#cause what a pillock

[princessconsuela120]

☁ HOLD ME CLOSE AND HOLD ME FAST ☁

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Summary: You fall asleep on Ominis' shoulder during class.

Warnings: Cursing, fluffy fluff fluffy

Author's Note: I love this so much. @clownfacepancakes120 this one's for you :}

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IT WAS A WELL KNOWN FACT IN HOGWARTS THAT HISTORY OF MAGIC CLASS WAS INCREDIBLY BORING. So boring in fact, that when you begun school, Professor Fog warned you to purchase a pillow in hogsmeade for said class. You didn’t understand him at first, but now as you sat in class, listening to the gravelly voice of professor bins as he floating through the aisles, your eyes straining to stay awake, you wished you had brought your pillow.

“You know you’re incredibly slick, darling.” Ominis said sarcastically, causing you to shoot your head up at the sound of his voice.

“Hmm?” You mumbled, already feeling your eyes grow heavy again.

“I can’t even see you and I can hear the way you're trying to stay up right now.”

He chuckled to himself, hearing uou scoff as you shifted in your seat.

“Am not. I’m just, focusing super hard.” You lied, your head already falling into his shoulder.

“Mhmm.” He teased, before you scoffed, not having the energy to fight back.

Ominis couldn’t help but smile at the feeling, loving everytime you’d lean your head against his shoulder. The two of you started dating in your 6th year, not noticing your feelings until after you defeated rankrok. Ominis realized the fear he felt when you fought came from love. You two had been dating ever since, after Sebastian forced the two of you to get together, insisting that Ominis wouldn’t stop mopping about his love for you.

So now here uou we’re, sat with your head against his shoulder, fast asleep as Professor Bins muttered none sense.

“Darling?” He whispered, turning to look at you when he heard your soft snores from beside him.“Silly girl, you’re drooling.” He chuckled, wiping your chin as you shifted against him. He placed a soft kiss against your head, jumping slightly when Sebastian laid against his other shoulder, a loud ground shaking snore erupting from his chest.

“Wake up you oaf! You’re snoring like a troll!” He yelled, shoving Sebastian, trying not to wake you in the process.

“Hey! Why does she get to sleep?!” Sebastian yelled, looked at Sebastian angrily as he threw a hand out at you.

“Because I love her.” He replied, rolling his eyes as if it were obvious.

“Unbelievable. You know, I used to be the one who got to sleep on your shoulder.” Sebastian grumbled, huffing angrily as he folded his arms.

“I never let you sleep on my shoulder.” He said, furrowing his eyebrows at Sebastian as the freckles boy pouted, slamming his chin in his palm on the table.

“Yeah well, what happens while you’re sleeping can’t hurt you.” He grumbled, making Ominis roll his eyes.

“You’re such a pillock Sebastian.” Ominis. teased, running his fingers gently through your hair.

“And you my friend, are incredibly whipped.” Sebastian said, patting Ominis’ shoulder, making him smile.

“I know.”

Ominis smiles down at you as you snuggle closer into his shoulder, hiding your face in his neck. Your soft snores filth is ears, a much better sound in his eyes than Professor Bins mumbling, as butterflies grew in his stomach at the warm feeling you radiated.

[mariacallous]

Salman Rushdie has just published Knife: Meditations After an Attempted Murder. In August 2022, he was giving a talk at the Chautauqua Institution in New York. Hadi Matar, a 24-year-old from New Jersey, rushed the stage and stabbed him 15 times. It was astonishing that Salman survived. He lost the sight in one eye and sustained terrible injuries, but he’s still with us and he’s still writing, and unlike Hadi Matar, he’s still worth hearing.

We think of fanatics as stalkers with an obsessive knowledge of their targets.  Like the antisemites who compile lists of Jews in the media or the homophobes who so focus on the details of gay sex they might almost be closet cases

Most terrorists and bigots are not like that. They are like soldiers in an army who kill and hate for no other reason than tradition or men in authority have told them to kill and hate. If we were less fascinated by the pseudo-glamour of violence, we would see them for what they are: dullards and jerks.

In Knife Salman is almost as angered by the sheer lazy stupidity of his wannabee assassin as his violence.

“I do not want to use his name in this account. My Assailant, my would-be Assassin, the Asinine man who made Assumptions about me, and with whom I had a near-lethal Assignation … I have found myself thinking of him, perhaps forgivably, as an Ass.”

The ass “didn’t bother to inform himself about the man he decided to kill. By his own admission he read barely two pages of my writing and watched a couple of YouTube videos”.

That was enough, apparently, along with a little light indoctrination in the Levant.

We know from Matar’s mother that her son changed from a popular young man to a moody religious zealot after visiting her ex-husband in the Hezbollah-controlled town of Yaroun in Lebanon, a mile or so from the Israeli border.

“I was expecting him to come back motivated, to complete school, to get his degree and a job. But instead, he locked himself in the basement. He had changed a lot. He didn't say anything to me or his sisters for months.”

Salman quotes a wonderfully perceptive line from Jodi Picoult

“If you meet a loner, no matter what they tell you, it’s not because they enjoy solitude. It’s because they have tried to blend into the world before, and people continue to disappoint them.”

Rushdie is openly contemptuous, as he has every right to be.

“I see you now at twenty-four,” he writes, “already disappointed by life, disappointed in your mother, your sisters, your father, your lack of boxing talent, your lack of any talent at all; disappointed in the bleak future you saw stretching ahead of you, for which you refused to blame yourself.”

This has always been the way. Readers old enough to remember 1989 when the Ayatollah Khomeini ordered Salman’s execution for writing a blasphemous satire of Islam’s origin story in the Satanic Verses,will know that Khomeini had not read it. Nor had the furious demonstrators in the streets or the regressive leftists and Tory ministers who upbraided him for the non-crime of causing offence.

Those of us who had read the book pointed out that it was a magical realist fiction which contained sympathetic accounts of the racism Muslim immigrants in the UK suffered. Indeed, the Tories of the day loathed Salman, we continued, because of his confrontations with official racism.

But after a while we fell silent. Pleading with his enemies felt demeaning. It gave them undeserved credit, as if they were reasonable people, who could be swayed by evidence rather than just, well, pillocks.

In Knife Salman attempts an imaginary conversation with his persecutor.

OK, he says, Islam, unlike Judaism and Christianity, holds that man is not made in God’s image. God has no human qualities, it says.

But isn’t language a human quality? To have language, God would have to have a mouth, a tongue, vocal cords and a voice, just like a man. The terrorist’s understanding is that God cannot be like a man, however. So, God could not have spoken to Gabriel in Arabic. Gabriel must have translated his message when he came to the prophet.

The angel made it comprehensible to Muhammed by delivering it in human speech which is not the speech of God.

Thus, the version of Islamic instruction Matar received in his basement when he switched from playing video games to listening to Imams was an interpretation of a translation.

“I’m trying to suggest to you that, even according to your own tradition, there is uncertainty. Some of your own early philosophers have suggested this. They say everything can be interpreted, even the Book. It can be interpreted according to the times in which the interpreter lives. Literalism is a mistake.”

For a while, Rushdie says he wants to meet Matar again at the trial, as if he wants to have the argument in the flesh.

He tells a story about Samuel Beckett, which could only have happened to Samuel Beckett.

Beckett was walking through Paris in 1938 when he was confronted by a pimp named Prudent, who wanted money from him. Beckett pushed Prudent away, whereupon the pimp pulled out a knife and stabbed him in the chest, narrowly missing the left lung and the heart.

Beckett was taken to the nearest hospital, bleeding heavily. He only just survived.

You will never guess who paid for his treatment. James Joyce, of course, he did.

Anyway, Beckett went to the pimp’s trial. He met Prudent in the courtroom, and asked him why he had done it. This was the pimp’s reply: “Je ne sais pas, monsieur. Je m’excuse.” (I don’t know, sir. I’m sorry.)

But the more he thought about it, the less Rushdie had to say to his enemy. The idea that you can have theological arguments with a man who wants to kill you for writing a book he hasn’t even read felt ridiculous.

Although popular culture is full of stories about murderers, and true crime podcasts top the charts, killers and fanatics are nearly always less interesting than their victims. More often than not they are just thick. Nasty and vicious, but thick first of all.

We are about to see the stupidity of fanatics deployed on a mass scale. Two thirds of Republican voters (and nearly 3 in 10 Americans) continue to believe that the 2020 election was stolen from Donald Trump, and that Joe Biden was not lawfully elected. They think it because that is what Trump told them to think.

Islamists told Matar that Salman was an apostate, and that was all he needed to know. Trump told Republicans the election was stolen and ditto.

If Republicans were consistent people, they would not vote for Trump in 2024. What would be the point? They would have every reason to fear that the deep state would rig the 2024 presidential election as it rigged the 2020 presidential election.

But they will vote for him because, once again, that is what he tells them to do.

In the end there is a limit to how much attention you can pay the vicious and the stupid.

They are not interesting enough, as Rushdie concluded with marvellous disdain as he contemplated the life sentence Matar will face.

"Here we stand: the man who failed to kill an unarmed seventy-five-year-old writer, and the now 76-year-old writer. Somewhat to my surprise, I find I have very little to say to you. Our lives touched each other for an instant and then separated. Mine has improved since that day, while yours has deteriorated. You made a bad gamble and lost. I was the one with the luck… Perhaps, in the incarcerated decades that stretch out before you, you will learn introspection, and come to understand that you did something wrong. But you know what? I don’t care. This, I think, is what I have come to this courtroom to say to you. I don’t care about you, or the ideology that you claim to represent, and which you represent so poorly. I have my life, and my work, and there are people who love me. I care about those things.”

[chierafied]

Get A Room

Read on AO3.

For the Jily Gift Exchange 2024 by @jilymicrofics Gift for EllieMarchetti, fic request: "An alternative Universe, rom-com vibe fic where Jily are on a school trip and in order to let Sirius and Marlene sleep together they have to share a room despite the fact they can't stand each other."

Let the record show that Lily Evans was no cock-blocker. But Marlene McKinnon really owed her a big one for this, Lily thought glumly as she glowered at her paperback, pointedly ignoring the man at the opposite side of the small hotel room. How was she supposed to enjoy Carrie Soto absolutely owning it in Wimbledon, when this one pillock kept pacing at the other end of the room like a tireless toddler who’d plundered the sweets drawer? Just watching him was exhausting.   

Not that she was watching him! Nuh-uh! She didn’t want to abuse her poor eyes and brain by taking in his sorry appearance. That thick dark hair he kept mussing up or the glasses that never seemed to sit quite straight on his nose. The way he grinned, much too often and just a little crooked. The graceful way he moved in that baffled her. The forearms that always seemed to be on display because he kept rolling up his sleeves. The jawline that was hard not to stare at.  

Ugh. He was an infuriating man. No wonder Lily had so very little tolerance for him. She’d been meticulously avoiding him, ever since the welcoming party for freshers at the start of the school year. She’d overheard him bragging about his rich parents and football team captaincy and his grandfather being an alumnus of their university. Lily had decided then and there that she wanted nothing to do with rich legacy prick like him.  

Only that wasn’t so easy now that her best friend had decided to date his best friend. And of course, this development had sprung to life shortly before the three-day trip to London.   

She’d really been looking forward to the trip, too. As well as getting to share a hotel room with Marlene. In her mind, it would have been a great time reminiscent of the sleepovers of old. But of course, Marlene had chosen a boy over a grand girls’ pyjama party.   

Lily frowned down at her book and wondered if Marlene was planning to stay in Sirius’ room all night. Lily’s plan had been to read her book and ignore James Potter. But she couldn’t concentrate on Carrie Soto’s comeback. And James Potter was, annoyingly enough, the kind of bloke you couldn’t easily ignore. She was all too aware of his maddening presence in the room. The tension brimming in the gulf of silence between them hardly helped.   

Lily sighed. If she was stuck here with Potter, potentially for hours, she’d crack under the pressure of the awkward silence. She snapped her paperback shut and looked up, meeting his stare with resentful resignation.  

*

James wanted to kill Sirius. Or maybe give him a good long kiss. He was undecided, because his emotions were currently swinging a wild, unhinged pendulum between elation and misery.  

The cause of elation was the fact that he was finally, at long last, alone with Lily Evans. It was the kind of an opportunity he hadn’t dared to even wish for. She’d caught his eye way back in the welcoming party at the start of the school year, but he had never managed to gather up his courage to go chat her up.  

Because, and this was one reason why at the other end of the spectrum misery swirled at the ready: James was pretty sure that Lily Evans hated his guts. Even now, when she wasn’t busy completely ignoring him, the glances she sent his way were sharp and frowny. He wasn’t quite sure what he had done to earn her ire, as they’d never exchanged more than twenty words in the course of their light acquaintance.    

Which was something James was very much hoping to correct now. But how could he find the right words?   

He stopped pacing the small room and stared helplessly at the gorgeous redhead, just as she heaved a heavy sigh. James jumped a little at the thump as Evans suddenly closed her book. She looked up, finally meeting his gaze. James’ heart skipped a beat, even as the look in those green eyes turned his stomach.  

Shame flooded him, drowning out any joy he might have harboured before.  

“I’m sorry,” he said, breaking the heavy silence between them. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “I can leave, if you’re feeling uncomfortable about sharing a room with me.”  

He could always go out for a walk. Have a sit at a Costa or something. Or stay down at the lobby bar of the hotel.   

Evans’ shoulders slumped and she gave an irritated shake of her head. “No. I don’t want to put you out. There’s no telling how long Sirius and Marlene are going to be at it.”  

James grimaced. “I’m trying very hard not to think about that.”  

“Me too,” Evans said, rolling her eyes. “I’m just glad your room isn’t next to ours because it would get super awkward if we had to listen in on them, too.”  

“Oh, god,” James managed, snorting a surprised laugh. “That would be the worst.”  

Their eyes met and they shared a long, wry stare – one brief moment where they finally were in perfect agreement. James risked flashing a hesitant smile her way. The captivating green eyes softened a fraction.   

James cleared his throat and desperate to make conversation, voiced the very first words that popped up in his head. “What are you reading?”  

Lily’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and she glanced down at her book. “ Carrie Soto is Back , by Taylor Jenkins Reid. It’s about a tennis player making her comeback.”  

James blinked. “You’re reading a book about... tennis?”  

And then, the miraculous thing happened. Lily Evans let out a brief laugh; a bubbling sound that James felt all the way in his heart. “I know, right? I’m just as surprised as you are. But it’s really good. And it’s not just about tennis. It’s about family, and grief, and ambition... It’s about fear of failure. It’s about finding joy again.”  

James was entranced by the softness of her tone, the smile playing on her lips. He was staring, helpless and half-way smitten, even as that smile turned rueful.  

“Sorry. If you get me started on the topic of books, I could probably go on forever.”  

“I don’t mind,” James hastily reassured her. “I always like listening to people talking about their interests. And books are great. I really need to start reading something other than textbooks, but the lessons have been keeping me so busy.”  

“The schedule’s really been insane, hasn’t it? I mean I didn’t think uni would be a breeze, but one of these days my brain is going to call it quits on me, I swear.”  

James laughed in delight. Beautiful, smart and funny. Lily Evans was absolute perfection. “I doubt that. You work too hard and are far too brilliant for that to happen.”  

Lily hummed, her gaze turning assessing. “Thank you. Though I’m a bit surprised you have such a high opinion of me, especially when this is already the longest conversation we’ve ever had.”  

James shrugged, helpless to stop the blush heating up his cheeks. “I pay attention.”  

Lily’s lips quirked and curled. “I see,” she said softly.  

There was a spark in her eyes that James hadn’t seen before. And he was afraid that she actually could see right through him. He moved over to the window, turning to look out so he could avoid her knowing gaze as his face flushed redder.  

“So, what are your interests, then?” Lily asked, her tone casual.  

Relief rolled down James' back, the tension in his body melting away. He was grateful for this olive branch, this opportunity to ignore the feelings he was not ready to admit out loud. He let out a breath and turned away from the window.  

James faced Lily, with a smile on his lips, elation in his heart, butterflies in the pit of his stomach, and an answer ready on his tongue.  

[smallbrooke1998]

Thomas And Duck's Big Fight

CW: Profanity language, blood, and mild violence.

The story:

Thomas and Duck are alone together in one of the caverns at the local beach (in Maretime Bay, Equestria), both seeming to be very cross at each other for some reason. The two have never had the best relationship ever since Duck joined the railway back in their home universe, and it was very common for them to sometimes get cross at each other. The triggers were usually because the two were very opposite of each other. Thomas being very immature and cheeky, and Duck being mature and doesn’t put up with no nonsense. Because of this, they don’t get along all the time. 

The two were facing each other and both visibly fuming. Out of the two, Thomas the very angry one flaring his nostrils. 

“You know what it is, Thomas? You’re the most ignorant, immature, pillock, and stubborn engine/pony I’ve ever met!” Duck bluntly tells to Thomas's face. 

Thomas breathes heavily and flares his nostrils, not answering to Duck. 

“You know what else is true about you? You’re also…A…Bloody joke! You’ve caused too much trouble for the entire railway ever since I got purchased from the other railway! Half of the trouble that has happened on this island is your fault!! Your cheekiness makes you…a…bloody twit!!” 

Thomas stays quiet but flares his nostrils in response to the foul/insulting language Duck used on him. Duck keeps on going. 

“I’ve had several engines be pompous, egotistical, and cheeky from the time I was built, but I’ve never met someone as flawed, rude, and bloody awful as you! That there says a lot because I’ve been around for several decades now and engines like you have no respect! I may have my own pride from the old Great Western, but I do not, I do not show disrespect or arrogance of others! It’s really no wonder why so many engines can’t stand you, it’s funny really!” 

Thomas is completely still, feeling completely offended now and breathing heavily out of intense anger. 

“You’re now feeling very cross from me telling you the truth, huh?!! You better be because everyone has gotten too soft on you!!” Duck analyzes Thomas’s body language for a bit. 

“Oh, I’m so surprised that you still haven’t answered because usually, you always get back with your bloody witty remarks! I guess my words have really given you a reality check!” 

Duck gives the blue earth pony an intense stare. Thomas draws in a very deep breath and then exhales, pawing at the ground. 

“Well bloody dickhead, you just made me more cross than ever! Now that we’re not engines for the time being, I’m going to do something that I’ve wanted to do forever, kick your butt!!! My buffers would never do as much harm unless I crashed you into a bloody building, but now that we’re ponies, a simple beating will make you feel pain!” Thomas finally replies to Duck, being more insulting than Duck was. 

“I beg your pardon! You always wanted to…Harm me!?” Duck says in complete shock, standing frozen. 

“In other words, I want to fight you right now!” Thomas adds after Duck responded in shock. In an instant, Thomas lunges at Duck and bites his right forearm. 

After getting bit, Duck immediately lunges back at Thomas, pinning him to the sandy ground and punching him in the eye. Thomas yelps in pain from being hit in the eye and hits Duck on the muzzle, causing a nosebleed. The two go back and forth with the physical violence, Thomas quickly getting the upperhoof due to being slightly bigger than Duck in height. 

They would tumble and tackle about, hitting and body slamming each other. “You little arse! You gotta be more violent than that!” 

“So you are treating me like you treat a troublesome truck!? I will shunt you across the railyard once we get back home!” 

“Twat!!!” 

“Bollocks! The Great Western Railway and even the BR would never allow such fighting!!” 

“Who fucking cares about your old railways?! The Great Western is gone!” 

“You are swearing” like the former dock shunter you were! I heard your class was only restricted to the docks because you’re too fat!” 

“So what!? You’re fat too! Oh wait, you’re a box!!” 

The two insult each other as they hit, tumble, and slam each other in the sand. At one point, Thomas was pinning Duck once again. Just as he was about to hit Duck, he noticed that Duck was about to bite him! 

“Bite me you worthless Great Western piece of shit!!” Thomas yelled, basically daring Duck to bite him. Which after that being said, Duck clamps down onto Thomas’s right forearm, causing him to try to shake the latter off. 

“Get off me you bloody twit! I didn’t tell you to bite like that! Now get off!” He punches Duck in the eye, causing him to get off and hold his eye for a second. 

“Oh so now you act like a coward in pain!” 

After a few brief moments, Duck lunges at full force and pins Thomas down, purposely kicking him in the highly sensitive area at the groin. Thomas screams in pain and reflectively shoves Duck off, causing him to fly a few inches away and crash land into the sand. Thomas grabs the sensitive area and cries in pain. 

“It’s only fair that you feel what I felt but worse!” Duck says, roasting Thomas. 

“Oh fuck you!” He says as he stops grabbing the intimate area once the pain calmed down. 

“No! Don’t!” Duck starts to crawl off, sensing what Thomas was going to do. Duck soon gets up and tries running off, but because of his bad back, Thomas catches up to him easily. 

“Take that! First your eye, now your sensitive parts!” He proceeds to kick Duck in that same area. 

“Owww!!!!” Duck screams and collapses onto the sand, holding the intimate area that just got kicked. Thomas just cracks up laughing.  

The laughing would come to an end when Duck kicks Thomas in the nose, causing his other nostril to bleed. 

Soon, they would go right back to insulting, body slamming, throwing, and tackling each other in the sand, dust flying everywhere. 

Time has now passed and it was sunset, the two earth stallions were now lying on the ground, both badly bruised, have ruffled fur, and bite marks. Thomas was tied up in large kelp that Duck wrapped him in at one point. Duck was just lying on his back. 

The both of them fell asleep after the fight and they both stirred. Thomas immediately kicks the kelp off of him, but winces in pain. 

“I wrapped you in that kelp you know.” Duck said, Thomas getting startled. 

“So what?!” Thomas simply replies, sitting up and wincing. 

“So…You would no longer beat me.” 

“I know that you pratt!” Thomas replied, being very aware of what Duck did to him after the fight ended. 

“I can’t sit...I hurt everywhere….” Duck says, complaining of pain as he tries to sit up.  

“Duck? I think I got my wish fulfilled. Let’s never do that again.” Thomas said, groaning. 

“Well, of course. I have to admit, I wanted to hurt you ever since you attempted to detour the train to try to show Harold The Helicopter the island from the ground view. You have no idea how cross I was that day when your crew spoke to my crew about a change in plans to pick up an extra person at Knapford station. I was so gullible that I fell for it! When I learned that it was a trick, I purposely ignored you and refused to cooperate with my driver to stop at the tunnel.” Duck confesses this to Thomas, who looked at him in shock. 

“Well, I’m not surprised by that at all. I knew you weren’t having trouble with your brakes!” Thomas told Duck, feeling kind of cross again, of that one incident sometime back when he and Duck had to take Harold The Helicopter to the hangar to get him repaired after he broke down. Thomas did regret causing trouble that day, but didn’t realize how much it affected Duck. 

“I’m certainly not proud of lying about my brakes to the fat controller…” Duck replies, sounding very sad at this fact. 

“Alright Duck, here is the deal, we won’t tell anyone what truly happened. The fight is between us only. Instead of admitting the truth, we will just tell them that we had an accident…” 

“And maybe, to be more convincing, tell them that we got seriously beat up in a sport…”  Duck adds, hoping to make the story specific. 

The two come up with their cover up story about their injuries as they decide to stay in the cavern for the night. The two lay back down, the sand acting like a cushion. Although they’re not close friends, they do forgive each other and make amends to never be physical ever again. One of the reasons they fought like this in the first place was to blow off steam and it worked.

They're not dead, they're just asleep. The fighting wore them out. Duck and Thomas are fine, I promise, just beaten up.

The song that is playing in the background;

Additional sketch scenes and the inspiration below the cut;

Behold, the picture that I was inspired from and the scene, lol.

[spilledbutter]

Summary: Jaskier sets out on the open road after a bad break-up, looking for purpose and hoping to find himself again. He doesn't intend to fall for a stunning cafe owner in a sleepy mountain town. Jaskier/Eskel | Rated: T | WC: 2k+ | CW: none, this is just fluff tbh

------

It was getting embarrassing, really.

There were only so many lattes and pastries he could order before it became very obvious he was dawdling.

Yes, today he had brought his notebook, so he didn’t look too conspicuous. He took a quick glance around the shop, noticing the many other patrons filling the tables. A woman was typing furiously on a laptop in the corner, a group of college students had their noses buried deep in their textbooks, and many others were settled around, chatting and sipping their drinks.

He took a deep breath, drumming his fingers on the table and humming an absent tune. He lifted the still-steaming cup of caffeinated deliciousness to his lips before casting a glance toward the front counter. The reason for his stalling stood there, all six-foot-three inches of decadent, mountainous man. As he watched, Eskel broke into a grin, eyes crinkling at the corners, as he conversed with the customer in front of him. Jaskier felt his heart give a particularly earnest thud and sighed.

Gods, get a grip, Jaskier, you desperate pillock.

It started a few weeks ago. Jaskier was a transplant to Ard Carraigh, having moved recently in search of a change of pace. After a bad break-up six months ago, he came to realize that somewhere along the way in the last few years, he’d lost his purpose. He sold the meager belongings in his apartment, taking only his instruments and a duffel bag full of necessities, and packed his car. He stopped long enough to say goodbye to his friends on his way out of town and that was it. The second he’d hit the road, he felt lighter than he had in years, despite not having a destination in mind.

Eventually, he wound up here, in Ard Carraigh. The town was smaller than Oxenfurt. It was a sleepy little village, nestled high in the mountains. The streets were lined with cobblestone and weathered-looking brick buildings that seemed like they’d been standing for centuries. There were chimneys billowing smoke into the overcast, gray sky and ambling sidewalks lined with ancient trees, although they were barren given the time of year. He felt like he’d wandered into some sort of storybook with how picturesque the whole thing was.

He’d stumbled into town and parked his car along what seemed to be the main thoroughfare, desperately in search of caffeine. It was nighttime then, and he’d been drawn to the warm light filtering out of the large windows of a cute little brownstone. The sign above it read The Wolves’ Den–a cafe of sorts, it seemed to be. Just what he needed.

He’d opened the door, the tinkling of a bell announcing his arrival, and walked up to the counter, a little delirious from driving all day.

“Please, please tell me you serve coffee here. I’d give you my firstborn child and my favorite guitar for some espresso right now.”

A deep, resonant chuckle met his almost-begging, causing Jaskier to look up and promptly freeze.

“We do, indeed, sell coffee. Among other beverages, but given this place turns into a bar after nine, I don’t think it’s the most appropriate for children.”

Melitele, help me, Jaskier thought. I am but a mortal man in the presence of a god.

The man standing before him was truly stunning. His skin was a golden, sun-kissed tan, eyes a beautiful hazel Jaskier could get lost in for hours. His chocolate brown locks were pulled back in a half-bun, a few strands falling loose to frame a chiseled jaw and the longest strands brushing sturdy shoulders. There were scars trailing his face on the right side from above his brow bone down past his jaw; Jaskier thought they only served to enhance his rugged beauty. As his eyes refocused, Jaskier noticed a slight smirk gracing the man’s full lips and an eyebrow raising in question. The expression suited him, pulling attractively at his scars and making him look like a dashing rogue. Jaskier wanted to climb the man like a tree.

A throat was politely cleared and Jaskier swallowed around his suddenly desert-dry tongue, snapping out of the haze he’d fallen into. He realized, belatedly, the man was still waiting for a response. And probably his order. Fuck.

“Well, it’s a good thing it’s just me then,” Jaskier chuckled, putting on his most charming grin and aiming for hapless-but-cute. It usually worked for him. “Large Americano with an extra shot, if you please…” He paused with intention, hoping the other man offered a name to match his gorgeous face.

The other man’s smirk softened into a friendly smile and he offered a hand over the counter.

“Eskel. I’m one of the owners of The Wolves’ Den, along with my brothers, Geralt and Lambert. You’ll likely meet them if you stick around long enough. Given I haven’t seen you around before, I’m guessing you’re new in town?”

Jaskier barely remembered to take the man’s–Eskel’s–hand, having a temporary internal crisis over beefy forearms and long, thick fingers.

“Ah, yes, you’d be correct. Jaskier, musician and temporary vagabond, at your service,” he said with a mock bow, earning another throaty chuckle for his troubles. “I’m hoping to be around for a while yet, the road is getting a bit tiresome of late. How much do I owe you, Eskel?”

Eskel was already shaking his head as he grabbed a clean mug from the rack beside the register.

“It’s on the house. Welcome to Ard Carraigh. Hope to see you again, Jaskier,” Eskel finished with a little wink and a crooked grin and Jaskier was absolutely done for, gods help him.

He murmured a hoarse thank you and bustled off to find a seat, settling in a worn, overstuffed armchair in the not-too-crowded dining area. When his name was called, there was a warm muffin with his coffee, and he literally felt himself swoon, needing to fuss with napkins and cream and sugar long enough to get his legs under him again before he made his way back to his seat. It would be very unfortunate if he literally became a lovesick puddle in this man’s place of business, they hadn’t even gone on a date yet.

He managed to leave with little fanfare, waving to Eskel with a warm smile on his lips on his way out that night. It seemed only natural to stop by again the next day for his morning fix, looking for tips to guide his search for more permanent lodging. Eskel had greeted him with a smile then, too, seeming genuinely pleased to see him again and only too happy to help. Jaskier was an absolute goner.

It had become a daily routine after that, although he didn’t always come in at the same time. Somehow, Eskel was always there, though, the sight of him causing a warm flutter in Jaskier’s belly every time. Jaskier didn’t bother fooling himself into thinking he had reasons for coming every day that went beyond not-so-polite ogling and a few minutes of chatting with the handsome, charming man. Eskel’s warm personality was like the sun on a cold winter day and Jaskier reveled in it. He wanted more.

Which brought him to today. He’d brought his notebook as both an attempt to get some work done for his new album and as a cover for his hopefully-not-obvious pining. Off to a piss-poor start, you are, Jaskier.

With that fresh failure in mind, he made a concentrated effort to pull his attention away from the counter and Eskel’s crooked grin, his thoughts finally catching up to him. It was snowing outside currently, the chill coming in every time the door opened. It was always snowing in Ard Carraigh, it seemed. Jaskier wondered if he’d ever get used to the cold. He was glad he’d picked a table near the blessedly roaring fireplace and gratefully wrapped both hands more securely around his mug.

His newfound freedom was going well, all things considered. He found a place to stay easily enough, a walk-up studio above the florist’s shop advertised on flyers posted along the main street. It was only a few blocks away, and he’d started to take great pleasure in his morning walk to the little cafe-bar known as The Wolves’ Den. Over the last few weeks, he’d developed a routine, coming to the shop at least once a day for a few hours, usually spending the rest of his time wandering the streets for inspiration or holed up writing at home when it got too cold. The beautiful winter scenery in the mountains truly took his breath away some days, and he found himself writing more than he had in months. He missed his friends, but he was truly happy he left.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Jaskier looked up, startled out of the trance he’d fallen into, and saw warm hazel eyes gazing down at him. He smiled, immediately relaxing in Eskel’s comforting presence.

“Oh, nothing much worth a penny. Just the musings of a humble bard–very cliche, I must say,” he aimed a rueful grin up at his friend. “How are you today, Eskel?”

The other man smiled, gesturing with his head at the seat opposite Jaskier, hands occupied with a steaming mug and a plate of scones.

“Well, thank you. Taking a short break since the rush is over. Mind if I sit?”

Jaskier positively beamed, absolutely chuffed despite himself. “Please do. I enjoy your company.”

They’d chatted several times in the last few weeks, so this wasn’t too out of the ordinary. Usually, for a few minutes during Jaskier’s daily visits, Eskel would pepper him with questions–he’d ask how Jaskier’d been settling in, if he needed recommendations for things to see around town, if he needed any help with anything. He was truly sweet, with a heart as big as his bloated biceps. It was damned intolerable.

Eskel settled in across from him, taking a deep drink and sitting back into his chair with a content sigh. He pushed the plate of scones between them, a clear offer for Jaskier to take the second one. He glanced out the window where Jaskier’s gaze had been drawn a few moments before, offering a smirk to the musician.

“Got some bad news for you, I’m afraid. The winters here only get worse. When the cold really sets in, you won’t be able to see more than a few feet in front of you, with the snow and all. Absolutely dreadful, no way around it. Still have time to leave before the roads ice up.”

Jaskier shakes his head at that, huffing mock-indignantly. “Wouldn’t dream of it! Other than freezing my balls off every day and night, I honestly feel better than I have in ages.” He’s struck again for a moment by how true that statement is.

“Oh?” Eskel raises a brow, “You never did mention what brought you here. Our town isn’t exactly a homing beacon for tourists.”

“Oh, you know, the usual. Shitty break-up, quarter-life crisis… seems like I lost something of myself, somewhere in the last few years. It seemed like a good time to try somewhere new,” Jaskier traces a finger around the rim of his mug, humming thoughtfully.

Eskel is watching him with interest, taking a bite out of a cinnamon streusel scone. “Hm. Can’t say I didn’t go through the same thing myself, so I get it,” he returns Jaskier’s rueful grin with one of his own before taking a sip of his coffee.

“That’s a story I’d love to hear some time… It’s funny, though, Eskel. I stopped in countless towns on my way out of Oxenfurt, and I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something about here felt right. I’ve been writing more than I have in months; I didn’t realize I was quite so stuck before. Something about this town, the scenery… the people. I’m realizing now I never got a chance to thank you.”

The other man’s brow furrows, his head tilting slightly like an adorably oversized puppy. Jaskier resists the urge to pet his soft-looking hair, but only barely.

“For what?”

“For welcoming me. For being so kind. If I hadn’t spent time around you these last few weeks, I’d be flattered that a handsome man such as yourself was paying me such attention, but I realize you’re like this with everyone,” he gave a wistful chuckle. “Either way, thank you. You’re a good man and a good friend, Eskel.”

Jaskier is too caught up in his little speech to notice the very slight pink the other man has turned at the word handsome and the compliments that followed, the way his tongue unconsciously flicks over his lower lip before he bites at it nervously.

“No thanks needed, really. It’s been nice to see a new face, to get to know you…” Eskel hesitates, rubbing at the back of his neck in a self-conscious gesture Jaskier has come to recognize. “Actually–”

Before Eskel can finish his sentence, though, the redheaded brother Jaskier vaguely knows as Lambert comes storming out of the back. The other man typically works behind the scenes, creating some of the delicious confections filling the shop’s bakery case. Eskel’s mentioned in passing his personality isn’t exactly helpful for keeping a loyal customer base, and, you know, fair.

“Oi, Esk! These pastries aren’t going to ice themselves! Stop gawking at Pretty Boy and get back to work.”

Eskel, the dear man, flushes a delightful shade of strawberry and begins to stand. He clears his throat. “Well, duty calls. I’ll, uh, see you later, Jaskier.”

Eskel goes to turn away, empty mug in hand, and before he can help himself Jaskier finds himself catching the other man’s sleeve. “Wait!”

Eskel turns back to face him, and Jaskier turns a matching shade of cherry, quickly releasing him and moving his hand to instead tap a restless rhythm against his thigh. “Were you… going to ask me something?”

“Oh. Uh…” And the hesitance is back with a vengeance, Eskel rubbing now at his scars as they stand together. His bashfulness is very becoming, Jaskier thinks, Eskel’s usual calm confidence nowhere to be seen. Eskel’s maroon sweater is pulled taut across his broad chest, he is looking a bit timidly at Jaskier with those hazel eyes flecked with gold and green, and the flutter in Jaskier’s stomach starts to ache.

Oh, fuck it. Carpe diem, and all that.

“You know…” Jaskier starts, a little more shy than he’d like, but hopefully with at least a smidgen of his usual flirtatiousness, “I’m not sure if you’d be free–honestly, you’re always here, come to think of it, you really should take a day off–but I would love getting a more personal tour of Ard Carraigh. I’m sure there’s plenty I’ve been missing… could really use an insider perspective, I think. Would you be… available?”

The tables are turned, Jaskier anxiously rubbing his fingers together as Eskel sort of gawks at him, looking startled. Jaskier almost perishes from the sheer embarrassment of it all and just about tells him to forget the whole thing, before Eskel snaps out of it and takes a teeny-tiny step toward him. Jaskier feels the step or two between them like a gaping chasm but forces himself to be patient. Eskel takes a fortifying breath and squares his shoulders, seeming to steel himself.

“Only if I can take you out properly, maybe take you to dinner afterward. I’d, um, really like to get to know you better.”

And praise be to the gods, maybe there really was something to seizing the moment. Jaskier finds himself smiling radiantly up at the other man, pleased as punch. “It’s a date, then.”

Sweet, kind, lovable Eskel sighs in what appears to be relief of all things and Jaskier can’t understand how anyone would not jump at the chance to know him. Jaskier sees the confident light come back into Eskel’s eyes, and, oh, he doesn’t quite know what to do now that he knows the other man is actually interested in him. Eskel, thankfully, doesn’t need telling twice, and closes the remaining distance between them easily. He bends his head to press a chaste kiss to Jaskier’s cheekbone, the featherlight press of lips there and gone before he can blink.

“Looking forward to it, sweetheart. Meet me here tomorrow around noon? Dress warmly.” And Jaskier, for all of his bravado and posturing, can only nod faintly in stunned shock, lifting a hand to press against his cheek. If only his friends could see him now, silent for the first time since he emerged from the womb. It would make headlines, surely.

Eskel, the absolute devil, winks at him like the night they met–a broad, beautiful, crooked grin spreading across his face as he gives a little wave and saunters towards the kitchen after Lambert. Presumably to ice those godsdamned pastries. Jaskier stares after him, eyes lingering wistfully on a plump behind and strong, tree-trunk-thick thighs.

Huh. Maybe I really do have a chance of climbing him.

[weaversweek]

Survivor on BBC1

Aii-eee-yaah! Heeee-iiii-yaaah. Oh. They've done away with the theme music. Pillocks.

The core of Survivor remains a game of social survival, of being smart enough and strong enough to last the course, of being pleasant enough to win people round to your cause.

Sadly, the BBC version didn't quite get this. The opening episodes were all about physical strength, so the contestants got the hint to vote off their physically weak players, and interpreted that as "women".

Survivor didn't know what it wanted to be. Is it a challenge of basic survival (hint: no). Is it a comedy vehicle for Joel Dommett (again, no). Is it the sort of programme we'd expect to see after Strictly Come Dancing (er, no). Does Survivor have strong storylines from episode to episode, like The Traitors or The Eastenders does? (no, no, no).

International success has kept Survivor alive; it's also given fans a blueprint for how they expect the game to be played. Viewers here haven't seen Survivor since 2002, which is a bloody long time ago, and we might play the game differently.

But when the general public don't like your show (because it's confused) and the fans don't like it (because it's not the CBS version), Survivor is holed below the water line.

Never mind, they can always show the Incredible Standing On A Log Challenge.

They didn't do the Incredible Standing On A Log Challenge? Are they nuts!?!

[pennywaltzy]

A Picture Tells A Thousand Words (2/?)

And here we get to the real nitty gritty of what was on the news broadcast in the first chapter and how it affects the Scooby Gang.

A Picture Tells A Thousand Words - Everyone mourns their own way when Buffy and Willow are murdered, but photos help.

READ CHAPTER 1 | READ CHAPTER 2

"Xander! Xander, man, wake up!"

"What, Devon? I thought I didn't have to do any work until noon."

The band's singer stood over him. Xander had agreed to become a roadie for Dingoes Ate My Baby for the summer, so he could get some extra money. "Dude...take a look."

Xander looked at the paper in front of him and saw two very familiar faces.

Willow.

And Buffy.

"What?" he asked quietly, sitting up and taking the paper. Glancing at the headline, it read "College Students Murdered." He shook his head. "No..."

Devon stood there silently. After a few moments of awkward silence, he replied. "Oz knows, too." Xander just nodded, his brain too shocked to allow him to speak. "Maybe he should come in here, man. He's being more Zen-like than usual." Xander just nodded numbly. Devon headed out the door, and Xander stared at the short article.

"In yet another case of murders with seemingly no suspect, two college students, Buffy Anne Summers, 20, and Willow Sheila Rosenburg, also 20, were found dead last night at the 42nd cemetery. The causes of death appear to be a broken neck and blood loss, respectively."

Xander shook his head once more. It seemed to be the only thing his body would let him do. The door opened again, and in the back of his mind, he heard Devon try to say something to Oz and, having no success, leave the room and shut the door behind him. "Xander," Oz began, and finally Xander looked away from the paper.

"Who did it?" he asked in reply, his voice cracking slightly.

"I...I don't know. Maybe Giles does. Or Spike...one of them might now."

Xander nodded slowly. "Why them? Why'd she have to die now?"

"Honestly, Xander, nobody knows." Oz looked at his hands, then at Xander's room. It was a typical young person's room: memorabilia from past events, basic necessities...and pictures. Every time the gang had done something important, someone had a camera. There were pictures of everyone up there. Xander, Buffy, Willow, Giles, Cordelia, Anya, himself...even a few of Spike, with Buffy, mostly. "Wonder how he's going to take it," Oz muttered out loud.

"Who?"

"Spike."

Xander looked at him. "Not well, I think. Does he even know?"

---

As the two young men approached, the sound of shattering could be heard quite clearly from inside the small house. "I think he knows," Xander said, without a hint of humor.

Oz opened the door, knowing Spike probably wouldn't want to see them, but at this point not really caring. Both of them expected to find him vamped out and in a rage, or being quiet and numb like both of them. What they didn't expect was to find Spike sitting on the floor, holding a picture and sobbing. The broken glass from the picture was in a scattered pile next to him. It was only when Xander shut the door did Spike realize he wasn't alone. "Get the bloody fuck out of here and leave me alone."

Xander started to turn around, but Oz stopped him. "Spike...we just want to know what happened."

"I should have killed her. I should have killed the bloody wench when she was turned."

"Who, Spike?" Xander asked.

He took a long pause, trying to collect his emotions. He couldn't quite succeed and spat out the name. "Faith."

"I thought she was--" Xander began.

"Dead? Not bloody likely. She got turned, mate. About a year ago. But the Council had been using her for their 18 year test. I just found this out a few days back, when she escaped."

Oz shook his head. "They kept it that much of a secret?"

"This is the Council; they're a bunch of pillocks," Spike muttered. His sadness has slowly started to turn into a rage.

There was a knock on the door, and Anya walked in. "Spike, Giles wanted me to--" She stopped and looked around. "You guys know?" she asked, shutting the door behind her. Oz nodded, and Xander simply looked at her, pain shining through. She walked over to him and took his hand, a simple comforting gesture. They'd been like that for a long time, wordlessly speaking to each other.

"What did Giles want?" Spike asked, staring back down at the picture.

"He wanted to know if he could help you with anything."

Spike shook his head. "Right now...I really just want to be alone."

"What are you looking at?" Anya asked after a moment of silence.

"A picture of Buffy. One that Xander took." He held it up so the others could see.

"I remember. You told me you wanted a picture of Buffy in the sun, being happy," Xander said, taking the picture from Spike for a moment. Buffy was standing there in a short flowing blue dress, the ocean behind her and her hair framing her face.

"That was a good day," Oz said quietly, back to looking at his hands.

Anya shook her head. "No, it was a cold day."

Spike looked up at Anya and grinned a bit. "Thanks, love."

"No problem. Sarcasm and satire, free of charge." She took the picture from Xander and handed it back to Spike. "Maybe...we should get together later. Bring all our pictures of them and just...share them. And the memories behind them."

"Why?" Oz asked with a slight amount of bitterness in his voice.

"Well, we each know different things about them. Maybe...it'll help. It was a stupid idea."

"No," Spike said, standing up. "It really wasn't. Maybe...maybe we should. I just want to be alone, for now, though."

Xander nodded. "How about tonight? At the library. I don't think Giles will mind."

Oz looked away. "All right."

"Then it's settled," Anya said. "Let's go. Spike...you have my pager number. Call if you need anything." Spike nodded, standing in the same place and looking at the picture again. The other three filed out, walking back out into the morning, and shutting the door behind them.

[captaindibbzy]

While I have been mulling over AI art, what is art, what is an artist, etc, I think one of the bigger questions we need to tackle in art is:

Just because it is art does it mean it gets a right to exist?

Cause there's president for AI art. It comes in several different ways and from lots of directions. And the philosophical question of what is art is as open to dance as much as what is free will?

But when work is harmful to individuals or to culture or history or the environment I think the fact it is art is irrelevant next to that harm.

So like that pillock who sprayed an iceberg with red paint, or that person who smashed a Ming(?) vase on camera, or AI art built on copyright violation: the harm outweighs all else and it's value of art is moot.

[collymore]

The UK media are in the Windsors' pockets! And both as criminally corrupt as the other!

By Stanley Collymore

The British so-called royal family was jealous, and evidently felt threatened, requisite their deeply entrenched and abhorrent delusional white master race superiority but Meghan's popularity: a state of affairs that instinctively caused this physically unattractive and clearly highly dysfunctional, very incestuously inbred mafia-like family to distinctively conspire to create the kind of nasty and very insidious conditions that would in effect cause Meghan to essentially want to leave, and which she ultimately did.

Fast forward to the present and clearly in the meantime, we actually have one of those premier racist individuals that were personally, immensely, and evilly involved in this odiously vile and racist stratagem, Kate Middleton, supposedly I'll but no one crucially distinctly saying what is specifically or even realistically wrong with her if indeed there's bugger all wrong, with this bone idle lazy cow!

And in a marriage which is discernibly on the rocks and actually kaput in very real terms, it just wouldn't surprise me at all if her supposed "illness" wasn't as a direct consequence of domestic abuse from the sociopathic psychopath and as well undeniably closet, Philip Schofield type husband who this typical, Yid gold digger obsessively stalked, until she did manage, with his own grandmother Liz Windsor's encouragement that Kate, in essence, would make the ideal Stepford wife and broodmare relative to the key continuance of the Firm, which literally is all that these odiously, fucking Saxe-Coburg-Gothe-Mountbatten-Windsor do think about, that after a decade of really holding off and even actually dumping Kate Middleton quite a few times in the process, that heir William - alias Philip Schofield - Windsor, did succumb, and ultimately married  the very inimitable stalker and clearly nasty piece of work, Waity Katie!

But with a media distinctly handsomely financially paid to literally keep stumm about all this while diverting you scum serfs, peasants and rather laughably as you describe yourselves as commoners relative to these "adoring royals" it's so pathetic to actually, simply distinctively see you being so cynically and basically contemptuously used and the evidently brainwashed morons you undoubtedly are, loving every moment of it!

Still, there's always Harry, Meghan and their, in your unquestionably quite sick minds, non-existent children to actually keep you brain dead pillocks essentially happy, while those that use you, simply carry on gleefully laughing at you; and why wouldn't they?

(C) Stanley V. Collymore 15 March 2024.

Author's Remarks: An apt Barbadian saying: "Ambition is one thing; arrogance is totally another, and the two are never compatible!

Britain is discernibly very much so, a virtually intractable feudal mind-set country, where its plethora of not all that bright, deeply class entrenched, serfs, subjects, plebeians and useless commoners who quite pathetically see themselves as such, instinctively and unquestionably, avidly look up rather uncritically to their supposed superior, hereditary and distinctively also quite perceived as monarchical betters; and in doing so, like the undoubtedly rather fatuous, intellectually challenged, but evidently delusional, dim-witted clowns that they unquestionably are, naturally and obsessively, effectively spend their very puerile, obviously shallow and, as well, simply and largely unproductive lives trying to emulate these aforesaid people whom they worship!

Obviously and distinctly so, the likes of these monarchical, Saxe-Coburg-Gothe and Mountbatten Windsors: hardened  murderers, vile grotesque paedophiles,  licentiously and massively recurrent in extremis adulterers; rabidly incestuous in-breeders; hypocritical and similarly, brazenly double standards proponents for themselves and their undoubtedly, enamoured with kind, and a breed also of perniciously narcissistic and actually self-entitled morons, whose jealousy of those whom they perceive to be clearly and distinctly unquestionably, inferior to themselves - the characteristically as well as the quite undoubtedly, divinely ones chosen by God Almighty to clearly rule over the evidently and subservient masses of the lower classes - manifestly knows no bounds!

Which sickeningly sees them blatantly and brazenly, audaciously treat these said perceived inferiors as the actually self-sacrificing lemmings that they truly are and clearly love being so. And very obviously to keep this said momentum going, the Windsors, simply obviously, like all of their predecessors routinely but obviously selectively hand out their respective, in essence meaningless, but to these enamoured serfs, doubtlessly precious gongs to keep these plebeians and perverse commoners on side; just like paedophiles, and which several of these monarchical and hereditary types are, at handing out sweets and the like to pre-pubescent kids in concerted and often successful bids to sexually exploit and subsequently dispose of them!

That's your monarchy then, obviously attendant with the odious clowns that you significantly are; and, essentially, from my personal perspective you're quite welcome to each other!

Finally, to those of you who haven't as yet come across or read one of my very latest poems: The Majesty of Death", I suggest that you do so. It can be found on my regular global sites. The reason that I'm suggesting you read it is that it gives an in-depth insight into the views I hold and why I hold them. And clearly that nothing I write is ever actually in any shape or form to curry favour: but quite essentially with my Bajan culture to rather fearlessly and unquestionably bluntly and obviously honestly, openly tell the truth, totally regardless of who is simply on the receiving end of it!

[the-almighty-gob-john-langley]

They're Escaping the Asylum, and Running Things!

Here I go again, repeating myself, I know. As potentially boring as it may be, something tells me that you, my friend, may well be as exasperated as me by now. So, here we go. Let's share a common vent as we continue to highlight the sheer idiocy of others nowadays.

Where shall we begin? I know, how about The image of a dead lion being swarmed by bees to be dropped from some of Lyle's Golden Syrup packaging. Question one: who actually cares enough about a graphic on a tin can no one even notices anyway? Question two: What relevance, if any does an insignificant graphic have on a buying decision if someone wants a tin of golden syrup? Not me, for sure, and finally, Question three: who is the marketing numpty who considered this a good idea, and did it cause them to lose any sleep due to the graphic which has been in place for somewhere around 150 years without any bother whatsoever? Actually, I have just thought of one further question. Does this person not have a hobby, because clearly he/she/it has far too much time on their hands.

In a similar vein, I was asked by a news channel to participate in a live broadcast about the statue of Bristol's Edward Colston, earlier this week, as later on that day Bristol city council would be having a meeting regarding its future. My point is that the Colston statue has been in place since seventeen hundred and something, with millions of people passing it by since then on their way to and from work, to schools, universities, for business meetings and conferences, and tourists and shoppers alike, all going about whatever they had to do at the time.

To all intents and purposes, no one gave so much as a flying fig about it because it was just there, and pretty much invisible to all except a self-entitled minority over the past few years who suddenly felt oh, so offended by its presence - poor dears, pulled it down, and then returned home to, I presume, watch children's television following their petulant outburst without even the satisfaction of receiving so much as a Blue Peter badge for their efforts. Awww. Still, as long as it served to feed their oversized egos they were happy, bless them. Meanwhile, of course, the majority of Bristol 'adult's did the adult thing and averted their gaze to the Colston statue, as similarly, the same can be said for those who bought golden syrup over the years.

What next then? Aha, yes, here's another among the loonies who, newly born, deserved to have been baptised in a font of sulphuric acid to save the rest of us from their later life moronisitis (yes, I just made that word up). The prize pillock here is whichever employee of the National Multiple Sclerosis Society (MS) decided to sack pensioner Fran Itkoff from her volunteer position with the charity because she "asked what pronouns meant". Fran Itkoff had served the non-profit for multiple sclerosis patients for 60 years, with her late husband running the Long Beach Lakewood chapter before his death.

She was left stunned when her bosses forced her to step down on January 19 following an exchange with a colleague who asked her to use her pronouns in email signatures. Well now, isn't this "colleague" just full of her own self-importance, or what? I'm surprised her ego doesn't get in the way of her entering whatever building doorway gives her access to her work. Aren't you? Pronouns, my arse, get over yourself woman before you fall off your high horse and injure yourself. These people aren't even worth the satire. Hence, as soon as people begin thrusting their inane pronouns at me in any communication I go incommunicado with immediate effect until they've got over themselves, or, penguins takeover Parliament. Whichever is sooner. I'm not fussed.

Shall we all now deep-breathe for a couple of minutes before I move on? Very well.

Ready for the next assault on your common sense, are you? Good. So, how about this one? Charity umbrella group Wildlife and Countryside Link claim that the British countryside is a "racist colonial" white space. You see, lunatics like this would be enough to drive the sane of our population on the phone to the Samaritans helpline 24/7, wouldn't they? I feel a headache coming on just from writing about it! Which, of course, leads me towards some smartarse saying, "Well, the majority of 'adults would avert their gaze," I suppose. Yeah, yeah, there's always one! Except, like most, I hope, normal, common-sense people with even a modicum of intelligence would recognise blatant, and quite unnecessary stupidity when they see it.

Whoever dreamed this idea up is clearly scraping whatever barrels of employment they can find that enables them to keep their, no doubt, high-paid job. Simply finding problems where none exist to justify their status and salary by stating the countryside as "'racist space dominated by white people' as well as, and wait for it. Yes, grip on to something firm now, "The UK’s role in the European colonial project has also driven the current climate and nature crises."

"European colonial project"? What the hell is that supposed to be? Do you know the worst part about this? Someone has probably been to university for three, or four years, to learn this tripe. It continues, "People of colour in the UK are significantly less likely to visit natural spaces." Give me a break! I'm surprised whoever didn't go further in stating that whenever a black person is seen in the countryside the locals assume it's an African missionary come to convert them all to Christianity because they are such a rare sight out in the sticks. I can just picture it now, loads of white people hurriedly retreating back to their homes, scared out of their wits at the sight of a black face.

Look, lighthearted humour aside, I don't know about you, but I've seen skin of all colours meandering around the countryside and enjoying it. Some people of ethnic minorities have even discovered we have things called buses, coaches, and even trains here in England. How cool is that! If people search hard enough they'll even find out how to use our buses, coaches, and trains too. Wow, twenty-first Britain, who'd have thought it? However, sometimes I do wonder for myself. So, despite this person's claims, and the transport systems we have in place, I'd say it's more a case of lack of interest combined with laziness that fewer people of colour are seen in the countryside, wouldn't you agree?

Finally, because I simply cannot continue with more of this lunacy without an entire month of Valium to calm my increasingly shredding nerves, I arrive at Pillock Central as the final destination on this particular journey, and Labour MP (seems about right so far - no pun intended) Charlotte Nichols, who was either taking the proverbial, or awaiting psychiatric intervention perhaps, and wanted to change the law to let dead people switch their gender. Hey hun, as much as I hate to state the bleeding obvious. Once you're dead, you're dead. It's a terminal thing, you know? No one is going to rise up out of their grave and complain. Trust me, and move on.

I'm done!

[saintmeghanmarkle]

Will Hollywood start to align themselves? by u/TigerTrue

Will Hollywood start to align themselves? Now that the shitstorm that is the book, its Dutch translation, and the myriad lies in which Rachel and Henry have entangled themselves, will we start to see Hollywood align themselves or distance themselves from This One and That One?Chris Rock started the conversation that all families have about the features of future children in families. It is not uncommon, and even the pillock that is Henry raised it on a talk show - would his ginger genes overwhelm her genes (explain, Henry...what EXACTLY did you mean about your wife's genes? Are you pointing out she is a PoC? Isn't pointing that out just a wee bit racist going by Rachel's victim narrative?)So. Will there be a parting of the waves as per Moses and the Red Sea where we see which Hollywood/entertainment industry phonies are hypocrites and stay loyal to This One and That One? Will we see a distancing by the industry where Rachel has had her last photo call? Or will there be neutrality?I know we don't live and breathe on what Hollywood does, or doesn't do, but given the cachet being linked to the BRF can give actors and their causes, I'd be very interested to hear what my more informed Sinner's Collective has to say.With love to you all from Australia 🇦🇺❤ post link: https://ift.tt/NdUu5fn author: TigerTrue submitted: December 01, 2023 at 11:45PM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit

[simplyshelbs16xoxo]

✨🦋💌 for the let’s get real asks

✨ What's a fic you've posted you wish you could breathe life into again and have people talking about it? (or simply a fic you wish got more credit.) Oooh that's a good question. The fic that immediately comes to mind did get the credit it deserved, but I wish it was one of the really well-known beloved ones that people still talk about cause it was literally my most self-indulgent fic, and it turned out so well. That one is Wreck My Plans. But I'm also thinking The Adventure of Philip Anderson deserves a bit more love lol!

🦋 What are you most insecure about when you post a fic? I'm always scared that I haven't captured the characters' voices well, which is so odd, cause that's the one thing I've consistently been complimented on across many different fandoms.

💌 Share something with us about an up-and-coming work (WIP) that has you excited! Oooh okay! This excerpt is from my sequel to Run Away With Me. It's got a title, and it's called Let's Get Lost!

Sherlock read through the absolute vitriol in disgust. If he ever saw that pillock of an ex-fiancé of hers again, he'd probably end up in jail. Crumpling up the newspaper, Sherlock tossed it into the fire in a fit of anger. "They've gone too far this time."

Thank you!!!

Fic Writer Asks

[gayforcarstairsgirls]

This is literally like watching a political drama unfolding before our eyes oh my god

[motherofkittens94]

hi everyone sorry for freaking out im ok i went to the doctors this morning and my hand is ok she said it wasn't infected and there was not any lasting damage it was just bruised from how i hit it i thought it was worse than that but im glad its not its kinda more  normal coloured  now its still vein - y but she said i shouldn't need any treatment for it and i saw my therapist today as well and she been teaching relaxation techniques that i can maybe use instead of ..stabbing myself with scissors...yeah ive never done something like that before well i have admittedly cut myself before but only little bits like paper cuts nothing like that wtf so anyway im ok and im going to get an Ice cream now

[engie-ivy]

When Sirius wished for a birthday kiss from Remus, he really should've specified that he meant for him.

(Short happy birthday fic for Sirius!)

Birthday Kiss

James Potter is furious.

Remus doesn’t know Sirius’ best friend that well yet, but the thunderous expression on his face can only mean one thing. And if his expression wasn’t telling enough already, how he grabbed Caradoc’s arm and roughly pulled him away from Remus makes it all too clear.

Caradoc looks just as stunned as Remus does. “Potter, what the hell?”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to say!” James snaps. “What the hell do you two absolute bloody pillocks-”

“James.” Lily Evans steps forward and places a hand on his arm. “We agreed that we would stay calm, and calmly ask them-” she turns to Remus and Caradoc. “-what in god’s name these two utter and complete blithering idiots think they were doing?!”

Remus blinks. He only recently met Sirius’ friend group. Maybe they consider it impolite to snog at someone’s birthday party? But it didn’t seem to matter when Frank and Alice or Marlene and Dorcas were doing it!

“Look Remus,” Lily sighs, seeing his confusion. “You’re not obligated to like Sirius back. If you don’t want to date Sirius, that’s you’re decision.”

“A dumb decision,” James mutters.

“If you see him as a friend and nothing more, that’s fine.”

“And your bloody loss,” James mutters.

“But don’t you think it was rather unnecessary to snog one of Sirius’ friends, right in front of him, on his birthday party?”

“Sirius’s into him?” Caradoc asks, surprised.

“Oh, come on, Dearborn,” James snarls. “Sirius won’t shut up about the cute guy in his Research Ethics class whom he meets for coffee almost every day, and you think ‘oh, how nice, Sirius made a new friend, and if he really is cute, maybe I can hook up with him!’ God, and to think Sirius was planning on asking him out tonight...”

Caradoc awkwardly scratches his head, looking guilty. “Yeah, that’s... I didn’t... Shite.”

Remus finally gathers his wits enough to speak. “Wait. Sirius fancies me?!”

“Good god, everyone and their nan knows Sirius fancies you!” James exclaims. “Well, everyone except you two berks.”

“I... I had hoped,” Remus stammers. “Truthfully, I thought he was out of my league, but he seemed so genuinely happy with my company and sometimes looked at me like that... I had hoped. But then I arrived at his birthday party and he introduced me to Caradoc, and Caradoc started hitting on me, so I kind of assumed he was trying to set me up with Caradoc. I though ‘You see, Lupin, if Sirius liked you himself, they wouldn’t be doing this. You have once again been fooling yourself.’ I was so upset, and Caradoc was there, giving me attention, so I... God, I’m such an idiot!”

James seems to calm down a bit. “Okay, I guess I can see your side. Sorry for attacking you. It’s just that, Sirius has been through a lot, an he was so excited about you.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” a short guy with mousy brown hair chimes in. “But may I remind you that Sirius walked out of his own birthday party, no one knows where he is, and no one can reach him?”

James curses, and looks out of the window, where a cold November wind has picked up.

Message from: Regulus Black to: James Potter

Regulus: Whats a Remus.

James: Regulus! Oh my god, Regulus! Is Sirius with you??

Regulus: You know, when I said I couldn’t make it to my brother’s birthday party because I needed to study for my exam, I wasn’t counting on him showing up on my doorstep, to cry on my couch and moan about some Remus.

James: Remus is this guy Sirius has kind of been talking to. I mean, surely Sirius must’ve been talking your ears off about him these last weeks as well?

Regulus: Ah, that. Yes, I mostly tune out when he starts about that. Does this Remus need to be taught a lesson? ‘Cause I know some people...

James: No, no, it’s just a misunderstanding. I’ll send Remus your way, and I’m sure they’ll hash it out!

Regulus: Hmmm, alright then. But you better tell him that if he ever makes Sirius cry again, he’s going to regret it.

Regulus is clearly Sirius’ brother. He has the same dark hair, silver grey eyes and sharp features. Regulus is shorter, and so is his hair, and while Sirius is more muscular, Regulus is a bit scrawny. Where Sirius’ eyes are always sparkling with mischief, Regulus’ eyes are calculating, like he’s assessing and filling away all Remus’ flaws.

“He’s in the living room,” Regulus says coolly. “And for your own sake, you better not make it worse.”

Sirius had been staring at the wall, but quickly looks up when Remus enters. “Hi. I thought you were at the party.”

“Yes, your birthday party. We kind of noticed you left.”

“Ah. Yeah. Right.”

Remus sits down on the couch next to him. “I’m sorry about Caradoc.”

“Don’t be. You and Caradoc are both single, and both free to do whatever you want.”

“I thought you were trying to set us up.”

Sirius laughs wryly. “If I had known he’d be coming at you so hard, I would’ve kept you miles apart.” Then he shakes his head. “No, that’s not fair. If you like each other...”

“I like you.”

Sirius smiles sadly at him. “You don’t have to say that just because I was being dramatic and it’s my birthday and you feel sorry for me.”

“I’m not!” Remus argues. “I was upset when I thought you were purposely leaving me with Caradoc, and it was a distraction.”

Sirius looks at Remus for a moment, and Remus determinedly meets his gaze. Eventually, Sirius says softly “I wanted to ask you out tonight.”

“I wanted to give you a birthday kiss tonight.”

“But I was occupied, so you gave it to Caradoc instead?”

Remus groans and hides his face in his hands.

Sirius thoughtfully taps a finger against his chin. “Hmm, maybe I should ask Caradoc if he can pass it on...?”

“Absolutely not,” Remus protest, jerking his head up.

Sirius smiles at him. “Then I guess you’re just going to have to give me a new one.”

Caradoc was skilled and experienced, and Remus and Sirius are much more nervous than Remus and Caradoc were. Still, the kiss is infinitely better, because they are Remus and Sirius.

Until a pillow comes flying at their faces. “What the hell do you people not get about me having to study for an exam?!’

[hitchell-mope]

In a similar vein to my Disney rant from December

There are too many sympathetic villains nowadays. Too many likeable villains. Too many not actually evil just misunderstood antagonists. It needs to stop. Villains should operate on black morality and be punished accordingly. Heroes should get free rein to deal with villains however necessary. I know it sounds cynical but I just feel like series and film creators are using complex characters wrong.

Like. I get it if the villains the main character. Like descendants. Mal gets the most development because she’s the main. I’m alright with that. I like Mal. She gets her just rewards AND her just desserts. But Audrey is not a grey or white character. She was black from the start. And the “motivation” for her finally jumping off the slope was

Bullshit because it’s just the romcom trope of the evil ex with the addition of a stolen wmd

Boring because she was just a poorly handled and poorly done Maleficent facsimile. Cause I’m pretty sure KChen was working on American gods at the time and couldn’t come back.

I like Batman. He beats villains to a pulp and puts them in jail. The villains are child murdering drug pedalling scum who revel in their crimes. It’s why I have no interest in any of the adult character in Gotham besides Jim Gordon and Alfred Pemnyworth. I know how the stories are going to go. So why should I care about buzzard beak or question mark man or the self righteous eco terrorist. Why should I care about the villains at all?

I will say though that characters like Selina Kyle are different as she’s labelled as an antihero and not a villain. But still. Villains. Shouldn’t. Be. Grey. The Draco in leather pants and Ron the death eater tropes are the banes of my existence.

It also doesn’t help when you treat grey characters as purely black. And vice versa. Like Varian in tangled. He’s a scared kid who went off the deep end trying to help his father after no one listened to him. Yeah he went overboard. But it’s for an understandable reason. And yet he’s treated as an untrustworthy lunatic when the real lunatic was treated with understanding and care that she in no way deserved.

Hell. Even marvel gets in on it. They’ve gone from Obadiah Stane to the little welp of an ingrate that is Thor’s brother. Just like Disney’s gone from villains like Scar to pillocks like Namaari. You can’t make bastards like these then expect me to care about them because “they’re sad inside”. I don’t want to cheer them up. I want to cheer they’re downfall.

Shows like Merlin are a little more complicated I grant you. Buts that’s mostly because the show has a really fucked up sense of morality. Like. Uther’s definitely a despotic maniac. But you can’t let the magic users kill him because then Arthur will just carry on his idiot fathers work. And it also doesn’t help that Arthur’s character development is mostly bare bones to nonexistent.

Really I suppose you could say it’s [tumblr]’s fault. I used to like villains. I did. I really did. But the longer I’m on this site and the more I get bombarded with apologist posts on how it’s really the hero’s fault the villains did what they did because “they weren’t nice enough”. Gimme a goddamn break. The Lena Luthor’s of fiction deserve death. No a sympathetic ear. It shouldn’t work like that.

You should be able to make a villain engaging and compelling without making them attractive or sympathetic. For example. Frollo was a perverted old bastard but he was still an interesting character to watch. And you still cheered on his much deserved death.

TL;DR: I know I sound cynical and cruel and bitchy but I don’t care. Because there really needs to be more Scar’s and Obadiah Stane’s in fiction again. And far less Namaari’s and Loki’s