McGregor the builder and his GoAT

There’s an old Scottish joke about MacGregor.

“I built that bar with my own hands.

Do they call me MacGregor the Bar Builder? No.

I built that stone wall.

Do they call me MacGregor the Wall Builder? No.

I built that pier.

Do they call me MacGregor the Pier Builder? No.

But you fuck one goat…”

Crude? Absolutely.

But there’s a powerful lesson behind it.

People may forget 100 good things you’ve done and remember the one time you got it badly wrong.

Power walking takes on a new meaning

What if every step you take  could power the future?

Imagine walking through your city , one and every step you take generates electricity. Thanks to kinetic energy technology, a single step can light a bulb for up to 20 seconds.

Envision this implemented across your train stations, sidewalks, and sports stadiums. With millions of footsteps every day, we could:

• Power lights and sensors
• Reduce strain on Tokyo's energy grid
• Transform human movement into a renewable energy source

Japan is experimenting with piezoelectric floor tiles in high-traffic spots like Shibuya and Tokyo Stations, where thousands of people pass through every day. This stepping technology is something I would love to see implemented in Australia!

This isn't science fiction. It's actually where behavioral science meets smart infrastructure. Every step becomes a step toward sustainability.

Could Tokyo lead the way as a global model for kinetic-powered cities? What do you think about this technology? What obstacles and concerns? What are pros and cons?

Leave your thoughts and comments below 👇

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Time to change positions

changing positions?

It’s time to leave home

Hmmmm

Saying goodbye to a teenage daughter going to college 

Golf G-ds

A , B or C

A great name for a dog

Prescription for Cyanide !

When a woman walked into the pharmacy, her strides were purposeful, and her gaze fixed firmly on the pharmacist behind the counter. Without hesitation, she leaned in and said in an even, unwavering voice, “I need to buy some cyanide.”

The pharmacist froze, startled by the blunt request. “Excuse me?” he stammered. “Why would you possibly need cyanide?”

“To poison my husband,” she replied matter-of-factly.

His jaw nearly hit the counter. “What? Are you insane? Ma’am, I can’t just sell you cyanide! That’s illegal! If I did, I’d lose my license, we’d both go to jail—you do realize that, don’t you? Absolutely not! You can’t have any cyanide!”

The woman let out a long, exasperated sigh and reached into her handbag. Wordlessly, she retrieved a photograph and placed it on the counter. The picture clearly showed her husband in bed—with the pharmacist’s wife.

The pharmacist’s face drained of color as he stared at the damning evidence. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no words came out. Finally, he cleared his throat and pushed the photo back toward her with a newfound air of calm.

“Well,” he said, his tone carefully measured, “you didn’t mention you had a prescription. That’s a different story.”