By the time Holodex started taking shape as more than just an idea, it had already become an obsession. I could see its potential so clearly—the innovation it could bring, the impact it could have. But not everyone in my life shared that vision.

Inspiration strikes in the most unexpected ways. For most people, it was a job like any other. For me, it became the birthplace of an idea that would change my life.

It all started with something so simple: a carousel of cutouts on my computer screen. They weren’t anything special, just cutout images spinning in a loop. It was a website featuring most of the UK’s top talent like Ant & Dec and Fearne Cotton etc… But as I stared at them, my mind started to wander. What if these weren’t just traditional cutouts? What if they were something more exciting?

After leaving the Union, I found myself walking into what seemed like a dream opportunity. I moved to a company called OnCampus, which worked with students' unions across the country—around 40% of them, to be exact. It was exactly the kind of place I’d been hoping to land, offering me the chance to dive even deeper into the world of tech and digital development.

Over the years, what started as an obsession with ZetaTalk became something much more profound. It wasn’t just a collection of theories and ideas anymore—it became a guiding force in my life, a lens through which I viewed the world. In a way, ZetaTalk became my religion.

By the time I was about 25, over 2 decades ago, life had taken me in so many different directions, but one thing remained constant: my obsession with the unknown. I’d never stopped searching for answers about aliens, convinced they were out there—had to be out there.

Then I stumbled across ZetaTalk.

When I was working at the students' union, I saw something that bothered me—a glaring weakness that seemed ripe for the taking. Their newspaper, Cry Wolf, was… well, to put it bluntly, a bit of a mess. As a graphic designer, I couldn’t ignore it. The layout was lacklustre, the content sparse, and it just didn’t feel right. But there was something about it that made me think, This is something I could fix. I couldn’t resist.

During my time working at the students' union, I stumbled upon an unexpected haven of creative freedom. It was one of those rare environments where you could get away with almost anything, and I thrived in that chaos. Between shifts, I poured my energy into one of my earliest web projects: Meat Market.

Some people might call me stubborn, and they’d be absolutely right. Once I set my mind on something, there’s very little anyone can do to change it. That trait has been both a blessing and a curse in my life, and nowhere was it more evident than during my university years.

Growing up, my hair became a story all on its own. As a teenager, I was deeply into rock music—the louder, the better—and naturally, I let my hair grow long. It felt like a rite of passage, a declaration of rebellion against the neat and tidy norms of the world. But when I became a student, things took a peculiar turn.

While at university, we were living in a cramped but lively student house, one of those quintessential shared spaces where friendships were forged, arguments erupted over whose turn it was to clean, and late-night gaming sessions became the norm. Multiplayer gaming was our escape and our connection, a way to unwind after classes and deadlines. That shared digital escape gave me an idea—what if we could play through our own house?—I recreated our student house in a Half-Life map.

Back in university, I had developed a newfound addiction to building websites. But with only one website project assigned throughout my entire course, I needed an outlet to channel my energy. And that’s when the idea struck me: Kerrang!

Kerrang, the iconic rock music magazine, seemed like the perfect subject for a project. So, without hesitation, I got to work and built them a website from scratch, entirely for free. It became my labour of love, my way of showing off what I could do. My plan was simple: send it to them and see if they’d actually use it.

When I arrived at Staffordshire University, I was just another wide-eyed student, lugging a suitcase of clothes and a head full of dreams. What I didn’t know then was that I was about to leave a legacy—something bigger than a degree, bigger than myself.

When I decided to go to university, I was just following the herd. It seemed like the "right" thing to do—society’s expected next step after school. But looking back, I didn’t think it through. I already had a passion for crafting magazines and was immersed in creative projects, so I picked a course that I thought would complement my interests.

From day one, it was like stepping into a museum exhibit of tech that time forgot. The software of choice? Adobe Authorware.

Yes, I know—exactly.

Growing up in a ménage à trois wasn’t just some outlandish experience; it was the foundation of my worldview. I didn’t see it as unusual. It was my norm, my reality. My mother’s love was abundant and multi-faceted, and her partners were as much a part of our family as anyone. There was no jealousy, no animosity, no hidden resentments. Just an open space of care and understanding. To me, it seemed like the perfect kind of family.

When I was young, someone once called me a “luck child.” I didn’t understand it at the time, and to be honest, I’m not sure I still fully do. It was one of those phrases that just stuck with me, like a little puzzle that I couldn’t quite solve. I often wondered if it was a compliment or something else entirely, but I couldn’t shake it.