YESTERDAY, Washington D.C. became a stage—but it was the protests, not the parade, that stole the show.

While tanks rolled and fighter jets screamed overhead in Donald Trump’s self-styled “Salute to America,” larger crowds were gathering elsewhere—to protest him. The so-called “No Kings” movement drew more people to the streets nationwide than the parade did in the capital. In some cities, protest marches dwarfed the official event in both scale and spirit.

Despite boasting a military display worthy of a blockbuster movie, Trump’s parade felt like a flop: sparsely attended, hampered by rain, and riddled with the unmistakable aura of authoritarian cosplay. For all its spectacle, the message failed to land.

Trump claimed the parade marked the U.S. Army’s 250th anniversary. But the branding, the tone, and the spotlight all centred on one man—not the thousands who’ve served under the flag. Critics, veterans, and ordinary Americans saw through it. They didn’t see patriotism; they saw a campaign rally with tanks.

The cost? A rumoured $25–45 million. The result? Empty grandstands, unimpressed generals, and millions of Americans chanting “No kings” from coast to coast.

This kind of military pomp just doesn’t sit well with American tradition. It might work in Moscow or Pyongyang, but in a country built on civilian rule and suspicion of concentrated power, it hits the wrong note. Even previous Republican leaders would have balked at the image of robot dogs and flyovers staged for a birthday party.

Trump knows how to dominate a news cycle. But this time, he was outshouted—and outnumbered—by his own people. The true march of the day wasn’t down the National Mall, but through city streets in every state, where Americans made it clear: they support their military—but not a militarised presidency.

By Jack Sargeant, Minister for Culture, Skills and Social Partnership

IN TODAY’S challenging economic climate, Welsh businesses face increasing pressure. Inflation, rising costs, and reduced consumer spending are testing the resilience of small and medium-sized enterprises (SMEs). At the same time, skills shortages are making it harder than ever for employers to recruit, train, and retain staff.

Yet amid these difficulties lies an often-overlooked opportunity. Around a quarter of the UK population has a criminal conviction. Within this group are individuals with valuable skills, experience, and potential – people who could make a real difference to your business.

Many individuals released from custody, or those serving community sentences with Probation Service support, already have strong employment histories. Others have developed new skills and qualifications during their time in prison, making them job-ready and eager to contribute.

The Welsh Government’s Better Learning, Better Chances policy is designed to equip people in prison with skills focused on employability. Through additional employability programmes, we help individuals prepare for sustainable employment upon release.

Businesses can also access support from His Majesty’s Prison and Probation Service (HMPPS), Working Wales, and the Department for Work and Pensions, all of whom can provide free, straightforward access to potential employees. HMPPS works directly with employers to identify candidates with the right skills, and if necessary, can arrange bespoke training at no cost to the business. Across Wales, prisons currently offer training in sectors with acute skills shortages, including construction, hospitality, digital technologies, manufacturing, warehousing, and the growing green economy.

Hiring an ex-offender is not simply a response to workforce shortages. Many employers find ex-offenders to be highly motivated, reliable, and loyal members of staff. Research shows that 86% of employers rate ex-offenders as good at their jobs**, with major companies such as Greggs, Timpson, and Virgin Media all reporting excellent retention rates.

In an uncertain economy, Welsh businesses – particularly SMEs – must look to innovative solutions. Inclusive hiring practices are a powerful way to address skills gaps, strengthen workforces, and contribute to a fairer, more resilient economy.

As the Minister for Culture, Skills and Social Partnership, I encourage businesses across Wales to consider the advantages of offering opportunities to ex-offenders. By unlocking their potential, we can build stronger businesses, stronger communities, and a stronger Wales.

For advice and support on accessing training, funding, and recruitment opportunities, contact Business Wales.

By Melissa Knight, Marketing Manager, Ogi

TV shows rarely have that big moment these days – that rattle of emotion – but Adolescence on Netflix has it.

It hit harder than I’d thought it would. Maybe because I still carry echoes of my own teenage years. Maybe because the world that today’s teens are growing up in feels so unrecognisable. Or maybe because it all just felt a little too real.

The show follows a 13-year-old boy caught up in something terrible – and it doesn’t take long before you stop seeing a character on a screen. You start seeing bits of someone you used to be. That awkwardness. That quiet yearning to belong to something, anything. It stirs something deep. A reminder of how fragile those years really are.

When I was thirteen, the “playground” was a real place. It was splintered wood and metal slides that got too hot in summer. It was scraped knees, whispered secrets, dares you regretted before you hit the ground. But what happened in the park stayed in the park.

Fall out with someone? It was over by the time you got home. Embarrassed yourself? You laughed it off by the next day. There was a mercy in how temporary it all was.

Now, the playgrounds have shifted. They’re glowing screens and endless scrolls. They’re everywhere – and nowhere. What happens in them doesn’t stay there. It follows. It’s screenshotted. Shared. Immortalised. The stakes feel higher, the audience wider. And the exit? Not so obvious.

It’s easy to forget how hard it is to grow up while being watched. Not just by friends and peers, but by an invisible world waiting to react. And while some corners of the internet offer comfort, others are far more insidious – especially for boys. Adolescence pulls back the curtain on that. Shows how some of these digital spaces dress up in language that sounds supportive, even healing – until you listen a little closer and hear the undercurrents of anger, of control, of something deeply warped.

And it’s subtle. A new phrase. A new tone. The way a joke lands that makes you tilt your head and wonder. The bravado that sometimes feels a little too rehearsed. These shifts in language and posture – they tell a story, if you’re listening closely.

One scene in Adolescence made that painfully clear: a boy explains the meaning behind certain emojis to baffled adults. Every child watching understood immediately. The adults had no idea.

That moment stayed with me.

Because that was it – the line in the sand. The quiet reveal that there’s a whole world of coded language, of cultural shorthand, happening in plain sight. A language that, once upon a time, you spoke fluently – and now, you don’t. Not fluently, anyway. That gap? That’s the gap we need to notice, and bridge.

Since watching, I’ve been thinking a lot more about those spaces we grew up in – how physical they were. Playgrounds where risk came in the form of a fall from the monkey bars, not a comment thread that spirals into humiliation. Community spaces where you learned about people through presence, not profile pictures. But now, the playgrounds are algorithmically curated. The games have changed. And the communities? They’re scattered across platforms, even continents – some warm and welcoming, others cold and echoing with cruelty.

I’ve found myself paying closer attention lately. Asking better questions – not to interrogate, but to understand. “What was it about that video that made it funny?” and “Do you think they really meant that, or were they just trying to go viral?”

Sometimes those questions lead somewhere. Sometimes they don’t. But the asking matters. It says: I’m here. I see you. And maybe that’s the most any of us can do – be present. Not in every scroll or click, but in the pauses in between. In the quiet moments when the noise dies down and the real stuff can surface.

Because the truth is, the risks of growing up haven’t disappeared – they’ve just changed shape. They’ve gone digital. They’ve gone quiet. And they’re far more persistent.

So, we adapt. We put up a few guardrails – not walls, just soft boundaries. Filters. Time limits. Conversations.

Not because we want to control the experience, but because we know and remember what it was like to fall. And we’d rather the landing not be so hard.

Adolescence didn’t just remind me of what it means to grow up – it reminded me how much the environment matters. That the scaffolding around a person – their playground, their peers, their virtual hideouts – shapes them. And that those scaffolds are ours to notice, to question, to repair when needed.

I didn’t expect a TV show to shake me like this one did. But I’m glad it did. Because it made it clear: we might not be able to rebuild the old playgrounds. But we can still help make the new ones safer. And maybe that’s enough.