Italians are addicted to their cars. In fact, the bel paese has among the highest car ownership in Europe, ranking just behind Poland and Luxembourg, according to the European Automobile Manufacturers’ Association. All of which makes it difficult for a new mobility player to break into a market so attached to their precious vehicles. 

But that’s not the only problem. Italy hasn’t always welcomed mobility upstarts with open arms. With taxi licenses tightly controlled, Euractiv has described the country’s taxi lobby as “mafia-like”. Foreign players such as Uber and Bolt have struggled to gain ground due to stringent regulations. The former only operates its premium Black service in Milan and Rome, and it costs more than a conventional taxi.

Despite the challenging environment, it’s clear that Italy needs more services that provide affordable, viable alternatives to private cars. A flexible service that arrives directly to a user could be key in a nation with a rapidly ageing, less mobile population. That’s where Wayla, a point-to-point van ridesharing service, comes in.

Operating in Milan since 2024, the €1.2m that Wayla recently raised through crowdfunding might be small change compared to global mobility giants. But it shows solid proof of public interest. Could this be the start of an Italian mobility revolution? Monocle spoke to Wayla’s co-founder and chief strategy officer, Mario Ferretti, to find out.

What market dynamics sparked the idea for Wayla, and how are you positioning yourself within Italy’s mobility landscape?
Mario Ferretti: Italy is peculiar when it comes to urban mobility. There’s a structural supply-demand gap, so we need new alternatives to move around our cities – and that’s where Wayla comes in. We are importing the idea to the country and defining it in a way that best fits our culture and is compliant with Italian laws. 

We are currently active in Milan. The system is simple: you download the app, sign up and then you can request a point-to-point ride in the urban area. Once requested, a van of ours will come and pick you up. During the ride, other users can join the journey, making it a cheaper option than other alternatives.

Italy has historically been a challenging market for mobility innovators, particularly due to the taxi lobby’s power and its resistance to foreign ride-hailing competitors. How has Wayla navigated this so far?
We are completely compliant with Italian laws, and we are an Italian startup with Italian employees. So our story is different from those of foreign companies. In a political sense, that’s probably why the market has been more welcoming to us than some of the other players in the past. Still, we are bringing competition where it’s needed – and it’s important to do so. We believe there’s room for everyone. There’s a huge and growing demand in Italy from both residents and tourists. Alternatives are needed.

A similar ride-pooling initiative, Moia, recently ceased operations in Hanover. What strategic or operational lessons have you taken from that example as you expand across Italy?
You need to have a clear vision. Moia is more focused on becoming a tech company [than us] and also more focused on providing autonomous vehicles. That’s growing in Italy as well, albeit at a slower rate than in Germany. Germany’s competitive landscape is also different from Italy’s. We have more space to grow here, and we are already doing well in Milan. We are planning to expand into many other cities, where both the municipalities and other private players are calling for us to go. We are pioneers in this country, so we also expect other players to follow us to the market, which is fine. We can grow together. 

How central are electric vehicles to Wayla’s business model?
We are growing a fleet of electric vehicles. We think it’s essential, and not greenwashing. Our vision is to be a sustainable model for urban transportation. We are already using EVs and we will be doing so more in the future. Italy is a bit lagging when it comes to electrification but our role as a mobility player is to push and invest in the decarbonisation of our fleet and that’s what we’re doing. 

You’re right that Italy is often seen as lagging in the adoption of new technology. How are you working with that perception? 
There’s certainly much to do when it comes to communicating the right things, even beyond our country. It’s the responsibility of everyone and anyone in the ecosystem. We need to attract talent, investments and ideas from abroad. There is room to innovate and there is space to disrupt. That’s what we are trying to do with Wayla – and that’s what’s needed for the future of our country.

Read next: In the UAE, flying taxis will soon be a reality

For the average European, South Korea is better known for its entertainment and technology industries than for its defence sector. But that familiarity with K-pop, LG appliances or Hyundai cars is about to extend to tanks and howitzers if Seoul’s government stays on target. Behind its sheen of cultural soft power, South Korea has quietly built a hard-power industry that wants to stock European arsenals.
 
The country’s 2022 weapons deal with Poland sent a clear message: a multiyear, multibillion-euro programme for K2 tanks, K9 howitzers and FA-50 jets put South Korea squarely on Europe’s shopping list. Between 2020 and 2024, Seoul rose into the top 10 of global arms exporters. President Lee Jae-myung’s government has since doubled down on that ambition with record R&D and innovation funding, a fast-track system for defence technology and an explicit target to join the world’s top four exporters by 2030. Just last week, Lee sent a special envoy to Europe with a mandate to secure billions of euros in co-production and long-term industrial deals.

The timing matters. Europe is rearming, buoyed by new funding and a wave of political resolve not witnessed since the end of the Cold War. For decision-makers in capitals scrambling to replenish depleted stocks, South Korean suppliers offer a compelling combination of speed, price and quality.
 
But tensions are inevitable – arms dealing is a political game. The Poland deal has already shown how financing can falter due to domestic frays: the new government in Warsaw openly questioned whether to proceed, calling the previously agreed financing offer from South Korea “unacceptable”. The EU’s new rules on industrial defence will make things harder too, favouring systems with a significant amount of European manufacturing and design, which will complicate how South Korean firms bid for grants or partnership contracts. Seoul’s success also risks irritating Washington. A growing presence in Europe could spark friction over market share and industrial subsidies unless Washington and Seoul co-ordinate carefully.
 
Fortunately for South Korea, logic implores Europe to be pragmatic. This means buying what works now – fast deliveries and ready-made systems – while also protecting Europe’s long-term independence as a manufacturer. Practically, that requires deals to guarantee meaningful technology transfer, unambiguous intellectual-property rules and joint R&D so that kit can be maintained, upgraded and integrated with European systems.
 
Looking ahead, three trends are likely to emerge. First, more co-production: South Korea understands that to sell to Europe it must be a partner, not just an exporter. Local assembly, jobs and shared production lines are bound to multiply. Second, cutting-edge niches – AI, drones and semiconductors for military use – will drive the next phase of defence sector growth. Seoul’s defence programme and President Lee’s emphasis on AI and robotics make it a natural supplier for next-generation systems. Third, diplomacy will be crucial: the country will need to walk the line between deepening co-operation with Europe and avoiding geopolitical blowback.
 
South Korea’s ambitious global-arms exports will shape technological excellence into secure, long-term industrial partnerships – as in the automotive industry, it’s a model that has worked well before. While Europe will still buy American, Seoul’s mix of affordability, reliability and hi-tech innovation makes it impossible to ignore.
 
Gorana Grgić is Monocle’s security correspondent. Further reading? Are Poland’s efforts to bolster its defences enough to deter Russia?

The promise of almost all technological progress is that it will make human life easier. This is understandable enough: there’s little sense in devoting time and resources to making things more difficult and annoying (though those responsible for updates to Microsoft Office appear to have formed a different view). The latest such advances to promise us freedom from drudgery and graft are artificial intelligence and next-generation robotics – but there are indications that these particular developments might have consequences not only unintended but verging on the opposite. 
     
New analysis by Microsoft suggests that those pleasant, air-conditioned office jobs created by previous leaps forward might be among the first for the chop in this one. The careers rated most likely to survive the coming reckoning include cement masons, firefighters, glass installers and embalmers – possibly because they’ll be called upon after newly redundant management consultants wreak terrible revenge upon their former workplaces. Manual labour might be making a comeback.

Anyone who works in a desk-bound field will presently be experiencing a certain existential itchiness, even those of us who fancy that we are creating something. AI can already crank out plausible simulacra of writing, music, pictures and film. It might all be pointless garbage but so is much of the writing, music, art and cinema that humans manufacture. If large numbers of people are unfussy enough to consume such mediocrity, they’re unlikely to be too bothered about whether it cost anyone anything to produce. A recent survey by US management consultants Bain & Co gleaned that about 40 per cent of people were willing to consume AI-generated music, 30-odd per cent unbothered if newspapers and magazines were written by machines and more than a quarter happy to sit down with a book authored by a few prompts tapped into an interface.

It is difficult for those of us who write anything for a living to consider these figures and the future they portend without trepidation. This is even more the case for those of us, your correspondent included, who were impelled towards writing stuff for a living at least partially by a lack of practical aptitude. I’m not a completely hopeless case; I can change a light bulb without burning the house down and so on. But if anything requiring the use of tools needs doing, it gets done by a professional, who I pay with the money that I earn by doing the thing I actually can do.

The question of what happens if such money is no longer on offer appears to have been anticipated in some quarters, at least. In the UK, 16-year-olds are to be offered new vocational qualifications called V-levels, a manifestation of the Labour government’s enthusiasm for reorienting post-school ambitions from degrees for the sake of degrees towards apprenticeships in how to build and fix things. 

This is a worthy and sensible cause. Among the British middle classes in particular, there has long been an absurd, snobbish horror of the idea that Junior should take up some sort of trade, even if there are few varieties of people more useful or admirable than those who can build and fix. Indeed, for someone as hapless in these respects as me, watching a competent carpenter or plumber at work elicits something of the wonder of seeing magic close up.

It is probably too late for me to retrain in anything involving tools, wires or hazardous substances – and it would likely be unsafe for anybody within a potential blast radius. But it would not be an altogether bad thing if more people were able to turn their hitherto uncalloused hands to something (arguably) more useful than circulating emails and sitting in meetings. And those of us who can still make a living commentating on politics might look forward to the populist-demagogue grievance merchants of the future trying to rabble-rouse the unemployed HR co-ordinators, social-responsibility managers and strategic alignment officers.

Andrew Mueller is the host of ‘The Foreign Desk’ on Monocle Radio and a regular Monocle contributor. For more opinion, analysis and insight, subscribe to Monocle today.

Read next: The great AI art hoax: how a fake band fooled millions – and what it means for creativity

Are you sitting comfortably? Without wanting to knock you from your perch, it turns out that where you choose to sit says a lot about who you are. The sofa in your living room can reveal a great deal about your priorities and outlook on life. But for designers or architects, there’s often an added layer of meaning: their choice can (or perhaps even should) reflect their core creative philosophies. This notion is explored in The Monocle Book of Designers on Sofas – available to buy now – for which we spoke to 50 leading architects and designers about their relationships with their settee, unpacking what it says about them and their design sensibilities.

For some, it was quite literal: take Danish architect Bjarke Ingels, who designed his own Brick sofa in collaboration with Lithuanian firm Jot Jot. Living on a houseboat in Copenhagen’s harbour, its shape is partly inspired by the sandbags found along the capital’s waterfront. Appropriate given that Bjarke’s “journey as a practising architect” ended up coinciding with his rediscovery of the harbour.”

The sofa, it seems, is both a silent witness and active participant in family and work life. For Hong Kong-based Betty Ng, her purchase of a Marenco sofa by Arflex symbolised the act of putting down roots. This informed the layout of her space, much like Naoto Fukasawa’s decision to install Maruni’s Hiroshima sofa in his studio-cum-residence. The Japanese designer was so intent on using this particular make that he had it craned into his top-floor living room prior to a renovation of the property; it was, he assures us, the only way to deliver the piece into the space.

In putting this book together, it became clear that the sofa is far more than just a place to sit. Australian architect John Wardle’s Gentry sofa by Moroso has witnessed years of use by his children, friends and family. Now, as he prepares to move, it’s the one significant piece of furniture that’s coming with him. So, while sofas are often the largest item in a room, they also play a large role in our lives, collecting memories of family milestones, quiet evenings and lively gatherings. With this in mind, join us as we visit the homes of leading creatives to hear about their sofas. Get comfy, read on and don’t forget to plump the cushions when you’re done.  
 
Nic Monisse is Monocle’s design editor. You can order your copy of ‘The Monocle Book of Designers on Sofas’ now. 

Fighter jets bearing Qatar’s maroon-and-white insignia will start ripping through Idaho airspace in five years’ time. That’s the plan as announced this month by US defence secretary Pete Hegseth and Qatari defence minister Sheikh Saoud bin Abdulrahman al-Thani. A Qatar Emiri Air Force squadron is set to train at Mountain Home Air Force Base from 2030. The detachment will consist of 12 Qatari F-15QA fighter jets, supported by approximately 300 Qatari and US personnel.

The arrangement isn’t unusual. Luke Air Force Base in Arizona trains 70 per cent of the world’s F-35 pilots, while Sheppard Air Force Base in Texas is home to the Euro-Nato Joint Jet Pilot Training Programme. Mountain Home has hosted the Peace Carvin V detachment of the Royal Singapore Air Force since 2009.

Yet the prospect of Qataris training on US soil has raised hackles on both sides of the aisle. Democratic strategist Max Burns called it a “national security crisis”, while Natalie Ecanow, a senior research analyst at the neoconservative Foundation for Defense of Democracies, deemed Qatar a “frenemy” at best.

But the sharpest critique has come from the Republican far-right, which counts Idaho as a stronghold. The most bizarre objections come from elected officials such as state senator Brian Lenney, who is leery of welcoming foreign nationals whom he alleges pledge fealty to a Sharia legal system incompatible with US constitutional law and represent a country where Christianity cannot be practised. Qatari pilots would, of course, be subject to US laws. While Islam is Qatar’s religion, there are actually churches in Doha, though surely fewer than in Mountain Home.

Isolationist by nature, these America Firsters don’t trust Qatar as an ally, pointing to its poor track record combatting illicit funding to terror groups. Their worst fear is a repeat of the December 2019 incident when a Saudi airman training to be a pilot at a naval air station in Florida shot dead three US service members in a jihadist attack. (Though Idahoans should feel secure if they follow Lenney’s advice to remain well-armed – he wrote an entirely sincere children’s book titled Why Everyone Needs an AR-15! A Guide for Kids.)

These parochial protestations miss the opportunity for the US to enhance its soft power through hard power and for Idaho to position its sparsely populated land mass as an ideal training ground for allied air forces with constrained airspace. According to Pentagon officials, the Qatari deal was in the works for at least three years but the public unveiling of the proposed long-term training scheme comes at a pivotal moment in bilateral relations. Mere weeks after Israel’s norm-shattering strike at Hamas leadership in Doha, the White House issued a security guarantee that elevates Qatar to near-Article V status.

Like it or loathe it, Doha has ingratiated itself with the US and savvy minds in Washington should use that relationship to their advantage. For one, training access keeps Qatar writing cheques for the blockbuster $12bn (€10.32bn) deal that it made with the US in 2017 to buy 36 specially modified F-15s. For another, interoperability and shared training makes the country, which hosts the largest US base in the Middle East, a more reliable strategic ally in a volatile region. It could also provide further leverage to pressure the Qataris to up their counter-terrorism bona fides.

Since the Florida attack, the US has rightly increased the scrutiny applied to foreign military students. I suspect that Idahoans meeting the Qataris who pass the vetting will find courteous and respectful young men with traditional values not so different from conservative Christians. They will certainly be anything but rabble rousers – a model of probity that US soldiers stationed abroad would be wise to emulate.

Gregory Scruggs is Monocle’s Seattle correspondent. For his take on why Trump’s troops on US soil might do some good, click here.

When I started tapping out last week’s column, somewhere high above Baffin Island, little did I know that I was creating an inbox monster that only stopped raging on Friday morning. In case you missed it, you can find it here. But to save you clicking around, the gist was how the language of travel marketing has become tedious and repetitive – particularly its rather misguided mission of helping fliers, guests and passengers find a sense of personal enlightenment when all they really want to do is get a tan around a pool with like-minded guests, shop, go for a good coffee after a brisk morning jog in a new city, shop again, find some well-priced art or objects that they can ship home and drink and dine till the wee hours. 

After 800 words and highlighting the issues with terms such as “meaningful journeys”, “purposeful escapes”, “authentic retreats” and the like, I asked readers to get a bit competitive, identify which overused word was not present in the column and send me a one-word answer in exchange for a prize from the Monocle retail world. Out of respect for time zones and to not give the Kiwis an unfair advantage, I said that the first correct answer from our three geographical regions would be getting a treat. While many complied with a single word, many tried to offer up a choice of terms (they were all disqualified) and many more used it as an opportunity to offer their own versions of fatigue and frustration with the feelings culture that has somehow seeped into almost every lobby, aircraft cabin and junior suite. Cheekier readers also used it as an opportunity to ask for some autumn Japan tips, so rather than writing a series of personal notes, this crowd will find a few tips at the end of the column. Before that – “Who won?” you’re asking. Here we go.
 
From APAC, Martina Bay was the first to my inbox and nailed it with “experience” and this: “The traveller walks slowly through the hotel lobby, looking ‘transformed’ – in reality, she’s wondering if the lobby’s scent diffuser is supposed to be this aggressive.”

From Europe, Aline Cristina Clementino da Silva was also quick on the comms front and will have a little something heading her way soon.
  
And finally, from the Americas, Michelle Lee gets the prize for being up so early/late and also identifying “experience”.
 
Many thanks to the hundreds who wrote in. Also, thank you for your kind words about the column, your love of Andrew’s column as well and all your support. For those of you who only get this newsletter and are not a paid-up subscriber, I encourage you to join the club by enrolling here. We’re talking less than the cost of a daily cortado (Spanish prices), so please treat yourself to some fine journalism, comment, imagery and more.
 
And now, back to Tokyo for those of you wanting the latest tips. After a full week in town, here are my responses to some of your queries.
 
Where to stay that’s fresh and new? 
Two answers here and both close by. Hyatt has just opened a branch of its Caption brand in Nihonbashi and it scores on a variety of fronts – buzzy lobby with good coffee, good rates and rooms designed for longer stays. Also nearby is Soil (it gets its close-up in our upcoming issue), a sharp addition to the increasingly cool yet still calm Nihonbashi.
 
Where do you recommend for a no-nonsense classic? 
Two words: The Palace. Balconies overlooking the Imperial Palace and Marunouchi, a great bar, good retail in the basement arcade and exceptional service make it my personal choice.
 
One retail hit worth checking out? 
I really liked the Takanawa Gateway City development. Yes, it’s a train station with a mall, offices and hotel atop but it’s exactly what Japan does best. This is the type of interchange other cities need to be building for locals and visitors alike.
 
What are you hearing about the return of the Park Hyatt? 
I’ve not just heard but also seen! I went for a spin around last week and I was relieved. All the bits we love about the PH are there, and they have been sensitive to John Morford’s vision. Of course, there are a few additions and deletions that will likely irk superfans but all in all they’ve done a good job and it reopens on 9 December.
 
Is there a bar where the Monocle team gathers after work? 
I couldn’t possibly say.

Enjoying life in ‘The Faster Lane’? Click here to browse all of Tyler’s past columns. 

At long last Timor-Leste has been admitted to the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (Asean). Asia’s youngest country and one of its poorest has become the 11th member of the regional grouping, which counts Indonesia, Thailand and Singapore among its number. Timor-Leste’s president, José Ramos-Horta, has been agitating for this since the 1970s but, as he told us this week, the real hard work begins now.

Confirmation of Timor-Leste’s accession comes at the start of Asean’s 47th summit in Kuala Lumpur, which begins on Sunday 26 October. Myanmar’s intractable civil war and the simmering tensions between Thailand and Cambodia are likely to overshadow proceedings.

This rare bit of good news for Asean is a monumental occasion for the former Portuguese colony. Timor-Leste won a long and bloody battle for independence from Indonesia in 2002 and being accepted into the international organisation has involved another arduous journey. It has been 14 years since Timor-Leste formally applied to join and 49 years since a young Ramos-Horta, during a trip to Jakarta in the chaotic period between the end of Portuguese rule and Indonesia’s military invasion, first floated the possibility of his country joining the bloc.

Ramos-Horta is now 75 years old, a Nobel Peace Prize-winner and is serving his second tenure as Timor-Leste’s president. “I’ve been pushing for this since 1974,” he said in 2023 when Monocle visited the country to report a story – a rare chance to eat soursop ice cream in a local café with a national leader and ride in his convertible Mini Moke. 

When we spoke this week, Ramos-Horta was sanguine, preparing to lead the delegation from the capital city, Dili, to Kuala Lumpur. He will preside over his country’s official welcome into Asean, a meaningful political win and a symbolic, long overdue recognition of Timor-Leste’s place in Southeast Asia.

During our reporting trip two years ago, it was hard to miss the neat row of flagpoles outside the presidential palace. The largest flag was Asean’s blue, red and yellow ensign, followed by those of every other country in Southeast Asia except Timor-Leste’s. At the very end was another flagpole, conspicuously empty. Nothing billowed from its finial until now.

The ceremonial hoisting of Timor-Leste’s flag in Dili has been hard-earned. Its 2011 bid to join Asean faltered after member states such as Singapore argued that Timor-Leste,  which was not even a decade old at the time, did not have the state capacity to meet the association’s requirements. It was a diplomatic way of saying that you don’t have the money or personnel to properly engage with a busy calendar – a difficult truth for a nation that endured 27 years of harsh Indonesian rule followed by a vengeful military exit that decimated Timorese infrastructure: no telephone lines, electricity, running water or roads. In hindsight, Ramos-Horta believes that delaying the country’s accession was the right call. “It forced us to increase the pace of our efforts to develop resources, infrastructure and so on,” he says. “Of course, we have made progress.”

Timor-Leste will now have a seat at the table – not just in Asean but at international meetings, including the East Asia Summit and other security dialogues with global powers. Membership will also provide access to preferential trade agreements and open the door to more investment, tourism and educational opportunities.

“A seat at Asean’s table gives Timor-Leste legitimacy and recognition as part of the Southeast Asian family,” says Joanne Lin, senior fellow and co-ordinator of the Asean Studies Centre at the Iseas-Yusof Ishak Institute in Singapore. “It helps to anchor the country strategically and provide it with huge economic potential.”

There are also opportunities for Asean. Timor-Leste far outranks the rest of the member states on global indexes of press freedom and civil liberties, and its constitution explicitly outlaws the death penalty. A vocal proponent of liberal democracy, it is joining a group whose members include repressive one-party states, an absolute monarchy and a military junta.

Ramos-Horta and prime minister Xanana Gusmão have openly criticised Myanmar’s ruling-army generals and hosted its pro-democracy opposition figures in Dili at a time when Asean, founded on principles of consensus and non-interference, has struggled to address the ongoing war and failed in its attempts to curb the junta’s behaviour. 

According to Lin, Timor-Leste boosts the credibility of Asean’s “political message of inclusiveness” while offering the bloc “a small but promising market”. But many of those opportunities – or “chocolates”, as Ramos-Horta quips – will take time and effort to develop. Timor-Leste will be the poorest member of Asean by a significant margin, making up just 0.1 per cent of regional GDP, and its economy relies heavily on fast-depleting oil reserves. Unemployment and child malnutrition are serious issues. Its fiscal capacity is probably still not quite up to Singaporean snuff.

“A country like Singapore that warned us how much hard work it takes, that said Timor should wait, will probably say ‘We told you!’” says Ramos-Horta. But he is deadly serious about what Asean membership will require and the level of reforms that are necessary across the economy, from trade and investment protection to land ownership.

“It’s not all rosy,” says Ramos-Horta. “There’s the realisation that Timor-Leste’s membership is only the beginning. The next day, after getting over the hangover from the celebration, we will be working even harder than before.” 

Spot the odd one out: “Ozempic, the Cookbook”; “Trappist Monks Sing the Hits”; “From Cicero to Starmer, a Guide to Oratory”; “Black Sabbath – The Ballet.” Yes, they’re all completely insane but the final one – a choreographed musical drama that mixes plié, demi-pointe and the heavy-metal legends behind “Paranoid” and “War Pigs” – is actually real. What fresh hell is this? Well, a devilishly good one.

On Wednesday evening, I attended the first night of a short London run of the Black Sabbath ballet at Sadler’s Wells before it heads to the Edinburgh Festival. I love Sadler’s Wells and warmed to this broadened church even more. 

Usually I’d see some well put-together ballet students peering bright-eyed into the auditorium, while men named Hilary listen with performative rapture to women named Hillary over white burgundy in the foyer. But on Wednesday, there were long-haired, black-clad metal fans rubbing shoulders with corduroy and amber necklaces. What a joy to hear snakebite and black being ordered – the ingredients for which had been purchased specifically for this run (Pina Bausch fans being more inclined to lemon kombucha). And then? Let’s relevé and let’s rock!

Black Sabbath – The Ballet is a joint effort between Birmingham Royal Ballet’s director, the great Carlos Acosta, and that other magus of the stage who you might not have expected to see in the same room, Black Sabbath’s lead guitarist and main songwriter, Tony Iommi. On stage, it’s a fruitful and beguiling mix of young dancers – in sheer black leotards or 1970s-style denim streetwear – and a Tony Iommi-alike leather-clad guitarist (charmingly played by Marc Hayward), who pierces the excellent contemporary classical score by Sun Keting with his Black Sab riffs. The ballet hangs together by virtue of the virtuosity and wholehearted performances of the sinfonia, guitarist and – pick of the lot – the dancers. 

The piece is at its best plotting Sabbath’s formative period in a very industrial early-1970s Birmingham, in which Iommi and fellow bandmates Geezer Butler and Bill Ward are gainfully, painfully employed in jobs noisy, dangerous and factory-related; while Ozzy Osbourne, after working in an abattoir, is doing a little jail time for burglary. The score is repetitive, loud and percussive – echoing the pounding rhythms of the metalworking machine that would deny Iommi, already an excellent guitarist, of the tips of two of his fingers. It’s true: no Black Sabbath, no heavy metal. The choreography is stark, precise, hypnotic and the dancers phenomenal. Later, there’s a black swan leitmotif, a likely portent to excess and addiction. “Paranoid”, moi?!

You get the classics – “Paranoid”, again, “War Pigs”, “Iron Man”, “Black Sabbath” – but it’s not a jukebox ballet. It’s a strange beast, that, like the possibly apocryphal bat whose head Osbourne was said to have bitten off on stage, is not quite all there but definitely contains a lot of blood and guts – and can certainly fly. That evening, Iommi slinked on stage for the encore of “Paranoid” and the house erupted, enraptured. The quiet man of the world’s once-loudest band, blinking happily behind his blue-tinged shades. Perfectly in tune and somehow en pointe. 

1.
There’s one drawback to sitting at the front of a plane: the people. On my many shuttles to and from Palma, you can find me on one of the once low-cost carriers and in seat 36C by the toilets. But, when the ticket prices are not totally unhinged, you can also spot me perched at the front of a nice flag carrier. While at the back, you risk being encircled by a sloshed hen party and the occasional penis-shaped hat (I’ve told the other half to stop wearing this in public); at the front you face the prospect of seeing the British middle class and their glorious mix of entitlement and slow-burn aggression.

When dashing down to Mallorca last weekend with my fancy 2A ticket, I watched a man decline to put away his laptop as we prepared to push back from the gate. He tells the young female steward that he needs “just two more minutes”. She returns two minutes later and tells him politely that he must put it away, and so he slams his laptop shut and snaps, “You could have just let me finish.” She smiles, says “thank you” and gracefully moves on with her day. Meanwhile, the couple behind me are having a squabble – apparently someone sneakily managed to get on the plane before them. The woman is furious, especially at her partner’s attempts to calm the situation. “I am warning you, I don’t feel any need to be polite to people when I am travelling and that includes you.” How aircrew don’t hand out the occasional slap across the face along with the warm nuts is beyond me.

2.
When picking up a hire car at Palma de Mallorca Airport, I discover that my dinky wheels of choice are no longer available and so they are going to upgrade me. How kind. I head out to find my vehicle, which is so big that it barely fits in the parking spot. A few centimetres more and it would be categorised as a bus. Now, my driving skills are not always gold standard – apparently I look at passing buildings, handsome strangers and cannot stay in my lane (I think that refers to my driving) – so this is going to be interesting. En route to the flat, I make sure not to pause too near any bus stops in case people clamber in.

I park the charabanc in our building’s underground car park and leave it well alone all Saturday until that evening when I need to run a few errands. I start gingerly driving up the exit ramp but, oh no, there’s another car coming down, so I find reverse and bang! I hit a concrete pillar (painted bright orange – how could I have seen that?) and with such skill that it creases my bus’s rear end from top to bottom. I phone the other half (he who jabs his foot on an imaginary brake pedal if he ever finds himself trapped as my passenger and who also shouts “car, car, car” quite a lot when he believes that my focus has drifted). He asks whether I could suggest that it’s a scratch that was there before. I send him a picture. “Perhaps not,” he says.

3.
There’s something very liberating about driving a crumpled car. What else can go wrong? The following day, I head out early. It’s a big, sunny, blue-sky day and I pootle about, navigating narrow lanes and nippy motorways with aplomb. Occasionally, old people try to flag me down, thinking that the village bus has arrived. But while I have space for them, and a few sheep, I am now luxuriating in my vast Tuckmobile. Honk! Honk!

4.
On returning the bus, I mentioned to one of the team that I had a small incident. He comes to see the damage, “Wow, you have broken so many things,” he says with what I take as a mark of admiration. Next, he takes me to see the manager, who also resists scolding me and again seems rather impressed by the precision of my hit. “I might have to send you to the gulag,” he says. “This is going to cost a lot of money,” he adds, a little too giddily for my liking.

5.
On the flight home, there’s nobody sitting next to me, nobody for me to regale with the tale of the bus that ended with a bum crack on its rear. Instead, I have to tune in to people complaining about the food and talking too loudly about their yachts. I eventually nod off, dreams of being a Mallorca bus driver slowly taking over. Opportunity arising out of adversity.

To read more of Andrew’s columns, click here.

The words “public art” can strike dread into the heart. The term has been bandied about to cover everything from expensive but bland trophy sculptures in corporate plazas to graffiti “art” despoiling yet another building. But don’t lose heart because Icelandic-Danish artist Olafur Eliasson believes that public art, if done well, can make us better citizens, create a sense of community and allow us to think differently. He’s out to prove the point with his first permanent public artwork in the UK, which was recently unveiled at Oxford North – an innovation district focused on nurturing the nation’s science and tech players.

Titled “Your Planetary Assembly”, the installation features eight illuminated sculptures along a meandering park path, with colours inspired by planets including Mars, Neptune and Mercury. Each polyhedron, elevated on a giant tripod, is surrounded by a circular bench. It looks pretty but Eliasson has bigger ambitions for this project than providing an Instagram moment. He is an artist who has used his large-scale works to engage us in conversations about nature, climate and how we want to live. His 2002 Tate Modern show, The Weather Project, was visited by more than two million people. 

“If a space is well designed, it can reflect our unmet emotional needs,” says Eliasson. “If we feel comfortable, if we feel as though this is a space where there is a relative degree of safety, it means we could sit down and say to someone, ‘Hey, how are you today? I’ve seen you here before.’” 

The benches, he says, function as seats around a campfire. “Each planet is like a fireplace, a warm gathering space. And because they’re not in one row, unorganised and drifting in their own orbital reality, it provides an opportunity for you to question things.” How about being left to contemplate all of this after simply sitting down to have a Pret sandwich at lunch?

In the hands of an artist such as Eliasson, who famously works with a large team out of his studio in Berlin, the “public” element of his art becomes potent. He is not making pieces to hang out of view in an oligarch’s mansion or be hidden away in a Swiss art vault. He creates art that people can use, test, experience and engage with. And these are often monumental, such as the four “waterfalls” he erected in New York Harbour, including one under the Brooklyn Bridge, in 2008. 

“Public space belongs to all of us, to the people who intend to use it,” says Eliasson about the arena for much of his work. “It’s something that we must look after together, which hopefully represents our values. We could say that we want our public spaces to reflect our beliefs and our intentions for how we want to live.” 

For the artist, one thing that public art can deliver is the feeling of being anchored to a place. “Once you have a sense of belonging, when you feel acknowledged and you experience dignity in the way you can be in a space, then you have something truly unique. And, in that space, you can evolve, contribute and become part of a community. When you’re part of a community, you also become a stakeholder in its future, which will then encourage you to vote. In that way, art is an incredible asset. In fact, one of the greatest things that you can do with public funds is to put them into art. There is a return – it’s an investment with societal upside.”

To hear more from Olafur Eliasson, listen to the Thursday 23 October episode of ‘The Urbanist’. And, for more on the perils and pitfalls of public art, click here.

Read next: If public art is meant to inspire communities, why do cities often get it so wrong?