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corrupte3d-mindz · 3 months

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The Ghost of You

Grieving! Thomas Shelby x F! Ghost Reader??? Summary: Thomas is still grieving your death, he blames himself. Wordcount: 4.3k Warnings: Messy plot, idk nor do I care

sad! Thomas, soft! Thomas, blaming himself, angst, coping.

Inspiration: Who Is She? - I Monster

Thomas sits alone in his office, a sanctuary from the chaos of his life, the dim light of a few lamps casting long shadows across the room.

He's seated behind a large oak desk, strewn with papers and the occasional empty whiskey glass. The air is heavy with the scent of smoke and old regrets, the only sound the occasional crackle of burning embers in the fireplace. In front of him, on the desk, rests a framed photograph. The glass catches the flickering light, causing her image to momentarily come alive. It's her smile that draws his gaze every time—a smile that once lit up his world with a warmth he hadn't known he craved until it was gone. The photograph captures her essence, frozen in time, a stark contrast to the darkness that now envelops Thomas's life. He reaches for the whiskey bottle, his fingers tracing the smooth glass neck as he pours another measure into his glass. The amber liquid swirls hypnotically, mirroring the turmoil in his mind. Each sip burns, not just his throat but his soul, a bitter reminder of all that he's lost. He doesn't drink to forget; he drinks to remember, to feel something other than the crushing weight of guilt and grief.

The weight of her absence presses down on him like a physical force. It's been a year since she left this world, yet her presence lingers in every corner of his existence. He blames himself, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. She wasn't just a casualty of his world; she was the unintended victim of his choices, caught in the crossfire of a life steeped in violence and power struggles. As he stares at her photograph, his eyes trace the contours of her face, memorizing every detail as if afraid he might forget. Her eyes, once bright with laughter and love, now stare back at him from behind the glass, haunting him in their stillness. He lifts the frame gently, running his calloused fingers over the smooth surface, feeling the coldness of the glass against his skin.

"Y'know," he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, thick with the unmistakable Birmingham accent that defines him. "Every fuckin' day, I wake up and expect t'see you here, like you never left. But your gone, ain't yah? An' it's all my bloody fault."

He takes another sip of whiskey, the bitterness mingling with regret on his tongue. The wedding ring on his finger catches the light as he touches it absentmindedly, a token of a promise made and broken by fate. When they buried her, he couldn't bear to part with the ring that symbolized their forever. It belonged on her finger, just as she belonged by his side.

"You were my light," he continues, his voice thick with emotion. "An' now, all I got left are these memories. Sometimes I wonder if your still out there somewhere, watchin' over me, or if you've moved on, free from all this bloody mess."

He leans back in his chair, the leather creaking softly under his weight. The room feels suffocatingly quiet, save for the distant sounds of the city outside, oblivious to the torment within these walls. Memories flood his mind—of quiet moments shared, of whispered promises and dreams for a future that now exists only in fragments. Closing his eyes briefly, he allows himself to drift back to a time when her laughter filled the room, when her touch could chase away the darkest of his demons. The pain of her loss is a constant ache, a reminder of the fragility of life and the inevitability of death in his world.

He remembers the way she looked at him with those piercing eyes, full of love and concern, as she tended to his wounds after yet another violent altercation. The pain of her loss is a sharp ache in his chest, an ache that refuses to dull with time. The memory of her voice echoes in his mind, teasing and caring all at once.

"Sometimes I wonder if you've got a brain up there, Thomas," she had teased, her voice a gentle chide as she carefully cleaned the blood from his face, delicate fingers picking out tiny shards of glass embedded in his skin.

"I've got one up here, love," he had replied with a faint smirk, though a wince betrayed the pain as she deftly removed a larger piece of glass from his cheek. She wiped away the blood with a tenderness that belied her strength, leaning in to press a quick kiss to the small wound before pulling back slightly.

"Does that make it feel better?" she asked, her smile warm and reassuring as she dipped a small rag into a bucket of stinging alcohol, preparing to disinfect his injuries.

"It does, love," Thomas admitted quietly, his gaze lingering on her face with a mixture of gratitude and affection. He reached for a cigarette, the tremor in his hand barely noticeable as he brought it to his lips to light it. But she stopped him with a gentle reprimand, her concern evident in the furrow of her brow. "You really don't have a brain sometimes, Tommy..."

"It's just one, settle down," he retorted with a hint of amusement, his voice low and tinged with the rough edge of his Birmingham accent. "Yes and...this is flammable, Tommy," she reminded him softly, her tone teasing yet filled with genuine worry about his brain. "Then let me have this one, and then you can finish," he countered, a small smile playing on his lips despite the ache in his heart.

The room around them fades as the memory takes hold, enveloping Thomas in a cocoon of bittersweet nostalgia. He remembers the warmth of her touch, the scent of her hair mingling with the sharp tang of alcohol in the air. The office, usually a bastion of business and strategy, becomes a sanctuary of shared moments and unspoken understanding. Her presence, even in memory, soothes the jagged edges of his soul, momentarily easing the weight of his responsibilities and the darkness that often clouds his mind. Each detail of that moment is etched into his consciousness—the flicker of candlelight casting shadows across her face, the softness of her lips against his skin, the way her laughter could turn his world on its axis.

But reality intrudes, as it always does. The memory fades, leaving Thomas alone in his office once more, surrounded by the trappings of power and ambition. The pain of her absence returns with renewed intensity, a stark reminder of the fragility of life and the fleeting nature of happiness in his world. He lights another cigarette, the flame casting a brief, flickering light over his face as he exhales a plume of smoke. The scent of nicotine mingles with the ghosts of memories, intertwining with the ache in his chest. In the silence that follows, he finds himself longing for her presence once more, yearning for the comfort of her touch and the warmth of her smile.

Thomas Shelby, hardened by years of brutality and loss, carries the weight of his memories like armor. Each scar, physical and emotional, tells a story of a life lived on the razor's edge of danger and desire. And yet, amid the shadows and the chaos, he holds onto the memory of her—the light and angel in his cold and dark life—like a lifeline in the storm. As he leans back in his chair, eyes fixed on the ceiling where shadows dance, he whispers her name into the quiet of the night. "_______..." The sound lingers in the air, a whispered prayer for forgiveness, for understanding, for a peace that may never come.

"You were my angel," he whispers, as if confessing to the empty room. "An' now, I'm left here, drownin' in me own regrets, with nothin' but your photograph and this bottle for company."

He places the photograph back on the desk, its presence a silent testament to a love that transcended the chaos of their lives. The room feels colder now, the fire's warmth unable to thaw the ice around his heart. He knows he can't change the past, can't bring her back. All he can do is carry her memory forward, a burden and a blessing intertwined. With a sigh, he picks up the glass once more, its contents dwindling with each swallow. The night stretches out before him, endless and unforgiving. Outside, the city sleeps, unaware of the man who sits alone in his office, wrestling with ghosts and shadows, haunted by a love that refuses to fade.

"And every night," he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the dying fire, "Your here, in my dreams, like you never left. But you did. An' I'm left 'ere, wonderin' if I'll ever find peace."

The photograph catches his eye again, her smile mocking him with its eternal happiness. He raises his glass in a silent toast, a gesture of defiance against the cruel hand fate has dealt him. For tonight, like every night, he will drink to her memory, hoping against hope that somewhere, somehow, she knows he still carries her with him, in every beat of his broken heart.

Every morning was a struggle, waking up to a world without her. He threw himself into his work with a ferocity that bordered on manic. The Shelby Company Limited had never been more efficient, yet the cost was steep. His family watched him with wary eyes, sensing the storm brewing beneath his composed exterior. Polly, especially, noted the subtle tremors in his hands, the glassy, distant look in his eyes. But every attempt to reach out, to bridge the chasm of his grief, was met with a wall of steel. Thomas had fortified his heart, locking away the pain where no one could touch it, not even him. The Garrison was bustling, filled with the laughter and chatter of patrons, but to Thomas, it was all a dull roar. He scanned the crowd, his eyes always searching, always hoping. And then, just for a fleeting moment, he would see her. A glimpse of golden hair, a familiar silhouette. His heart would leap, pounding against his ribs like a caged bird, only to crash back into desolation as reality set in. It was never her. It couldn't be her. She was gone, and no amount of wishful thinking could bring her back.

Walking the streets of Small Heath, he heard her voice in the wind, a soft whisper that sent shivers down his spine. "Tommy," it called, tender and loving. He'd turn sharply, eyes wild, but there was no one there. Only the ghosts of his past, haunting him with relentless cruelty. Nights were the worst. Alone in his grand but empty house, he could feel her presence. The scent of her perfume lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of what he had lost. He'd lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, her name a silent prayer on his lips. His dreams were a tapestry of memories, vivid and heartbreaking. He'd see her smile, feel the softness of her touch. They'd walk hand in hand through fields of lavender, her laughter ringing like a sweet melody. But then, the dream would shift, and he'd be back in the grim reality of her final moments. Her lifeless body, the blood, the horror. He'd wake up drenched in sweat, gasping for breath, the image seared into his mind. Work offered a brief reprieve, a distraction from the relentless torment. He was ruthless, driven, a man possessed. Deals were made, enemies crushed, all in the name of the Shelby empire. But beneath the surface, he was unraveling. Meetings blurred together, the faces of associates merging into a faceless mass. He'd catch himself drifting, staring out the window, lost in thoughts of her.

The family dinners were the hardest. He'd sit at the head of the table, trying to maintain a semblance of normalcy, but the empty chair beside him was a stark reminder of her absence. Polly would watch him with those sharp, knowing eyes, seeing the cracks in his façade. Arthur's attempts to draw him into conversation were met with monosyllabic responses. Ada's concerned glances went unnoticed. The laughter and banter around him felt hollow, a cruel mockery of the happiness he once knew. One evening, after a particularly grueling day, Thomas found himself in her old studio. The room was untouched, her paintings still adorning the walls. He traced a finger over the canvas, feeling the texture of her brushstrokes. Each piece was a fragment of her soul, a glimpse into the woman who had captured his heart. He picked up a half-finished portrait of himself, her final work. The eyes were hauntingly lifelike, a mirror to his tormented soul. "_______," he whispered, voice cracking. "Why'd you leave me, love?"

The nights grew longer, the days more insufferable. He found solace in the bottom of a whiskey bottle, the burn of the alcohol a temporary relief from the ache in his chest. But even in his drunken stupor, she was there. He'd see her reflection in the glass, her eyes filled with sorrow. "Tommy, you have to let go," she'd say, her voice echoing in his mind. But he couldn't. Letting go meant admitting she was truly gone, and he wasn't ready for that. His sleep became more erratic, plagued by nightmares that bled into reality. He'd wake in the dead of night, convinced she was there beside him. Reaching out, he'd grasp at empty air, the coldness of the sheets a stark contrast to the warmth he craved. Her laughter would echo through the halls, a ghostly serenade that kept him on edge. He'd pace the floors, her name a desperate chant. The weight of his grief began to affect his decisions. He became more reckless, taking risks that left his family on edge. A botched deal with a rival gang nearly cost them everything. "Tommy, you're not thinkin' straight," Arthur had yelled, grabbing his brother by the collar. But Thomas had merely shoved him away, his eyes burning with a fierce determination. "I know what I'm doin', Arthur. Don't question me."

Some more time had passed and it was getting worse. Across the table, Polly watched him with a knowing gaze. She had seen the cracks in his facade grow wider, the moments when his control slipped and the anguish bled through. She knew he was breaking, and she knew he wouldn't come to her willingly. But tonight, something had shifted. He had asked her to stay after the family meeting, his voice a low, strained whisper that betrayed his desperation.

"Polly," he began, his voice barely more than a rasp. "I need to talk to ya."

Polly leaned forward, her expression softening. "Alright, Thomas. What's on your mind?"

He took a deep breath, the weight of his grief pressing down on him like a vice. "It's her, Pol. I can't... I can't stop thinkin' about her. Every night, she's there. It's like she's still 'ere, but... she's gone."

Polly's eyes softened with understanding. "She's been gone a year, Tommy. It's no wonder she's still in your thoughts. She was special to you."

"She was more than special," he muttered, his voice thick with emotion. "She was... she was the light in my life. An angel in all this darkness. And now... now it's all just cold and dark." Polly reached out and placed a hand on his arm, her touch gentle yet firm. "You've been carryin' this alone, Thomas. You can't keep doin' this to yourself. You need to find a way to let go, to find some closure."

Thomas shook his head, his jaw clenching. "How? How do I do that, Pol? She's gone. Nothin' can bring her back."

"Go to her grave," Polly suggested softly. "Talk to her, one last time. Tell her everything you never got to say. Maybe then, you can start to heal." He looked up at her, his eyes filled with a mix of pain and hope. "You really think that'll help?"

"I do," Polly replied, her voice unwavering. "You've got to face it, Tommy. Face the pain, the loss. Only then can you begin to move forward."

Thomas rose before dawn, the weight of another sleepless night pressing heavily on his shoulders. The morning air was cold, crisp, a stark contrast to the warmth he once knew in her embrace. He dressed in silence, the routine mechanical, each movement a reminder of her absence. His eyes, hollow and tired, mirrored the emptiness that had taken residence in his heart since the day she was taken from him. The streets of Birmingham were eerily quiet as he walked, the city still wrapped in the blanket of early morning fog. rose before dawn, the weight of another sleepless night pressing heavily on his shoulders. The morning air was cold, crisp, a stark contrast to the warmth he once knew in her embrace. He dressed in silence, the routine mechanical, each movement a reminder of her absence. His eyes, hollow and tired, mirrored the emptiness that had taken residence in his heart since the day she was taken from him. The streets of Birmingham were eerily quiet as he walked, the city still wrapped in the blanket of early morning fog. He sat down on the grass of her grave, leaning against her headstone.

"_______," he began, his voice raw, trembling with the weight of unspoken words. "It's been a year, love. A year without you, and it feels like yesterday. Every day I wake, I hope it’s all a bad dream, that I'll find you beside me, smiling like you used to. But you're gone. And I'm here, alone."

His hands trembled as he reached for the flask in his coat pocket, taking a long, burning sip of whiskey. It did little to dull the pain but gave him the courage to continue. "Life's... life’s been hell without you, _______. The business, the family... none of it matters like it used to. Not without you. You were the light in this dark world of mine, the one thing that made it all bearable. Now, it's all just... cold. Empty." He could feel the tears welling up, the grief threatening to spill over. He fought it, biting down on his lip, but his voice wavered. "I regret so much, _______. Not telling you enough how much I loved you, not protecting you better. You trusted me, and I failed you. If I could trade places with you, I would. In a heartbeat."

His gaze dropped to the ground, his fingers tracing the letters of her name on the headstone. "Do you remember that night at the Garrison, when you told me you'd always be by my side? I believed you. And you were, in every way that mattered. Now, I come here, and I talk to you, hoping you can hear me, hoping you’re watching over me. I tell you about my day, about the struggles, about the times I almost broke down but didn't, because I knew you'd want me to be strong. But it’s so hard, love. So damn hard."

The sky began to lighten, the first rays of dawn breaking through the fog. Thomas’s tears fell freely now, unchecked. "The family’s falling apart, _______. Arthur and John are lost without you, Polly’s trying to hold us together, but we all feel your absence. Ada’s strong, but even she’s struggling. And me? I’m barely holding on. Every deal, every plan, it all feels pointless without you to share it with. The only thing that keeps me going is the thought of making you proud, of not letting your memory down."

His voice cracked, the emotions overwhelming him. "I miss your laugh, your touch, the way you’d look at me and make everything right. I miss waking up next to you, knowing I could face anything because you were there. Now I wake up to silence, to the cold reality that you’re not coming back." Thomas wiped his face with a trembling hand, his breath hitching. "I see you in my dreams, you know. Every n light. You’re there, smiling, just out of reach. And then I wake up, and it’s like losing you all over again. It’s torture, _______. Pure torture."

He leaned his head back against the headstone, closing his eyes. "But I can’t keep living like this. I know that’s not what you’d want for me. I need to find a way to move forward, to honor your memory without being consumed by it. I need to let you go, even though it feels like it’ll break me." The dawn light grew stronger, casting a soft glow over the grave. Thomas took another sip from the flask, his mind a tumult of memories and pain. "I’ll always love you, _______. That’ll never change. You were my light, my angel, and I’ll carry you with me every day. But I need to find a way to live again, to find some semblance of peace. For you. For me." His voice was barely a whisper now, the grief ebbing, leaving a hollow ache. "I’m so sorry, _______. For everything. I hope you can forgive me. I hope you can rest easy, knowing I’ll do my best to make you proud. To live a life that honors the love we shared."

Thomas stood slowly, placing his cap back on his head. He looked down at the grave, a final tear slipping down his cheek. "Goodbye, my love. Until we meet again." He turned and walked away, the weight of his sorrow still heavy but slightly eased. As he left the cemetery, the first light of day breaking over the horizon, Thomas felt a glimmer of hope. It was faint, fragile, but it was there. A sign that maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to move forward, carrying her memory with him, but no longer letting it consume him.

Thomas sat in his office once more, just staring at her photo on his desk. The door creaked open, and Arthur stepped in, his presence a stark contrast to the ghostly memories that had filled the room. Arthur's eyes, always sharp and perceptive, softened as he took in the scene. "Tommy," he said, his voice a low rumble. "You alright?"

Thomas nodded, a slight movement that spoke volumes. "Yeah, Arthur. Just... thinkin'."

Arthur moved to the desk, his gaze falling on the photograph. "It's time to let her go, Tommy. She wouldn't want ya stuck like this."

Thomas looked at his brother, the truth of his words sinking in. He knew Arthur was right. She had been the light in his life, but she wouldn't want him to dwell in darkness. He reached for the photograph, holding it gently as if it were a precious relic. "I know," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "But it's hard, Arthur. She was everything." Arthur placed a hand on Thomas's shoulder, a rare gesture of comfort. "Aye, she was. But you got us, Tommy. And we need ya."

Thomas nodded again, feeling the weight of his brother's words. The Shelby family had always been his anchor, and now, more than ever, he needed them. He placed the photograph in the drawer, closing it slowly. It was a symbolic gesture, a step towards healing. Her memory would always be a part of him, but he couldn't let it consume him any longer. He stood up, the chair scraping against the floor. The light in the room seemed brighter, a reflection of the new path he was determined to take. He looked at Arthur, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Let's get to work, then."

Arthur grinned, a rare sight that brought a sense of normalcy back to the moment. "That's the Tommy I know."

Together, they left the office, the door closing behind them with a sense of finality. Thomas felt a weight lift from his shoulders, the burden of the past easing just a bit. He knew it wouldn't be easy, but he was ready to face the future. Her memory would always be with him, a guiding light in the darkest of times, but he wouldn't let it drag him down anymore.

Outside, the streets of Birmingham were bustling with life, the noise and chaos a stark contrast to the quiet reflection he had just left behind. He walked with purpose, each step a testament to his resolve. The Shelby family needed him, and he would not let them down. He would honor her memory by living, truly living, not just existing in a haze of regret and sorrow. As he made his way through the familiar streets, he felt a sense of peace settling over him. It was a new beginning, a chance to rebuild and move forward. He knew there would be challenges, moments of doubt and pain, but he was ready. For her, for his family, and for himself. Thomas stopped at a street corner, looking back towards the company he built. The building stood tall and imposing, a symbol of the empire he had built. It was a reminder of all he had achieved, and all he still had to fight for. With a final glance, he turned and walked away, the light of the morning sun casting long shadows behind him. He knew the journey ahead would not be easy, but for the first time in a long while, he felt a glimmer of hope. He would carry her memory with him, but he would not let it define him. He was Thomas Shelby, leader of the Peaky Blinders, and he was ready to face whatever the future held.

Author's Notes:

To be real with you, don't know think its a good fit but I like it kinda... idk tbh. But here it is and hopefully someone likes it, also I finshed this at like 5 in the morning soooo if its sloppy oh well, jk.

AND the people who asked for fics, are being worked on don't worry I SWEAR THEY WILL BE OUT I PROMISE!

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itsstreetlove · 11 months

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The Reluctant Pageboy

A wedding at the Custard Factory in Birmingham. The little pageboy refused to have his photograph taken and a full scale melt down ensued :-))

#photographers on tumblr #original photographers #street photography #black and white photography #custard factory #birmingham #digbeth

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princesscatherinemiddleton · 9 months

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The Princess of Wales’ Year in Review: April

April 9th - William, Catherine, George, Charlotte and Louis joined extended members of the royal family at the traditional Easter Mattins service April 19th - The Princess of Wales, Joint Patron of the Royal Foundation of The Prince and Princess of Wales, received Professor Marc Brackett (Founder and Director of the Yale Center for Emotional Intelligence) at Windsor Castle. Later, she held an Early Years Meeting April 20th - The Prince and Princess of Wales visited Birmingham. They began by visited the Indian Streatery, before giving a reception at the Rectory April 21st - A photo of the late Queen, taken by the Princess of Wales, was released by Kensington Palace April 23rd - Kensington Palace released two photographs for Prince Louis' birthday. The Princess of Wales appeared in one of the photos April 24th - The Princess of Wales visited the Baby Bank in Maidenhead April 25th - The Princess of Wales, Joint Patron of the Royal Foundation, held a meeting at Windsor Castle. She then held an Early Years Meeting April 27th - The Prince and Princess of Wales headed to Wales for a two day visit. They attended a training session with Central Beacons Mountain Rescue Team to mark the Rescue Team's Sixtieth Anniversary. They then visited Dowlais Rugby club and delivered pizzas. April 28th - The Prince and Princess of Wales this morning visited Aberfan Cemetery, before visiting the Aberfan Disaster Memorial Garden April 29th - Kensington Palace released a photograph of Catherine and William for their 12th wedding anniversary. Later that day, a video surfaced of Catherine taking Charlotte and her friends to see Cinderella at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden

#mine #royaltyedit #kate #yearreview #easter23 #marc brackett 23 #ey meeting 23 7 #birmingham23 #the baby bank 23 #meeting23 #ey meeting 23 8 #midwales23

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toyahinterviews · 2 years

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CELEBRITY BRIDES UNVEILED 2009

TOYAH: When I was a little girl I never dreamt about my wedding. I was a tomboy. All I ever wanted for Christmas and for my birthdays was punch balls, guns, tanks. So weddings just weren't on my agenda at all In fact, I probably as I got older and got into my teens and became a punk rocker - and then got into my 20s - was quite phobic about thoughts of marriage and quite phobic about the thought of having a permanent partner and having a family. So when I did eventually get married, I shocked everybody I knew I grew up in Birmingham, which was quite a difficult place for a girl to grow up 35 years ago. Women were forced into relationships and I felt forced into being sexually active. An awful lot of the girls that I knew their ideal was to have a child out of wedlock and get the security of a nice apartment and never get married and get a job. I hate to generalise about it, but that is the environment I grew up in Because I grew up in that environment I was ferociously against relationships. So I got involved in punk and then in music around the age of 14. I knew that I was always going to be very different

I started making my own clothes and started to look very punky. I was very pre-punk. I was influenced by a film called The Rocky Horror Picture Show, which was pre-punk. So I was walking around Birmingham with peacock coloured hair about two years before punk rock ever appeared

My husband and I should have met at least five to six years before we actually did because we had the same management company. The very first time I met him was 1983, where we shared a taxi to an award ceremony together. He sat on the front seat and I was on the backseat with my manager - our manager. He was very quiet and he had these little round glasses I just took the mickey out of him from the Kings Road to the Grosvenor Hotel, which was about half an hour trip. I can remember my manager just being flabbergasted that I had the guts to just provoke this man for half an hour and I'd only just met him I didn't know that he is in the Top 10 of the world's most famous guitar players. He's a man called Robert Fripp and 1983 he was just like God in the music world. He worked with David Bowie he produced Peter Gabriel. He'd been on Blondie’s his albums - so he was a megastar. The picture behind me (above) is of me and Princess Michael of Kent, laughing at someone joking. And that someone is Robert Fripp, my husband This is the first moment I really got to talk to him because Princess Michael wanted a photograph taken with him and me. That picture appeared in a very famous newspaper the next day with Robert cut out of it, because Robert was never really a celebrity, but I was and that was 1983 - three years before I married Robert So we didn't meet again until two years later, when we met at exactly the same award ceremony. He said to me would I visit him at his home in Dorset and make an album with him, a charity album for children's school in America and I said yes But what I didn't know, and this is very much how my husband works - when we met again in 1985, which would have been around June - July he'd already said to his friends in America, where he lived in New York, he said "I'm wiping the diary clean for the next three weeks, because I'm going to meet my wife". So we'd already had a kind of intuition about this

Then the following week after we met and had this discussion, I went down to work with him on this album for a week. He said “will you marry me?“ and “I said it was a bit quick, isn’t it?” He said "no, I know you're my wife. I've been planning this for the last month." And I kind of went "OK, well let's get to know each other" So I actually moved to Washington for three months to the school where we were raising the money for, where he taught, because he also teaches guitar. I went there and taught drama for three months and that was our courtship (Shows the bouquet) I still have my wedding bouquet, which is hard to believe. This dear thing is 22 years old. We keep it in our front room. It was yellow, originally. I adore yellow flowers. So we had yellow roses, yellow Carnations and then Lily of the Valley This is probably the most expensive thing about the wedding - the Lily of the Valley on May the 16th - we're already out of season. So we had to have them brought in from Holland and it wasn't cheap. But I did a little drawing of what I wanted and a friend went along to a florist and got it organised. And miraculously, we have managed to keep it I organised the wedding. My husband didn't want anything to do with any of those traditions other than the church ceremony. So he participated in the rehearsal. We married in St. Mary & Cuthberga & All Saints Church in Witchampton in Dorset where his father was buried, and I think his grandparents were buried We did the rehearsal but that was about as far as it went. I bought the wedding rings, I bought the wedding dress. I cooked all the food for the wedding party. He didn't want children at the wedding. He didn't want any of my friends at the wedding but I insisted on close family Basically I realised that it was nerves. He can't bear big events. I have never had a party since I've been married because he can't bear those kinds of events, which is unusual but bearable. So he didn't want music at the wedding. It was a silent wedding The extraordinary thing was it was on May the 16th 1986 and it’d rained for a month but the moment we arrived at the church, the sun came out and streamed through the windows exactly where we stood at the altar

(Shows the hat) I had the veil made. My sister-in-law had to organise it so no one knew I was having a wedding veil made. That went over the front, it's very brittle and delicate. You've got to remember it's 22 years old, and this big flower went at the back. Now these are back in again today. Back then this was 1986, big things were in. But seriously that went out in the 90s big time. I suppose you would see that in Sex And The City today We managed to have the reception with very close family. And then the precious day ended and that evening and the next day we were hounded. We were chased everywhere by journalists in cars. Eventually we drove off to a Franciscan retreat in Sand Creek in Cornwall, who hid us and we hid that for a week and they blessed our wedding (Shows the garter) This is the garter I wore for something blue and I wore it on my left leg I think, I could be wrong. But there's only two legs to choose from. It was a gift from my husband's best friend. They had it made by a local lacemaker in Dorchester. My husband now keeps this on his desk in his office. (Shows the dress) Because Robert and I were getting married secretly I couldn't order a wedding gown. Because I was paying for everything and basically was not interested in a huge expensive public wedding I had to really ponder of how I was going to be a bride I thought OK, I'll just go buy a ball gown and it was really hard for me to shop at this time because I was incredibly well known. I couldn't go anywhere on my own. So I knew of a kind of debutante ball shop in a town called Windborne in Dorset. I went there pretending I was going to a ball and I bought the only ball gown that would fit me That was a little pink organza Bo Peep dress, a family dress. I didn't want a traditional white wedding dress which was lucky. This is actually a little ball gown, very Bo Peep, off the shoulder puffball sleeves that just rested on the upper arm. Little kind of gatherings at the bottom. So it's very feminine, very pretty indeed I think marriage is cyclical. I think everything in life is cyclical. You go through cycles. And if you can recognise those cycles, you can recognise when a cycle is dipping, and you're in a bad time and also when a cycle is lifting and you're in a good time. I think you only grow to recognise these things if you have longevity in a relationship

So seven years ago, we found the home we're in now (Toyah and Robert in 2020, above), which is just the most perfect beautiful home in the world in the Midlands. We decided that we wanted to spend more time together and travel a little bit less and just enjoy ourselves. We've worked really hard, not only as a couple, but as individuals as well. You've got to bear in mind we don't have children either so we're not fixed and one of us isn't financially dependent on the other But we go off, we have little honeymoons three or four times a year and just lock the world out and we're just romantic. The one thing that both of us are - we are both very romantic. I love buying him gifts and I love telling him to pack a bag and (say to him) you’re going be in a warm climate. You'll be in a cold climate. Oh, don't worry, you're not going to leave the bedroom for a week. I've kind of I like surprising him and taking him on nice adventures You can watch the programme HERE

#toyah #toyah willcox #toyahwillcox #robert fripp #toyah tv #toyahtv #toyah 2009 #toyah2009 #thetoyahwillcoxinterviewarchive #the toyah willcox interview archive

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thexfridax · 2 years

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Tell me about it, stud: the rapturous return of the butch lesbian scene

With sold-out club nights from Bristol to Birmingham, a long-marginalised subculture is enjoying a brilliant post-pandemic resurgence

by Ella Braidwood, Wed 8 Mar 2023 10.00 GMT, last modified on Wed 8 Mar 2023 16.44 GMT

I am at a dinner table in south London, in the middle of which sit ceremonially placed items evoking butch culture: a carabiner, a sex harness and an edition of Quim – a lesbian erotic magazine from the late 80s and 90s. It is a Saturday evening in mid-February, and also eating bowls of dal around me are nine regulars from Bristol Butch Bar, set up last spring as a hub for the city’s butch community: among them lesbians, bisexuals, transgender people and non-binary people. I’ve joined them on a “field trip” to the club night Butch, Please! Between us, we have shaved heads, corduroy, jeans, vests, chain necklaces, black trousers, statement shirts and leather.

The butch identity seems to be having a moment. Tonight’s event, as normal, is sold out. “I see about 1,000 people come through a month now – there’s just huge demand for this space,” says Tabs Benjamin, who set up Butch, Please! at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern in 2016. Nights are themed, often with a nod to queer history. This evening there’s a handkerchief code: a discreet way of signalling sexual orientation used by gay men in the 70s who would stuff coloured handkerchiefs in their back pockets.

“There is an absolute resurgence in butch identity, in the sense of belonging and in history as well,” says Joelle Taylor, who in 2021 won the TS Eliot Prize for a poetry collection about butch lesbian subculture. “It’s an exciting time for us,” she adds. “We’re starting to write the histories, memoirs, things that we actually remember.” This year, at least three new books explore butch identity: Hijab Butch Blues by Lamya H; Mrs S by K Patrick; and My Own Worst Enemy by Lily Lindon.

The Bristol butches have an array of handkerchiefs, so I take a navy blue one to signal whether I’m more of a “top” (giver) or a “bottom” (receiver) during sex, depending on if it’s in my left or right pocket. As a butch lesbian who is also “soft butch”, I’d say qualities of my identity include being playful, sensitive and, well, silly. A good example: in the pub, someone deciphers my handkerchief code, only for me to realise I’ve put it in the wrong pocket.

The butch identity is not mainstream, even within the LGBTQ+ community, but things are happening. In March, the Saturday edition of Butch, Please! was started in addition to the existing Thursday night, both once a month. Bristol Butch Bar now gets about 60 people at its monthly meet-ups, where there is an armwrestling league and crafts. “It started off just people we knew, and then it spread to people they knew,” says co-founder Rosie Poebright. Another London club night, Pillow Kings, was set up last autumn, as was Soft Butch in Bristol, both running sold-out events.

In Birmingham, Wile Out, an LGBTQ+ night for people of colour, is popular among studs – an identity embraced by some masculine Black lesbians – alongside events by Urban Slag, On Your Gaydar and, in London, Lick. “I went out expecting a normal night full of drag queens and cheesy pop music, and then I stumbled into the Village, where Wile Out was at that time, and I loved it,” recalls Shan Haywood, a stud. “It’s just nice to have a community of people like myself. I don’t have to walk into the room and be the only Black person there, which is the case in a lot of gay clubs.” Haywood features in a new exhibition in London this month, We/Us, by the butch photographer Roman Manfredi, showcasing portraits and oral histories of working-class butches and studs.

In 2023, the butch identity means different things to different people. For me, a 29-year-old in London, it is the merging of my sexuality with my female masculinity: a physical reflection of how I feel on the inside – that is, inherently masculine – via men’s clothing, short hair and the way I carry myself. It is not that I want to be a man; I love being a woman. But it took me years to say who I am and to look this way. “Butch women and trans women are arguably the people who challenge gender norms in a way that really, really upsets people,” says Benjamin, 37, a self-described “butch dyke”. When I grew up, in Cumbria, butch lesbians were the ‘worst’ of the lesbians, a word I have found hard enough to say in itself: ugly, disgusting and unlovable. We are, I think, still perceived that way by some today.

For Prinx Silver, a drag king and transmasculine person in his mid-30s, “butch is that queer identity that allowed me to reclaim my masculinity that I thought I wasn’t allowed to have. I see it more as a way of moving through the world, of being perceived, or like a feeling.” Cassie Agbehenu, a soft butch and Bristol Butch Bar regular, similarly describes it as a “reclamation of masculinity … it can be caring and nurturing and joyful and sexy”. Taylor, a butch lesbian, says: “I’m 55, I come from a feminist movement, and my whole life has been dedicated to trying to persuade people I’m a woman, because they don’t want me to be one. So that’s where the fight is for me.”

What is the butch aesthetic? Again, it depends. “Sometimes,” says Silver, “I’m a butch stereotype,” so he’ll wear boots and flannel or checked shirts. Other times, it’s a vest with jeans, or a leather jacket, like the butches of the 70s. Haywood, 26, describes her “stud starter kit” as an oversized T-shirt and a hat, though she also enjoys wearing a suit and tie. “I feel comfortable in men’s clothes, and I may wear my hair in a certain way, or carry myself in a certain way – it’s a masculine energy, essentially,” she adds. While short hair is liberating for some butches, it’s not a requirement.

As far as history goes, the butch identity has its roots in working-class lesbian communities, as far back as 1940s and 50s America, who reclaimed the word from its use as a slur, with some women dressing to safely “pass” as men with their more feminine partner. In Britain, masculine lesbians included the writer Radclyffe Hall (1880-1943). Despite being marginalised, butches have been on the frontline: some say that it was the butch lesbian Stormé DeLarverie who threw the first punch in the 1969 Stonewall uprising in New York, kickstarting the modern LGBTQ+ rights movement. “We’ve always been here,” as Benjamin says.

By the 80s and 90s, the butch identity had reached its golden era. In the US, the butch lesbian singer kd lang posed for a cover of Vanity Fair with Cindy Crawford; the Calvin Klein model Jenny Shimizu dated Angelina Jolie; and Leslie Feinberg published Stone Butch Blues, named after another subcategory (“stone butch”). In the UK, the underground butch scene was thriving. Taylor describes a “dykedom”: lesbians moving to squat communities in London and other cities, and to the Greenham Common women’s peace camp in Berkshire. The Camden Lesbian Centre and Black Lesbian Group set up in London, as did Gemma, a support group for disabled lesbians, in 1976. “There was a sense that we were all looking out for each other, that we were connected via squats, we were connected by relationships,” says Taylor. This London scene was immortalised by the 2021 film Rebel Dykes, starring Del LaGrace Volcano, whose The Drag King Book documented the 90s drag king scene.

Events, culture and spaces centring the butch identity appear to be having a ripple effect. It was the combination of a group trip to Butch, Please! last February and a screening of Rebel Dykes that helped inspire Bristol Butch Bar. Silver first went to Butch, Please! while still working out his identity, and now performs there. Social media has also created new ways to be together. “The pandemic did have a part to play in those spaces being taken away,” says Benjamin. “A lot of young people in particular were like: ‘Hang on, we need these spaces.’ So it’s created this surge of enthusiasm and support.”

For Poebright, 42, a genderqueer and transmasculine butch, there are also recent, tragic circumstances behind Bristol Butch Bar. Not long after it was set up, a friend in the community died. “The person we lost was a transmasc, non-binary person, and they were in our group when we first set it up,” Poebright says. “There was a bunch of people that met at the funeral, and it turned out we all had a lot in common, including butchness and butch appreciation. So there was a sort of foundation of realising that we can only just barely survive alone, and needing to make spaces to be together in order just to survive the conditions that we’re in.”

These spaces may, to an outsider, just seem like glitter, bondage gear and, in my case, handkerchief mishaps. And, of course, that’s part of it. Drama and infighting are par for the course; bumping into exes in confined spaces is only to be expected. But for lots of people, whose lives have been reduced to nothing more than a joke or a sexual fetish, these club nights are life-changing. As Haywood puts it: “It’s just what everybody wants, really, isn’t it? To have something they identify with when they’re out.”

#The Guardian #Butch identities #Butch please #UK #Welcome return #of the butch

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photosbyabhi · 18 days

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Photos by Abhi

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Phone: 07907 799 557

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ricardoc212 · 27 days

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Capturing the Essence of Indian Weddings: Artisan Photography for Weddings in London and Birmingham

Introduction: Indian weddings are a symphony of colors, emotions, and traditions, each unique in its storytelling yet universally beautiful. The responsibility of capturing these moments falls to the wedding photographer, whose artistry turns fleeting moments into lifelong memories. For couples in London and Birmingham, finding a photographer who combines technical skill with a deep understanding of Indian culture is crucial. Enter artisan photography—a bespoke approach that transcends conventional wedding photography to create a visual narrative as unique as your love story.

What is Artisan Photography? Artisan photography is more than just taking pictures; it’s about crafting a story. An artisan photographer doesn’t merely capture events as they unfold; they infuse each image with creativity, attention to detail, and a deep appreciation for the cultural nuances of Indian weddings. The result? A collection of photos that feel both intimate and grand, each one telling a piece of the story that culminates in your union.

Why Artisan Photography is Perfect for Indian Weddings: Indian weddings are rich with rituals, from the Mehndi and Sangeet to the grand Baraat and the sacred Anand Karaj. Each of these moments is steeped in meaning and tradition. Artisan photographers understand the significance of these events and are adept at capturing them in a way that is both authentic and artistically expressive.

Capturing Vibrant Colors:

Indian weddings are renowned for their vibrant colors. The bride’s red lehenga, the groom’s intricately embroidered sherwani, the marigold garlands, and the shimmering lights—all these elements contribute to the visual feast that is an Indian wedding. An artisan photographer uses their expertise in lighting, composition, and post-processing to ensure that these colors are captured in their full glory, creating images that are as vivid and vibrant as your memories.

Highlighting Cultural Details:

The devil is in the details, they say, and this is especially true for Indian weddings. From the henna patterns on the bride’s hands to the intricate embroidery on the wedding outfits, these details are a testament to the artistry and craftsmanship that goes into Indian weddings. An artisan photographer pays special attention to these elements, ensuring that every bead, every thread, and every flower is captured with the respect and reverence it deserves.

Storytelling Through Candid Moments:

While posed portraits have their place, it’s often the candid moments that best capture the true essence of a wedding. The bride’s stolen glance at her groom, the father’s tearful smile, the laughter shared among friends—these are the moments that an artisan photographer excels at capturing. Their approach is unobtrusive yet attentive, allowing them to document the genuine emotions that make your wedding day unforgettable.

Choosing the Right Artisan Photographer in London and Birmingham: When selecting an artisan photographer for your Indian wedding in London or Birmingham, it’s essential to consider a few key factors:

Experience with Indian Weddings:

Look for a photographer who has a portfolio of Indian weddings. Their experience will ensure they understand the significance of the rituals and can anticipate key moments.

Artistic Vision:

Every artisan photographer has their own unique style. Review their previous work to ensure their artistic vision aligns with your aesthetic preferences. Do you prefer a more traditional look, or are you drawn to contemporary, cinematic styles?

Personal Connection:

Your photographer will be with you throughout your wedding day, so it’s important that you feel comfortable with them. A personal connection will help you feel at ease, resulting in more natural, authentic photos.

Attention to Detail:

As discussed, Indian weddings are all about the details. Choose a photographer who demonstrates a keen eye for detail in their work. This will ensure that nothing is overlooked, from the intricate jewelry to the elaborate decor.

Covering London and Birmingham: Whether you’re planning a grand wedding in London or an intimate celebration in Birmingham, the right photographer will be able to adapt to your venue and your vision. London offers iconic backdrops like the Tower Bridge or Hyde Park, while Birmingham boasts beautiful locations like the Botanical Gardens or the canalside venues. An artisan photographer understands how to use these settings to enhance your photos, making your wedding album a work of art.

Conclusion: Your wedding day is one of the most important days of your life, and it deserves to be documented with care, creativity, and a deep respect for your cultural traditions. Artisan photography offers a bespoke approach that captures the beauty and emotion of your Indian wedding in a way that is both timeless and unique. Whether you’re tying the knot in London or Birmingham, choosing an artisan photographer ensures that your memories are preserved in a way that reflects the love and joy of your special day.

As you embark on this new journey, let your wedding photos serve as a beautiful reminder of where it all began—crafted with love, captured with artistry.

#photography #indianwedding #asianwedding

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