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He stands beside a massive boulder perched on a ridge, explaining how it arrived there not through violence, but through a slow, deliberate process. The rock rode in on an iceberg, likely during the waning stages of the last glaciation. As meltwater pooled and ice masses fragmented, bergs carrying...

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The cold is British. They just never told you. ❄️🇬🇧 Every air conditioner, every fridge, every freezer on earth, the cold inside all of it was first made by a Scotsman. In 1756. ❄️🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 His name was William Cullen, a doctor in Edinburgh. In a warm room, with no ice and no winter, he drew the air from a glass of ether until it boiled cold and drank the heat from the water around it, until the water froze. No one had ever done it before. Then he wrote it down and walked away. No machine, no patent, no fortune. Just the proof, on a bench. It sat there the better part of a century. A British bench built the first machine that worked, and a Scot carried it across the world to Australia, where it froze meat and cooled beer. But cold was only half the story. ❄️📖 To master the air itself took another Scot. When the Houses of Parliament burned down in 1834, David Boswell Reid made the new building breathe, its gothic spires its lungs. At St George's Hall in Liverpool in 1851 he built what is often called the first air-conditioned building on earth. It should have made him. He died forgotten in America instead. 40 years on, Willis Carrier built the machine and earned his name as the father of modern air conditioning. He earned every bit of it. But he did not make the cold. The cold was British. America took that inheritance and cooled the world with it, and that is no theft. That is what an inheritance is for. We are the home of British heroes. Not built by ads, not by the government, built by us. There's a place for you with us. Be part of us. ☝️🇬🇧 Be Proud Of Us. 🙏🇬🇧

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Today we lower the curtain on a life that spent itself teaching Uganda how to see its own reflection on a stage. To call him a playwright is true but insufficient. Mukulu was an institution unto himself. Those of us in this trade know what it costs to build a body of work like that, the rehearsals that ran too late, the casts he pushed because he refused to let anyone perform beneath what he knew they had in them. The arguments about a line or a gesture that felt, in the moment, like they mattered more than anything in the world. His language during rehearsals sometimes sounded vulgar to the young cast built around us but Art has no sanity. It’s as it is and what it is. More so, Mwami Mukulu was famous, actually notorious for his conduct as Director but the cast understood him and appreciate him. For demanding of his actors the same relentless standard he demanded of himself. That sternness was never cruelty. It was reverence. He simply could not treat the stage as anything less than sacred, and he made sure everyone who stood on one with him understood that too. He was, by every account, a difficult man to satisfy and an impossible man to forget. That is, in the end, the whole job description of a master to me a GRANDMASTER. Alex Mukulu did not simply entertain a country, he gave it a mirror and he held that mirror steady for almost fifty years, through changing governments and changing audiences. Never once flinching from what it showed. That is the work of a grand master of this craft, and it is the work he leaves in our hands now. Rest well, my Idol my inspiration Mr Director Alex Mukulu. The stage is dark tonight because you are no longer on it but everywhere US your students, your casts and your audiences carry a piece of what you taught us. The lights are still on Boss🫡 #SleepwellGrandMaster

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