My 80s DJ flashback.

My safe place where I can bring joy to people without struggling through social gymnastics. A place where my friends can socialize without me having to try to be the host with the most.

And let me be absolutely clear:

I love imperfect singing.

I live for it.

The bravery it takes to step outside your comfort zone for four minutes?

That’s the magic.

That’s the point.

That’s karaoke.

No judgment.

No gatekeeping.

No “you must be this good to sing.”

Karaoke is for everyone.

Except me.

My singing brings joy to absolutely no one — especially me.

The Four‑Person Situation — A Perfect Example

Here’s the scenario that sums it all up:

Four people arrive at the start of my set.

They each ordered one soft drink.

They request sixteen songs.

They stay the entire night.

They leave without even a thank-you, let alone a tip.

Now ask yourself:

• How did that help the bar?
• How did that help the staff?
• How did that help the entertainer running a cohesive four‑hour show?

It didn’t.

They consumed time, attention, resources, and entertainment — and contributed nothing back. That is not how community works.

This isn’t about me.

This is about the ecosystem of a bar.

If everyone behaved like that, the bar would close in a month.

Cashless World, Cashless Excuses

Nobody carries cash anymore.

Fine.

But guess what?

Many bartenders and valet services now accept Zelle or Venmo.

You can’t use “I don’t have cash” as an excuse when your phone is basically a portable ATM.

Back in the UK, when beer was £1, I tipped £1 every time.

Not because I was rich.

Because it was the right thing to do.

I’ve never understood the reluctance.

Or the perceived injustice.

Or sighing as if you were asked to donate a kidney.

And yes — I don’t love automatic gratuity either.

But it’s where we are now.

You still have the option to raise it.

You still have the option to speak up if the service wasn’t right.

Using your voice doesn’t make you a Karen.

Being passive‑aggressive does.

The Bottom Line

Tipping is not a place in China.

It’s a nod.

It’s a moment of recognition that the night didn’t run on fairy dust and your sparkling personality.

So show your support — eat, drink, tip, and keep the lights burning in the places that make life worth living. Too many gaps already mark where laughter used to echo and good times used to breathe.

AngryWolf

Total Prick. Shit Singer. Your Champion.

I originally chose not to blog about this because I wasn’t confident that my small audience would make a difference. However, I’ve come to realize that every voice, no matter how small, needs to share this message. If even one more person who reads this joins us in our quest for change and justice, it will be worth it.

There are stories you stumble into, and then there are stories that grab you by the throat and refuse to let go. This one chose me. I didn’t go looking for it. I didn’t wake up thinking, “Let me spend my free time unraveling a months‑long trail of dead sloths in Florida.”

But then I realized something: this entire operation was about to open right in front of my Den.

I watched the façade go up. I heard the rumors about animals being sourced from the wild. And while everyone else shrugged it off as “just another tourist trap,” something felt wrong. Deeply wrong.

What we didn’t know — what none of us could have known — was that just down the road, in a warehouse with no electricity, no water, no oversight, sloths were dying. Not one or two. Dozens. Over and over again.

And nobody said a word.

Potential career damage? Be damned. Some things matter more.

Neglect is murder. And I refuse to stand by while people pretend it’s anything else.

What’s blown me away is how many people clearly feel the same way. Forget the signature count for a moment — look at the thousand-plus who shared the petition before they even signed it. Look at the people contacting local authorities. Look at the ones refusing to accept the canned “active investigation” line when what they really meant was:

“We’re still deciding who should investigate the possibility of investigating.”

People aren’t stupid. They see the loophole. They see how it allowed this to happen. And they see that it’s still wide open for it to happen again.

A strip‑mall wild‑animal encounter. Who thinks this is a good idea? Who signs off on a permit for this? Who looks at a sloth — a fragile, temperature‑sensitive animal — and says, “Yes, let’s put that next to a nail salon and a vape shop.”

This isn’t oversight. This isn’t regulation. This is negligence dressed up as paperwork.

And we’re done pretending otherwise.

THE ONLY ONES WHO DID ANYTHING RIGHT

While agencies contradicted each other and everyone else tried to disappear into the wallpaper, the Central Florida Zoo stepped in. They took the survivors. They treated the cold‑stun injuries, the dehydration, the malnutrition, the viral outbreak — all the damage done long before those animals ever reached their care.

They didn’t cause this. They didn’t contribute to it. They’re the only ones who showed up.

Bandit never made it to them. Habanero didn’t survive the outbreak. Dumpling’s body simply couldn’t recover from the damage done before he arrived.

The rest are still fighting.

OUR COMMITMENT

We are still small, but we are mighty. We do not have the media behind us. We are not backed by any political agenda. We are simply people who refuse to look away.

We will continue independently — not for views, not for clicks, but for justice, and for the truth that has been denied to these animals and to the public.

Bandit, Habanero, and Dumpling will not be forgotten. Nor will any of the unnamed sloths who suffered and died.

IF YOU WANT TO STAND WITH US

Here is the petition — the one that started with a handful of voices and is now echoing far louder than anyone expected:

👉 https://www.change.org/p/justice-for-the-sloths-do-not-let-bandit-die-in-vain

We’re not done. Not even close. And if the people in charge won’t demand answers, then we will.

Beware the Moon.

The Wolf is watching.

May 1, 1707. The day Scotland and England collided and conjured the United Kingdom. Not a polite handshake, but a tectonic shift that still rattles the bones of anyone with a pulse. Tell me you don’t feel it. I do.

And yes, Wales was already bound to England long before this day, so when England stepped into the union, Wales walked in with it.

Ireland, though — that’s a different beast. King Billy may have taken the island in 1690, but constitutionally it remained its own kingdom until 1801. Northern Ireland didn’t even exist yet. History never gives you clean lines.

I exist in that wild, ungovernable space between two truths… a borderland where identity refuses to pick a side.

I am Scottish. Fiercely. Unapologetically. The kind of Scottish that doesn’t need a flag or a tartan to prove it.

Not the watered‑down, tourist‑brochure Scottish.

Not the biscuit‑tin caricature.

Not “heritage‑Scottish,” as if ancestry is something you dust off for special occasions.

Properly Scottish. It’s in my marrow, my voice, my Farquharson bloodline — and yes, in that tangled thread that runs all the way back to James VI of Scotland and I of England, the king who set the chessboard for this whole cosmic game.

And yet…

I’m British. Grateful for it, even if it sometimes feels like wearing two suits of armor at once.

Grateful for the doors it kicked open, the stability it offered, the way it flung me into a world bigger than any glen or city block.

Grateful for the life I’ve carved out far from Glasgow — but Glasgow never left me. It’s stitched into my shadow.

That tension doesn’t dilute me. It forges me. I am the sum of every contradiction.

But here’s the part I’ll never compromise on:

Scotland didn’t just sign up for a union. Scotland helped invent the modern world. Let’s not pretend otherwise.

Our inventions, our wild‑eyed thinkers, our engineers who bent reality — they shaped everything from medicine to industry to the way the world even speaks.

The telephone. Television. Penicillin. The MRI scanner. The bicycle. The pneumatic tire. Color photography. Fingerprinting. Refrigeration. The ATM. Scotland’s fingerprints are all over the blueprints of civilization.

Scotland’s imagination is stitched into the fabric of the universe. Try escaping it. You won’t.

And it should stay there — everywhere, always — like a stubborn ghost haunting progress.

So on Union Day, I don’t toast to one nation swallowing another. That’s not the story.

I celebrate the fact that four nations — each burning with their own fire, their own stubborn brilliance — collided and rewrote history’s script.

Today, I raise a glass (or three) to:

• Scotland’s innovation and resilience
• England’s tradition and influence
• Wales’ spirit and culture
• Northern Ireland’s heritage and strength
• And the millions across the world who carry these identities with pride

Union Day isn’t about perfection. It’s about the journey — the glorious, messy, infuriating, impossible journey that forged us in the first place. Who wants easy anyway?

Happy Union Day.

May 1st… the day our histories collided, fused, and rewrote the script of the modern world.
Are you jealous yet?

I finally watched the new Hulk Hogan: Real American series on Netflix. It took me a while. Hulk has always been a polarizing figure, even for me, and it’s hard to separate the character from the person. I didn’t think I knew him well, but the times I spent with him were genuine, and my memories reflect that. He was always kind to me. He’d interrupt Jimmy’s calls just to shout “Hi Brother” from the background. He sent signed birthday gifts. He helped me through the XWF mess. He managed how Roddy regarded me and helped him trust me. When Brutus or anyone else was being difficult, Hulk handled it quietly. He valued that I kept things private and didn’t make myself the story, unlike many photographers and journalists. Nothing was ever too much trouble to ask him for. Whenever he met my son, he was more than gracious.

One thing the documentary didn’t fully capture — but I lived — was how the true greats never resented Hulk’s presence. Sting. Rick Rude. Mr. Perfect. Lex Luger. They were all acknowledged stars, and they understood exactly what Hulk brought with him. They didn’t shrink. They didn’t complain. They knew what standing next to him meant for business. And then there was Randy Savage. I saw that dynamic up close. No matter how far apart they drifted, they were Ali and Frazier — destined to orbit each other, destined to collide, destined to define each other. That kind of rivalry is cosmic. You don’t choose it. It chooses you. Ric Flair? Same thing. Two all‑time greats who understood their value — to the business, to the fans, and to each other. They protected themselves, but they also protected the dance. They knew the business needed both of them to survive.

Seeing Dusty Rhodes acknowledged was special. People call him a gift to wrestling for a reason. He saw things others missed. He was one of my biggest mentors, along with Jimmy. He would sit and talk with you as if there was no rush. He was humble and had real vision. I don’t think anyone understood wrestling better than he did. He is deservedly the most cited figure in any wrestling documentary.

The documentary’s ending destroyed me. I knew how the story ended, but seeing him three weeks before… seeing him still Hulk… it was shocking. How does someone that larger‑than‑life fade that fast? And then you get the people taking credit for things they barely touched. The ones who rode the train all the way to retirement. The ones who suddenly want to be historians. Hearing HHH acknowledge Hulk’s importance, then telling people they didn’t have to pay their respects, was galling. Pay your fucking respects. Heavy is the head that wears the crown — and nobody since has worn it with more dignity and less self‑preservation. Wrestling is a brutal business. Very few succeed. Even fewer reach the summit. And almost none stay there. Look at your big contracts, your days off, your luxury houses, your mainstream exposure. You’re not wrestling on some backwater channel at 2 AM anymore. As much as Vince McMahon repulses me, a lot of my friends have better lives because of him. Same with Hulk.

Bret Hart… how bitter can one man be? You had it all. A career people would kill for. A legacy most wrestlers only dream of. And yet every time, it’s the same tired list of villains: Goldberg, Hogan, Warrior, Michaels, Davey Boy… all unfit to lace your boots, all horrible people. We get it. But maybe turn that mirror around. You talk about people being stuck in their gimmick — you’re the dictionary definition. You destroyed your own legacy. Bitter is not a good look, and it’s exhausting.

Kevin Nash, who has more reason than anyone to be bitter, carries himself like a prince. Funny how that works.

WrestleMania 18 — the match with The Rock — that should’ve been the ending. The perfect final chapter. The crowd, the energy, the moment — lightning in a bottle. A career‑defining sendoff that most wrestlers would sell their souls for. But it wasn’t the end, and there was so much more that could’ve been built in a better way. So many more chapters that could’ve been written. The man still had presence, charisma, and the kind of mythic aura you can’t manufacture. He could’ve pivoted, reinvented, evolved — if the right people had been around him, if the right advice had been given, if the noise hadn’t drowned out the human being underneath.

And that’s the part that hits hardest. For someone who was constantly surrounded by people — and they say it frequently in the documentary — how was he so alone? How does a man with an entourage end up isolated? How does the most recognizable face in wrestling history become the loneliest man in the room? That’s the tragedy nobody talks about.

I can’t ignore the party scene, the drugs, or the chaos that came with sudden fame. The steroid era happened. It was a different time, and in many sports, people didn’t think they were doing anything wrong. Living as both Hulk Hogan and Terry Bollea blurred the lines. The public wanted the superhero, not the person. I understand the pressure of having to be the character everyone expects, even when it’s hard to keep up. That’s where the loneliness starts — when the real person gets lost behind the image.

The political side of his public image always felt off to me. I didn’t like where it went, and it didn’t match the person I saw in private. Privately, he voted — and he voted for Trump twice — but he did it quietly, thoughtfully, without the noise or the showmanship people assume. That was the version of him I believed, even if I didn’t know him as well as I would’ve liked. Then Butler happened, and suddenly he was publicly all‑in. That shift never felt like it came from him. Most public figures don’t want to alienate half their fan base. The man I believed in wasn’t driven by outrage or ideology. He was driven by loyalty, by the people around him, and sometimes those people weren’t giving him the best guidance. That gap between who he was in private and how he appeared in public stayed with me more than anything he ever said.

And I’ll be honest — I hated seeing Trump all over the documentary. Not because of politics, but because it dragged me right back to the 90s, when I had the sense and the guidance to avoid working for his companies. Same with Vince. Different men, different worlds, but the same instinct: stay clear. I kept my hands clean from both of them, and watching the documentary reminded me exactly why. It was strange seeing Hulk step into that space publicly when the private version of him never matched it.

Watching the documentary took me back. Hulkamania in the WWF. Then Hulk arrived in WCW — and how disappointing everything was at first. Not his fault. WCW didn’t know how to market what we had. They listened too much to the sheets, the early internet, the smarks. Then the nWo hit, and everything changed. If only I’d slowed down and smelled the roses. Nothing lasts forever.

The last time I saw him was at WrestleReunion 2013 in Clearwater. He wasn’t advertised and didn’t have to be there, but he showed up anyway. He came to see Jimmy, Bobby Heenan, the Nasty Boys, Demolition, Koko, Mean Gene, his friends, and the fans. He sat, talked, and signed whatever people wanted. That was just who he was.

The real People’s Champion.

There’s a moment when the usual annoyance turns into something nastier. It stops being background noise and starts feeling like a personal vendetta. Relentless. Like someone’s declared war on my time, my patience, my sanity, and every bloody gadget I own. I’m way past being irritated. I’m past the eye-rolls and the polite sighs. I’m under siege. No breaks, no mercy, just a constant barrage.

And the worst part? Monty Python warned us. They tried to tell us. They gave us the blueprint decades ago.

“Have you got anything without spam?”
“Well, there’s spam egg sausage and spam, that’s not got much spam in it.”
“I don’t want ANY spam!”

What used to be a harmless joke is now my daily reality. Lucky me.

In my world, the waitress is Verizon, AT&T, Outlook, and every botnet this side of hell. No matter what I ask for, they just heap more spam on my plate and act like they’re doing me a kindness.

Let’s talk phones, because that’s where the insanity really screams. At work, I get at least twenty-five spam calls before I’ve even had my first cup of tea. My Verizon cell? Twenty more this morning, and that’s just before noon. Every single one is some spoofed number, pretending to be local, pretending to be someone I might actually give a damn about. They’re built to trick you. And sometimes, aye, they do. Sometimes the number looks just familiar enough that you answer before your brain catches up.

And then it hits. That dead pause. The giveaway silence before the robocall system connects you to some chancer in a call center halfway around the globe. That half-second where your brain screams, ‘Not this shite again.’ Then, right on cue, the voice pipes up, always with the same fake cheer: ‘Hello Colin…’

And that’s when the reflex kicks in. The hard shutdown. The verbal eject button. SHUT THE FUCK UP … take me off your fucking list, you useless CUNT! The thing people think is a catchphrase, but is actually a survival mechanism. Because when you’ve been hammered by this garbage day after day, week after week, year after year, you stop entertaining it. You stop being polite. You stop giving them a chance to get a word out. You shut it down instantly because if you don’t, they’ll keep going, and going, and going. It’s not rudeness. It’s self‑defense.

Meanwhile, Verizon, the same lot who sold me the phone, bill me every month, and swear blind their Call Filter is ‘active,’ can’t even get their own app to work on their own bloody network. I spent twenty-eight minutes on the phone with them today. The grand result? ‘We need forty-eight hours to investigate.’ Forty-eight hours to figure out why their own software won’t launch. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

Email’s no better. Between home and work, I’m drowning in over eighty spam emails a day. Gmail actually does its job, but Outlook? Outlook’s like a hall monitor who’s nodded off at his post. The worst rubbish just waltzes in, fake mustache and all. I’ve set up rules, filters, blocklists, safe senders, unsafe senders—you name it. Outlook still lets half the junk through, acting like it’s doing me a favor.

And then there’s the websites. Mine are locked down tighter than a medieval fortress. Firewalls, bot blockers, CAPTCHAs, honeypots, rate limits, blacklists, anti-scraping gadgets—you name it, I’ve thrown it at the wall. Still, the bots get through. It’s like building stone walls, towers, boiling oil, archers, and the enemy just parachutes in anyway. They scrape, they poke, they attack, round the clock. Sometimes I wonder if the folks making the blockers and the folks making the bots are the same people, because the arms race is too perfect. One side patches, the other side levels up. I’m just trying to run a normal site, and the bots treat my forms like a public toilet.

Here’s the ugly truth. Your phone number and email are in more databases than you can count. Those lists get sold, swapped, leaked, scraped. Robocallers use auto-dialers to blast out millions of calls. Spoofing makes them look local. Bots scrape websites for contact forms. Email spam pours in from hacked servers and botnets. Blocking one number is pointless—they just spin up thousands more. The carriers are always playing catch-up. Filters only react, never prevent. Once you’re in, you’re never getting out.

It’s not personal. It’s just volume. Massive, industrial-scale, soul-crushing volume.

So yes, I’m under siege. You’re under siege. Anyone with a phone, email, or website is under siege. Spam calls. Spam emails. Spam bots. Spam texts. Spam bloody everything. And the worst part? We’re just supposed to live with it, like it’s the weather. Like it’s normal. Like it’s fine. Spoiler: it’s not.

Well, I’m done pretending it’s fine. This is my rant. This is my line in the sand. I’m saying it loud and clear: SPAM SPAM SPAM. I don’t want any FUCKING spam.