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?

What if they were porn stars?

The idea hit me like lightning. A carousel of performers, each one distinct and captivating, spinning in a seamless, interactive display. From that one thought, everything else started to fall into place. I imagined a platform that wasn’t just a list of names or a gallery of photos but a fully immersive experience where fans could connect with their favourite performers on a whole new level.

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.

From the moment I stepped into the company, I was struck by how aligned everything felt with my ambitions. The business goals were ambitious, forward-thinking, and exactly what I needed to sharpen my skills. They weren’t just aiming to improve student life—they were building something that could change the way students interacted, connected, and communicated.

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.

I know how that might sound to some people—devoting yourself to something rooted in messages from extraterrestrial beings. But for me, it made perfect sense. The core of ZetaTalk wasn’t just about aliens or conspiracies; it was about understanding our place in the universe, the interconnectedness of all things, and the idea that there’s a plan bigger than any of us can comprehend.

The messages resonated with me on a level I can’t fully explain. They gave me comfort when life felt chaotic and meaning when I struggled to find it. It wasn’t about blindly believing everything I read—it was about interpreting those ideas, finding what felt true to me, and applying it to my own journey.

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.

You can imagine my reaction. A whole community devoted to extraterrestrial knowledge, conspiracy theories, and messages supposedly channeled from beings beyond our world. It was as if someone had taken all my wildest thoughts and organised them into an encyclopaedia. I couldn’t believe what I was reading.

For days, maybe months, I was consumed. I devoured page after page, diving deeper into ideas about government cover-ups, alien abductions, and the shadowy connections between humanity and beings from the stars. To me, this wasn’t just a curiosity—it felt like confirmation.

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.

The opportunity was like a secret door that had been left ajar. As someone who was constantly looking for ways to put my design skills to the test, this felt like fate. I wasn't just going to work on the paper—I was going to make it something special. I pitched my ideas to the team, and before I knew it, I was in charge of Cry Wolf. A two-man show, really, but it was just what I wanted. A small but ambitious team, and I was all in.

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.

The concept sounds ridiculous when I try to explain it, but I promise, it was great. Meat Market was a social network with a bizarre twist. Everyone on the platform became a unique cut of meat, assigned to you upon signing up. The system wasn’t just about chatting or posting updates—it had its own ecosystem. Players could take on roles as butchers, buy and sell "meat," and manage their very own virtual fridges.

It was absurd and tongue-in-cheek, but that was the point. The whole thing became a hilarious parody of online interactions, consumer culture, and even the commodification of ourselves on social platforms. The students loved it, partly because it was just so weird, and partly because it felt like an inside joke we were all in on.

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.

One of my early projects in university was to create a CV—simple enough on the surface, but I saw it as an opportunity to push boundaries. While most students were content with a straightforward Word document or a dull spreadsheet, I envisioned something that would leap off the screen. I wanted a CV that was alive, something that would make anyone who saw it stop in their tracks.

To pull this off, I needed to use Program B. The course, however, insisted we use Program A. To me, that wasn’t just a suggestion—it was a straightjacket. Program A couldn’t do what I wanted, not in the way I envisioned. I tried to explain this, to argue my case, but the lecturers wouldn’t budge. They didn’t see the bigger picture.

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.

I decided to stop brushing it altogether. The result? The worst dreadlocks you've ever seen. Not the sleek, purposeful kind that you might admire on a reggae artist—no, these were chaotic, matted tangles that looked more like a bird's nest than a hairstyle. I must have looked completely unhinged.

And yet, I functioned. I went about my life as if nothing was out of the ordinary. I dated, held down jobs, and navigated the world like any other adult. What amazes me to this day is that nobody ever said a word about it to my face. Not one person. Maybe they were too polite, too shocked, or simply unsure of how to approach the subject.

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.

It started as a simple idea: bring our chaotic little world into the virtual one we spent so much time in. I’d sit at my desk, meticulously designing every detail with the Hammer editor, right down to the mismatched furniture in the living room, the pile of unwashed dishes in the kitchen, and the lopsided posters taped to the walls.

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.

Honestly, it looked pretty damn good for a student project—clean, fast, and bolder than most commercial music sites at the time. Yet, as is often the case, I received zero response. Nothing. It was as if the project never existed. Despite the radio silence, I took some pride in knowing I had beaten them to it. When Kerrang eventually launched their website two years later, I couldn’t help but smile — I’d gotten there first.

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.

It all started with the internet. Staffordshire had this insanely fast connection, and the entire campus was wired together. For a gamer like me, it was paradise. I spent my first few nights glued to my computer, diving into the world of online gaming, feeling this incredible buzz from being part of something bigger, something interconnected. That’s when it hit me—why not take this energy and turn it into something real? Something that would bring people together in person, not just behind a screen.

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.

It was clunky, painfully dated, and no one in the real world was using it anymore. Meanwhile, I was head-over-heels in love with Macromedia Flash, the new kid on the digital block. Flash was alive—fluid, visual, interactive. Authorware? It felt like coding on a typewriter.