#i realise this is meant to be a union jack but the first thing i thought about was spiderman

[artielotl]

kid: hey mom can we go see spiderman

mom: we have spiderman at home

spiderman at home: 

[drsilverfish]

The Rupture/ The Rapture - Subtextual Grammar and Castiel’s Relationship to Dean in 15x03

Hey everyone,

Catching up British time and just seen the ep, so looking forward to seeing all your posts and gifs shortly! Firstly, some musings of my own.

Has Berens’ ripped everyone’s hearts out already? That’s some pretty potent symbolism right there for heartbreak huh? (Sorry Ketch):

The Rupture recalls, in subtext, through visual symbolism, Castiel’s long narrative journey in relation to Dean. So that Dean and Cas’ break-up, already foreshadowed by Chuck and Amara’s “divorce” in Reno last week, at the end of the episode (for those following the symbolism) is given extra punch. 

Firstly, the title, The Rupture 15x03 deliberately recalls, following Dabb’s ouroboros (circular/ spiral) narrative structure, The Rapture 4x20. That episode was critical for Dean and Castiel’s relationship. Castiel rebelled against Heaven and entered Dean’s dreams (his intimate space) in order to try to warn him about the angels’ plans by passing him a love note:

In the subtextual grammar of the show, that pier incident, has become a symbol of Dean and Castiel’s intimate connection. For example in 14x10 Nihilism, you can see a pier at sunset with a figure standing on it in the background on the wall, behind Dean’s mind-Pamela:

And remember, mind-Pamela profoundly represents Dean’s feelings for Castiel in that episode. Recall her costume, with the winged necklace and the T-shirt symbolising Dean’s salvation from Hell by Cas? And mind-Pamela, in Rocky’s Bar, is someone Dean wants, but thinks he can’t have.

Of course, Castiel was dragged back to Heaven and punished for his disobedience in 4x20 The Rapture, yet, eventually, as we know, he rebelled again and chose to help Dean over Heaven. So, when Berens recalls The Rapture in his episode title, The Rupture, it is to remind us just how much Castiel has sacrificed for Dean. 

“I rebelled, and I did it, all of it.... for you” (5x02 Good God Y’All).

As Cas said to Dean last week, in 15x02 Raising Hell, what’s “real”, despite Chuck’s machinations?: “We are.”  

Cas can see (at that point) that his connection to Dean has profound meaning, at least for him (a profound bond, indeed) because Dean helped Cas finally break free of Heaven’s control. Something (we learn in 8x21 The Great Escapist) that Cas had been trying over and over to do for aeons, only to be mind-wiped and re-programmed again and again. Naomi tries to torture re-programme Cas, yet again, in 8x17 Goodbye Stranger, by getting him to murder endless Dean clones in Heaven (making it very clear that the source of Castiel’s free will and resistance is his connection to Dean specifically). BUT Cas’ bond with Dean is too strong, and he breaks free of Naomi’s conditioning when faced with the real Dean, bloodied and on his knees, telling him: “I need you.”

If anything in Chuck’s multiverse symbolises free will it is Castiel’s rebellion against Heaven for Dean. 

What Cas isn’t clear on, by 15x03, is that the “profound bond” continues to have any meaning for Dean himself. As he says, bitterly to Belphegor:

Cas: “Sam and Dean are just using you. Don’t mistake that for caring about you, because I an assure you, they don’t.”

Bel: “Wow, you learn that the hard way?”

The symbolism, of Castiel’s journey in relation to Dean, continues in 15x03 in the visual grammar, as we see Cas, literally, jumping into Hell:

which of course recalls what we all know so well - that Cas fought his way into Hell and rescued Dean from Alastair’s clutches and resurrected him:

Castiel (to Dean): “When we discovered Lilith’s plan for you, we laid siege to Hell, and we fought our way to get to you...” (4x16 On the Head of a Pin). 

This shot of Dean and Cas together in 15x03, literally at Hell’s mouth, with a gravestone between them, likewise symbolises that event (Castiel’s resurrection of Dean from Hell) as well as the present “death” of their relationship:

So, it’s no accident that the magical object Castiel is tricked by Belphegor into retrieving from Hell in 15x03 is Lilith’s crook. Because (as in the 4x16 quote above) Lilith was the demon who worked to ensure Dean was dragged to Hell, to be broken by Alastair (whom Belphegor re-mentioned, also not by accident, in 15x01 Back and to the Future) thus breaking the first seal to jumpstart Lucifer’s return and the apocalypse.

All these reminders of Castiel’s significance to Dean, of Castiel’s salvation of Dean, of how they averted Chuck’s apocalpyse before (in S5), together, at the very moment of their break-up.... 

So, when we see Castiel on his knees in Hell, reluctantly singing a praise hymn in Enochian to Lucifer in order to achieve access to Lilith’s crook, aka magic horn? (Belphegor explicitly refers to the crook as a “horn”).  

Well, in subtext, the magic horn (Lilith’s crook) can be read as a sexual metaphor. 

This symbolism is the juxtaposition of the sacred and the profane - an angel at prayer in Hell. 

And following the shot of Cas kneeling in Hell, we get this shot of Dean, looking down into the Hell-mouth...

A visual reversal of Castiel’s rescue of Dean from Hell in S4.

Castiel passes the “magic horn” to the demon wearing the body of his beloved son, Jack:

 Jack who always, in subtext, symbolised the (forbidden) love between Dean and Castiel (his adoptive parents) because, as a Nephilim, he was the product of (forbidden) human-angel congress. 

Here at the start of S15, we know Castiel is losing his angelic powers after trying to heal Sam’s God-wound, and the show has previously been quite clear that becoming human entangles Cas in the world of human sexuality. We’ve seen that in 5x04 The End  with Castiel and the orgies he shares with Future!Dean:

And we also saw it (crudely drawn by Bucklemming) in 9x03 I’m No Angel, when newly fallen Human!Cas has survival sex with the Reaper possessing April (yes, ugh - consent issues all round):

Belphegor pleading with Cas in Jack’s voice reminds us of everything Jack meant to Cas. Cas, after all, once towed Heaven’s party line and regarded Nephilim as “abominations”. We saw that in 8x22 Clip Show, when Metatron  inveigled Cas into killing a Nephilim, in order to obtain her heart, for his (subtext-heavy) angel-fall spell, and we also saw it in the flash-back sequences in 12x10 Lily Sunder Has Some Regrets when Cas believed Akobel deserved to die for (supposedly) fathering a Nephilim child with Lily.  

What was once profane to Cas has become sacred. 

Jack, and loving Jack, represented (among other things) for Castiel, some kind of accommodation with his own secret heart. If the child of an angel (Lucifer, no less) and a human could NOT be a monster, then maybe an angel loving a human might not be monstrous either, despite Heaven’s edicts. 

But then Jack (apparently) killed Mary, and the Winchester family, whose always previously shaky membership (for Cas), Jack’s co-adoption with Sam and Dean had cemented for him, was blown apart. 

In 15x03 Cas is forced to kill Belphegor wearing the body of Jack:

And the death of Jack’s Nephilim (human-angel union) image, becomes, in the visual grammar, a metaphor for the death of Castiel’s hope of any continuing union between him and Dean - the death, on Dean’s part, Cas believes, of the profound bond. Hence we get a corpse-shot:

And Castiel’s tears:

Castiel echoes (having absorbed them) Dean’s unkind (grief-stricken) words to him from 14x18 Absence, “You’re dead to me!”

Cas (to Dean): “I’m dead to you.” (15x03).

After everything they’ve been through together (to Hell and back, as carefully illustrated in the visual grammar of 15x03) Castiel has utterly lost hope that he has any remaining emotional meaning for Dean; without Jack, without Mary, without his powers.  

Walking away (as the Winchester family signature music plays poignantly in the background) is a huge (and ultimately positive) step for Cas, who has, over the years, more and more built his identity and his meaning around his connection to the Winchesters, following his long rebellion against (and rejection by) Heaven. After everything Cas has been through (the narrative suggests) he deserves to be his own person, to be loved for himself (not his powers) and not to be taken for granted. 

And so we are left with the LOUD narrative negative space of Dean’s silence at the end.

 We can see Dean’s tense body language, in the final shot, half poised as if to spring forward, half frozen to the spot, as Cas leaves:

That silence in the narrative structure, which is mirrored in the symbolism of the ghosts/ demons being temporarily re-bottled up in Hell (like Dean’s feelings) as well as in the re-death of the feminine in the form of Rowena (because the feminine in the grammar of SPN = feelings) DEMANDS words, at some point down the road. 

Last time Cas was human, Dean kicked him out of the Bunker (thanks to Dean’s coercive pact with Gadreel) and we saw Cas’ broken-hearted suffering over that break-up in 9x06 Heaven Can’t Wait (Berens’ very first episode for SPN):

This time, Cas has more agency. He decides to initiate the break-up, because his heart (and how very human of you, Cas) can’t bear being treated to Dean’s silence, Dean’s anger and Dean’s (apparent) indifference any longer. 

Now, we need not only to see Dean come to his own broken-hearted realisation over this (reverse) break-up (after all, we’ve seen Dean broken-hearted over losing Cas, to death, before now) but for Cas to see that realisation, in Dean. 

In The Rapture (4x20) we are told the story of how Castiel the angel came to take Jimmy Novak as a vessel - how the angel we know became conjoined to the human-form we best know him in:

 In The Rupture (15x03) Castiel is losing his angelic powers again, moving once more towards inhabiting Jimmy Novak’s vessel, which is now his own body (Jimmy’s soul long-gone, and indeed that body destroyed and yet resurrected AS Cas, several times), as a human. 

Last time Cas was human, Dean missed his shot. How about this time?

The Ouroboros narrative is taking its final turn.     

My usual disclaimer: subtextual readings do not inevitably indicate or imply that textual romantic declarations will be forthcoming between Dean and Cas. That element of the story has been told in subtext for 10 years (and that’s where it quite likely will remain, in the terrain of ambiguity). Subtext IS however, part of narrative.

Nevertheless, an emotional reconcilliation of some sort, however readable as “brotherly”, comrades-in-armsy, nebulously “familial” etc. is, by story-logic, absolutely inevitable. 

That which is parted will be re-joined - Chuck to Amara, Cas to Dean. 

[laura-elizabeth91]

FROM 2019

Matt Chorley: behind the scenes at 10 Downing Street

Times political expert Matt Chorley speaks with former prime ministers, senior civil servants and spin doctors to find out what the new inhabitant of No 10 can expect in his first 48 hours in office (whoever he may be)

Not many people get to do it. In the past half-century, more people have walked on the Moon than across the threshold of No 10 as a new prime minister.

When the new prime minister stands on those famous steps next Wednesday afternoon he will find it a daunting prospect. They always do. Sir John Major felt it had come too soon. When he was confirmed as the new PM in 1990, his wife, Norma, turned to a friend and asked, “Is it going to be all right?”

Britain’s political system does not allow for a slow and careful transition between administrations, as in America. Some, like Gordon Brown, have years to prepare. Others, like Theresa May, a matter of days. This time, the new prime minister will be named on Tuesday and he will take office the next day, stepping on to a nonstop treadmill charging at 100mph.

“You’re never ready,” says Tony Blair. “The one thing you realise the moment you come into government is that campaigning to be the government is completely different from governing as the government.” Was he frightened? “Yeah, I was … ‘Frightened’ is perhaps not the right word, but I was somewhat overawed, yeah.”

Recalling that night in May 1997 as he willed the Tories to win more seats, fearing a New Labour landslide might spark some kind of constitutional crisis, he adds, “I think I was one of the very few sober people around that night and I was very sober and very, very conscious of the responsibility.”

For David Cameron, there was the psychodrama of five days of coalition talks, before it became clear that he would indeed be PM. Sitting in the leader of the opposition’s office in the Houses of Parliament, he called his wife: “Sam, love, you’d better get your frock ready. We’re going to see the Queen.”

And that is the first thing that happens even before you get to Downing Street: a trip to Buckingham Palace.

The Queen After PMQs on Wednesday, May will formally resign as PM, recommending to the Queen whom to summon as her successor. May will arrive at the palace in her prime ministerial limousine, but be driven away in a private car. The trappings of power fall away quickly.

The audience with the Queen can be a daunting moment, not least because she will remind the new PM that he is the 14th of her reign. Winston Churchill was her first.

Blair was waiting in a Buckingham Palace anteroom for his first audience with the Queen when an official approached to explain, “You don’t actually kiss the Queen’s hands in the ceremony of kissing hands. You brush them gently with your lips,” as he recalls in his memoir. This left the PM-in-waiting baffled, wondering if this meant brushing like a pair of shoes or the very lightest of touches.

Before he had time to work it out, he was ushered in, tripping on a piece of carpet and almost falling directly upon the Queen’s hands – “not so much brushing them as enveloping them”.

Margaret Thatcher insisted her audiences with the Queen were “quietly businesslike”, although she said stories about tensions between the two women were simply “too good not to make up”.

Cameron had a habit of blurting out details of his conversations with the Queen – famously that she “purred” down the phone to him after Scotland voted no to independence.

The speech From the palace it is a short mile and a half car journey down the Mall and Whitehall to Downing Street to address the nation. This speech matters.

“The new PM must first write notes only to be opened in the event of an apocalypse

It has grown in significance. For Thatcher quoting St Francis of Assisi (“Where there is discord, may we bring harmony”), it was a few snatched words to a huddle of cameras. These days it is a big lectern moment. As with May’s “burning injustices”, those first words on the steps of No 10 can set the tone for a premiership, and come back to haunt you.

With the world’s media gathered opposite No 10 and news helicopters hovering overhead, the narrow street creates a cauldron of noise.

It was easier for Blair – Labour apparatchiks had packed the street with Union Jack-waving party supporters. A decade later Brown took no chances. On the morning he became prime minister he went into a room in the Treasury with his gatekeeper Sue Nye and spin doctor Damian McBride to practise delivering his speech without notes – “I will try my utmost” – while his two aides played the role of protesters.

“Boo!” shouted Nye. “You’re a bad man!”

McBride got more into it: “Why did you sell the gold, Gordon? You ruined my pension! You’ve got blood on your hands!” At this last insult Brown stopped mid-speech and demanded to know, “Why is there blood on my hands?”

Some are more memorable than others – Cameron declaring, “This is going to be hard and difficult work,” had the hallmarks of a speech written in haste. It was also delivered in the dark, thanks to the Dark Lord of spin, Peter Mandelson. He advised Brown to leave in the early evening, still in daylight, knowing that by the time Cameron reached Downing Street the gloom would have descended.

The door Having delivered the speech in a blaze of flashbulbs, the new prime minister will turn and walk towards perhaps the most famous door in the world. This is the moment he will have fantasised about.

Waiting behind the door will be Sir Mark Sedwill, the cabinet secretary, at least for now. There has been speculation he could face the chop, although the new PM might soon realise they have bigger things to worry about.

The cabinet secretary, the most senior civil servant in the country, welcomes the new prime minister and their spouse (if they have one) before the couple walk towards the cabinet room, down the corridor lined with Downing Street staff who just an hour earlier will have waved off Team May. Lord O’Donnell, former cabinet secretary under Blair, Brown and Cameron, says, “You’ve got a very frenetic hour when you’re rearranging the furniture. You’re trying to work out precisely what our new prime minister might want. It’s horrible. It’s … barbaric, actually, is the word I would use.”

The changeover is brutal in its speed and efficiency. On the night in 2010 when Brown left Downing Street he was barely out the door when Jeremy Heywood, the No 10 permanent secretary, told staff to “snap out of it. We have a job to do.” And so they dried their eyes and prepared for Cameron’s arrival.

“It’s a bit mawkish really,” says Baroness Bertin, who entered No 10 as Cameron’s press secretary. “You can still, you know, smell them. They’ve only just left. The pizza boxes were still in the bin. We all trooped into Gordon Brown’s office and the table had scratch marks and indentation marks where we imagined mobile phones had been smashed into it.”

The civil servants will line up, clap and smile and make their new boss feel welcome. This tradition is born not out of servitude to new masters but a more practical purpose: in the pre-television age, it was a chance for Downing Street staff to see the new PM and their team up close so they could recognise them about the place.

“It’s very noisy,” recalls Katie Perrior, who entered No 10 in 2016 as May’s director of communications. “There’s lots of back-patting and people are realising, ‘We’re here now.’ ”

Anji Hunter, Blair’s adviser, says this moment illustrates the professionalism of the civil service. “They don’t display their political affiliations. That same group of people had been there an hour before we were there, weeping as Major left with Norma. They had clapped out John Major and they clapped us in, beaming, literally beaming and delightful.”

Blair arrived deeply suspicious of the civil service, believing they were beholden to the long-running outgoing Conservative administration. The same was true of Cameron when he moved in after 13 years of New Labour. “Actually, within almost hours that’s completely gone,” says O’Donnell.

While the clapping and smiling have been going on, the cabinet secretary has run round the back corridor to be waiting for the PM outside the cabinet room.

The cabinet room Stepping into the famous cabinet room can be an emotional moment. Blair said he pictured “a thousand images fluttering through my mind” of Disraeli and Gladstone and Asquith, Lloyd George and Churchill and every other great statesman who had held court and power in this room.

David Cameron, alongside wife Samantha, is ushered into the cabinet room for the first time by cabinet secretary Gus O’Donnell, May 11, 2010ANDREW PARSONS/I-IMAGES

A photographer captured the moment Cameron had his head in his hands as he entered the room, as the enormity of it all dawned on him. O’Donnell was to his left, while to his right was his wife, Samantha, pregnant with their daughter, Florence, who was allowed to enjoy the private moment of history before being whisked off.

By tradition all the chairs around the cabinet table are neatly pushed in; the prime minister’s seat is at an angle. It is also the only chair with arms.

The PM sits. Waiting on the vast coffin-shaped table is bottled water, still and sparkling, and a small dish of mints. It is going to be an intense first meeting. After all the euphoria, the applause and the smiles, it quickly gets serious. Really serious.

The letters One of the first jobs is to write letters to the UK’s Trident submarine commanders giving targeting instructions only to be opened in the event of a nuclear attack where communications with London have broken down.

“Cameron held an ‘Ibiza-style rave’ at Chequers for his wife’s birthday

The chief of the defence staff, General Sir Nicholas Carter, is likely to be on hand to offer advice. However, nobody knows what the PM puts in the letters, which are sealed and taken to the Clyde naval base in Scotland where the submarines are based, with whichever boat is at sea having its letter on board.

The PM must also name a dozen ministers and advisers who would be given a space in the underground nuclear bunker, alongside their families, in the event of Armageddon.

Joining them around the cabinet table might be the heads of the security services. There will be a fast update on the most pressing issues of national security: live counterterror operations, imminent threats and urgent decisions delayed by their predecessor.

“This isn’t exactly an easy first couple of meetings,” says O’Donnell.

“It’s incredibly scary,” agrees Lord Wood of Anfield, a foreign policy adviser to Brown. “It’s a particular kind of torture to make the first act of a prime minister, literally within 30 seconds, this extraordinarily dramatic act of handwritten notes only to be opened in the event of an apocalypse.”

That moment encapsulates the feeling of loneliness that so many prime ministers have spoken of. There is no one to share it with, nowhere to turn. The buck stops with you and you alone.

The team While things are calm but serious in the cabinet room, outside all hell could be breaking loose as the PM’s political team get to meet their new colleagues, tour their new office and try to grab the best desks.

In 2007, while Brown was at the palace his team had a 2pm appointment at the “link door”, a Star Trek-like glass capsule door that connects the cabinet office with the rear of No 10.

“You walk into the pod,” recalls Wood. “It shuts behind you and then hopefully opens in front of you. There was a line of women on the other side who were the PAs, the Garden Room girls and assistants. And we were kind of matched one a piece, a bit like Strictly.

“And the thing I remember is that they all looked very red-eyed. And I only realised three years later when I left, they were crying because they’d just said goodbye to the Blair team. Within half an hour they were hoovering the floor and then lining up waiting for their new team.”

Once through, the political team will rush through the corridors of No 10 to be there to greet the new PM as he walks through the door.

Some teams are better prepared than others. Jonathan Powell, Blair’s chief of staff, held talks with the civil service and even trained frontbenchers in how to be a minister. “I remember Tony not wanting to know anything about that,” Hunter recalls. “Superstitious is the word.”

Keen to make a first impression in 2016, Perrior made a speech to civil service press officers about the importance of loyalty. “Don’t screw me over and I’ve got your back.”

For aides and advisers, the first days will also mean detailed security checks, especially for those covering foreign affairs, defence and national security.

Wood says, “My understanding is that the inquiries have evolved from questions about sexual and other matters to questions about money. I think they care much more now about financial exposure than private life exposure.”

The incoming team will also be warned against using their personal email addresses for government business, and to be wary when travelling abroad, to assume that foreign governments are listening in.

Sue Nye gave Brown’s team some extra advice: always carry your paperwork in a folder (to avoid official documents being snapped by photographers waiting in Downing Street). And never run.

“I was with the prime minister quite a lot, travelling around the world,” says Wood. “If you’re caught on camera running, it looks like something’s gone wrong.”

The house It is a strange quirk of British politics that the entire country is run from three terraced houses knocked together to form the office, state rooms and home of the prime minister.

O’Donnell calls it a “Tardis”. Wood says it is like a “slightly run-down Georgian country hotel”. Bertin remembers “being so overwhelmed really by No 10, the actual presence, actually being in that building, the smell of it. It just was like a sensory overload.”

If changing jobs is hard enough, becoming prime minister also comes with one of life’s most stressful experiences: moving house. The flat over No 11 Downing Street is slightly bigger and has in recent years been taken by the prime minister. At the end of a long day they can head to one of the small lifts that takes them to the top floor. Although in time prime ministers often make a habit of taking the stairs, the only form of exercise they get during an office-bound day running the country.

“Brown struggled to relax at No 10. ‘He didn’t enjoy living above the shop’

New PMs routinely try to suggest they might like to stay in their own home, before security becomes too much. Security arrangements for children and wider family will also have to be agreed. O’Donnell jokes, “We all know from Bodyguard what that can lead to.”

For new prime ministers not used to the increased security, this can come as a shock. On his first day in office, Major went to walk from No 10 to the House of Commons for lunch, but was stopped by police who made it clear this would be impossible for as long as he was PM.

For PMs with young children, working below the flat could be a blessing, allowing them to slope off for an hour. The Cameron children would often be seen playing in their pyjamas as dignitaries visited.

Brown, by contrast, struggled to relax. Wood says, “He didn’t enjoy living above the shop.” Home remained in Scotland, while the Downing Street flat “felt a little bit like a place you were staying in for a long weekend with a few Sainsbury’s bags full of milk”.

Discussions will also have to be had about the position of the new PM’s wife or girlfriend, whether they plan to play a visible role, and whether their own job or interests present a potential political conflict that could derail a premiership in its infancy.

There will be questions of changing artworks, even redecorating, but they can come later.

The new PM has not just one new home, but two. There is also the grace-and-favour country retreat at Chequers, where they are likely to head to for their first weekend.

May used to enjoy using the pool. Thatcher was so concerned with the electricity bills she had the pool’s heating switched off. Blair added a tennis court and invited celebrity friends to stay. Cameron held an “Ibiza-style rave” for his wife’s birthday.

When Major became prime minister he inherited a Chequers reception from Thatcher, but had no guests. So he asked O’Donnell, the PM’s press secretary at the time, who to invite. He replied instantly, “Well, Bobby Charlton ...”

“We just reeled out these people that we’d all love to meet,” says O’Donnell. “We had Jenny Agutter and a whole bunch of cricketers.”

The reshuffle Before unwinding in the Buckinghamshire countryside, there is the small matter of putting together a government.

If the updates on the state of the nation’s security are sensitive, the details of the reshuffle require perhaps even higher levels of secrecy. A small office just off the cabinet room is used for reshuffles, which means the door can be locked so ministerial posts are not spotted by prying eyes. “You need to make sure that you can’t have someone going in moving the names around,” says O’Donnell.

In comes a whiteboard to write people’s names on with magnets. In 2010, as the coalition government was being put together, disaster struck. “For some reason the magnetic thing stopped and all the names dropped off,” Bertin recalls. “I’m sure some people got different jobs as a result.”

The number of ministerial jobs is limited by law to 90 MPs, and a total of 109 paid posts including 22 paid cabinet positions. Downing Street staff are tasked with finding out where key people are in preparation for them to be called in for a job – without letting on why.

Both May and Major were propelled into No 10 with such haste they had given little thought to their top team. Brown, by contrast, had been planning it for months, perhaps years, right down to every junior minister and aide. “As with all these things, it goes well until it doesn’t, and then like dominoes you’ve got to rebuild the whole thing,” recalls Wood.

Margaret Beckett was let go as foreign secretary, making way for David Miliband. “It went down like a ton of shit,” says one of Wood’s former colleagues. “She has never forgiven Gordon.”

“Of the many gifts she received, May chose to keep only hosiery from a firm called Luxury Legs

In addition to the rather quaint idea of choosing the right person for each job, other considerations are also taken into account: in the New Labour years it meant balancing Blairites and Brownites; the coalition had to have the right number of Tories and Lib Dems; since 2016, balancing Remainers and Leavers has been seen as critical.

It is likely that only the very top jobs – chancellor, foreign secretary and home secretary – will be announced on Wednesday night. The rest of the cabinet will be rolled out on Thursday, with more junior jobs to follow.

Where the coalition had got into the habit of announcing reshuffles on Twitter, Team May thought this too Cameroon and opted for formal press releases with the Downing Street crest on.

Would-be ministers are brought into Downing Street through the front door or via the cabinet office and left in a small waiting room just off the main entrance to No 10.

“You know what I’ve got, don’t you?” a nervous Boris Johnson asked Perrior on the evening of July 13, 2016. “Yes,” she replied. “But it’s not for me to tell you. It’s for the prime minister. So you just have to wait a little bit longer.” He was then summoned to the cabinet room to be offered the job of foreign secretary, before returning to a makeshift photographer’s studio in a side office where portraits would be taken to mark the occasion.

A slick operation. But not perfect. At one point George Osborne, still resident in No 11, walked past just as someone was shouting, “Can you just repeat that? Philip Hammond is the new chancellor?” Osborne winked and carried on. Perrior explains, “George Osborne got fired via someone shouting in a corridor a little bit loudly.”

The switchboard For new arrivals into Downing Street, “Switch” is about to change their lives. The Downing Street switchboard is staffed around the clock by a team of crack operatives able to get anyone on the phone anywhere at a moment’s notice.

Technology has obviously changed its role. Major and Blair didn’t have a mobile phone. Brown was less of a stickler for process, and would text and email at all hours. These days a prime minister could bypass Switch by whatsapping their ministers, advisers or other world leaders. They could also bypass their press teams by firing off tweets, creating the havoc that Donald Trump seems to thrive on in the White House.

“If Donald Trump were prime minister,” says O’Donnell, “I would have kittens, because that’s just not the way our system works.”

The first job for Switch will be to co-ordinate the congratulatory phone calls. Traditionally, the president of the United States is the first wellwisher to get through.

George W Bush was the first to call Brown. Three years later the White House was on the line again. “I’m speaking to you now from No 10 for the first time,” Cameron told Obama, with a wink to his team.

Expect President Trump to be first on the line next week, too. Or perhaps he will just tweet. Might an early call from Germany’s Angela Merkel or Ireland’s Leo Varadkar help to oil the wheels of a new Brexit deal? Also listening in to those calls will be the chief of staff, special advisers, foreign policy experts and press aides charged with briefing out (some of) what is said.

There will also be hundreds, if not thousands, of calls from friends and family. O’Donnell says, “These may be the extended family that the prime minister’s forgotten all about. They may feel that now their third cousin twice removed has become prime minister, they really need to congratulate them.”

The gifts For some, phoning is not enough. Gifts, many terribly expensive, are dispatched. Anything worth more than £140 is seized by the cabinet office, and if the PM wants to keep it they have to pay for it. In July 2017 May was sent shoes, clothes and make-up. She chose to keep only hosiery from a firm called Luxury Legs.

And then the flowers. Thatcher joked in her memoirs that so many bouquets were sent to No 10 during her final days that “you could hardly move down the corridors for a floral display that rivalled the Chelsea Flower Show”. And they all had to go before the new PM arrived, with even more blooms.

Perrior says, “The place looks like someone’s died. I feel for anybody who has hayfever.”

The office Blair found Downing Street so cramped he considered moving the office of the prime minister to the QEII conference centre. Cameron toyed with moving upstairs to one of the grand state rooms looking out over Horse Guards Parade, where Thatcher had worked, before discovering there were no phone or IT connections. Instead, he chose the room used by Blair, then known as the “den”.

Bertin was not impressed. “It was a bit of a mess, if I’m honest. It was tiny. There were sort of, you know, stains on the carpet.”

When May, who inherited Cameron’s office, visited Perrior in her oak-panelled corner room overlooking the garden, she remarked how nice it was. “I said something along the lines of, ‘Keep your hands off … You are not taking this office.’ ”

In most workplaces having your own office would be a sign of status, but in Downing Street it can leave you cut off from the action.

Chiefs of staff position themselves right outside the prime minister’s office, deciding who gets in and who doesn’t. Everyone insists that the prime minister wants them to be in the room, closest to them, at all times.

“May’s thank-you party for staff came many weeks later, highlighting early on the lack of people skills that would bring her low

“You felt sometimes that you should hover,” says Wood. “Hopefully you caught someone’s eye and then they’d say, ‘Oh, you’d better come in.’ Proximity was everything.”

Under May there was to be no hovering. A sofa outside the PM’s office, used by hoverers, was removed. “It was made clear that you do not linger in this office,” Perrior recalls. “You are only to come when you are invited.”

In the early days of the May regime a small side office was commandeered by her chiefs of staff, Fiona Hill and Nick Timothy.

It became known as the “bollocking room”. “You knew that if you were asked to go in there … it was not going to be necessarily pleasant,” says Perrior.

Cameron had formality forced upon him: the coalition meant Nick Clegg (and his Lib Dem team) were squatters in No 10. Decisions had to be taken formally by both parties, not by a select clique. Conservative spin doctors and policy advisers were told to share offices with their Lib Dem opposite numbers. “I can remember being pissed off about that,” says Bertin, although she now admits it was the right way to ensure the coalition worked.

The night On Wednesday night civil servants will be encouraging the new PM to go to bed early, knowing what onslaught awaits the next day.

In 2007, at around 9pm, Brown went back to his flat – handily for the former chancellor, just upstairs – where his wife, Sarah, cooked dinner and close friends celebrated with champagne.

Next week, the new PM will likely head to their own home, because the Mays will not have moved out. But that does not mean time to switch off. They will have their red boxes of papers to work through, covering everything from a draft speech to a natural disaster or a parliamentary crisis. There is also the black box, known as “Old Stripey” due to its red stripe, that contains the most sensitive material, which even as foreign secretary Jeremy Hunt or Boris Johnson might not have seen.

Before heading off, it is probably wise to gather people for a pep talk, bringing together political advisers and civil servants to begin to cement them into a team. In 2007, Brown told the assembled workers in the Pillared Room, “It’s not every day you meet the Queen at 1.30pm, become the prime minister at 2.45pm, speak to the president of the United States at 4pm and get told by Sarah to put the kids to bed at 7pm.” Cameron made a speech joking about how he and Nick Clegg would get on better than Blair and Brown, which went down badly with those who’d spent years working for the Labour PMs.

May’s thank-you party for staff came many weeks later, highlighting early on the lack of people skills that in the end would bring her low.

The next day All prime ministers have a habit of starting early, and for May’s replacement time will be of the essence. On Thursday teams will be assembled early, at around 6am. The reshuffle will have to be completed, and the new prime minister is expected to make an appearance in the Commons before parliament rises for its six-week summer recess.

The diary will already be filling up. And it will be nonstop and baffling and relentless. Wood explains, “At 7am, you’re meeting with the Scottish Bagpipe Association, who’ve got a problem with tax treatment, and then at 8.15am you’ve got a phone call with the Armenian president ’cause there’s a problem on the border, and then at 9am you’ve got a policy meeting about long-term health policy. And you’ve got to fight against this tendency always to put aside the long-term stuff because there’s always enough short-term stuff to really consume you.”

The departure Like all good things, premierships come to an end. A new arrival in Downing Street means there has been a departure. Out with the old and in with the new.

In 2016, moments before Cameron went out to make his final speech, Bertin caught him just behind the No 10 door to tell him how proud she was of what he’d achieved. “Please don’t,” he said. “You’re going to make me cry.” When he came back in there were more tears, though he held it together. Just.

Leaving the building, and the power and influence it gives, is a wrench. Wood says, “It’s like handing over your most precious possession to someone else and resenting the fact that it’s not yours, but you want them to treat it well.”

Wood left a note to Bertin in 2010. When Bertin came to leave six years later she wrote a note to her children on No 10 paper, saying, “This is what Mummy did.”

And so it ends as it began, with letters. Before leaving Brown wrote three letters: one to Cameron (left under a bottle of whisky), one to Nelson Mandela and one to Aung San Suu Kyi. Most prime ministers leave their successor a note, knowing they are one of just a handful of people alive who know what the job is really like.

Brown had a well-worn joke about this. He used to say that when you finish in your job and your successor is taking over, you hand them three envelopes. When there’s a crisis (and there always is), they open the first letter and it says, “Blame your predecessor.” The next crisis, the second letter says, “Blame the statistics.” And finally the third envelope says, “Prepare three envelopes.” To find out more about what happens when you become PM, listen to Matt Chorley’s Red Box podcast special on iTunes, Acast and Spotify

UK politics

David Cameron

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Comments(84)Newestuyjujy yujuyjujyU

SShayeWestL24 JULY, 2019This was just riveting. Thanks Matt, brilliantly put together.ReplyRecommendReport

JJohn Must21 JULY, 2019EditedDon't fret. Trump will sort it all out for you during the 4PM phone call.ReplyRecommendReport

JJohnny C20 JULY, 2019Great article!ReplyRecommendReport

DDuncan Bell20 JULY, 2019Great piece, except maybe for the photos. Very insightful.ReplyRecommendReport

JJohn Noel HUGHES-WILSON20 JULY, 2019Of course the incoming PM could say , 'No, I am not going to be told what to do by you lot. This is what I want to happen. Now do it.' The idea that the civil service dictate the handover merely hands them power. Who controls the agenda? Sir Humphrey or his boss?ReplyRecommendReport

MMatt - Not the other one20 JULY, 2019According to the Bible of political processes - Yes, Prime Minister - an incoming PM is only applauded if they've won an election. Whoever goes into No. 10 won't have. So, like Jim Hacker, he'll be met with silence.ReplyRecommendReport

HHelsinki20 JULY, 2019Mr Johnson : DON'T BOTHER UNPACKING You won't be there long enough.ReplyRecommendReport

Rramtops20 JULY, 2019I truly cannot envisage Johnson being up to the relentless pressure and grasp of detail required for this job. I'm really quite fearful.ReplyRecommendReport

MMr Malcolm Speirs20 JULY, 2019I do hope The Times hold on to Matt, and that he does not end up at Sky News (where many excellent print journalists have headed of late).ReplyRecommendReport

DDave20 JULY, 2019He will find an empty box labelled “Brexit Britain’s bright sunlit future” and a full waste basket labelled “Brexit Promises”ReplyRecommendReport

MMichael Rose20 JULY, 2019John Noel HUGHES-WILSONYou really have no idea about the workings of government, do you? I doubt that Boris Johnson can tie his own shoelaces, never mind tell them what the civil service should be doing.ReplyRecommendReport

JJohnny C20 JULY, 2019John Noel HUGHES-WILSONMy father was a senior civil servant. He always said, Sir Humphrey ran the country. Yes Minister was how it really worked, most legislation is via Statutory Instruments penned by civil servants and signed into statute by clueless ministersReplyRecommendReport

MMichael Rose20 JULY, 2019Matt - Not the other oneOr hopefully a slow handclap.ReplyRecommendReport

MMichael Rose20 JULY, 2019ramtopsThink how how the majority in the country feels.ReplyRecommendReport

Oozodyssey21 JULY, 2019Mr Malcolm SpeirsHe does seem to be moonlighting in a number of different rolesReplyRecommendReport

TMatt ChorleySTAFF20 JULY, 2019Mr Malcolm SpeirsNo danger of that, I promise. Having too much fun hereReplyRecommendReport

JJohnny C20 JULY, 2019DaveAnd he will paint a bus onto the box full of smiling passengers The sort of people he'll meet in the asylum when his brain implodes due to the promises he made but couldn't fulfilReplyRecommendReport

[balfecaitriona]

CHAPTER UPDATE! Hello! It’s been quite a long time since I last updated this story and I just want to apologise for the long wait, I hope not to take so long again but life happens! I have a good idea where I’m going with the next few chapters and I’m very excited to continue. I just want to thank everyone who’s stuck by me with the story and the lovely words I’ve received about it, I really appreciate it everyone of you and I hope you enjoy this long awaited update!

CHAPTER NINE | END OF THE WAR

ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN

FANFICTION

CHAPTER SUMMARY:

The war is finally over and Claire's feelings only deepen for Jamie.

PAIRING: Claire x Jamie. RATING: Mature. WORD COUNT: 2832.

CHAPTER NINE

END OF THE WAR

The past few days felt like a dream. Claire had now invited a full, six-foot tall Scotsman to live with her and she didn't give a damn what anyone had to say about it. She was never before so impulsive, but she wondered if in fact it was the war making her behave so, that no one could perceive just how long they had left and it was better to grab life with both hands and enjoy every second of it than spend her time worrying with regret.

Frank was gone, lost to the battlements of war and while that had been a rather difficult pill to swallow, the fact that Jamie remained by her side was not. At first she had felt so terribly guilty, every time she caught a glimpse of the shimmering gold band on her finger. What if Frank had returned? Could she have allowed Jamie to leave her life so easily? Or perhaps she would have never allowed her feelings to deepen so quickly. But every time she had the same horrid thought that made the pit of her stomach feel heavy with guilt, she remembered the night she had taken Jamie to the Craig Na Dunn and what she had felt in the car, the thought of losing him forever to the past and the feeling in her stomach settled. She had never felt that way for Frank, even as he boarded the train for war.

Claire was moved from thought the moment Jamie entered the living room and found her at her writing desk. Her face immediately softened and she grinned at the sight of him, and the warmness that filled her belly knowing he had no intention of leaving her now.

"There ye are sassenach..." Jamie said carefully, trying to juggle two cups of tea. The fine bone china looked so awkward and delicate in his enormous hands.

He set the tea down on the desk, some of the contents swishing from the cup, leaving splatters on the dark mahogany.

"I think I got it right... two sugars?" He raised a brow, and Claire nodded with a toothy grin that turned into a laugh, her eyes warm and besotted with him.

Jamie sat on the edge of the armchair, bringing the cup to his mouth and swallowing half the contents in one sure gulp.

"I dinna ken how ye can drink this stuff, sassenach..." He glanced down at the cup with furrowed brows. "The English always did confuse me..."

Claire let an airy laugh leave her before she brought her own cup to her mouth and almost spat the contents out at the bitter taste that stung her tongue. She made a face akin to a vomiting baby.

"No wonder... What on earth have you put in this?" Claire said with disgust, setting the tea down to go and investigate in the kitchen.

"Well I boiled the water, and let it stew with the tea bag in the pot like ye said..." Jamie was quick to defend, getting up to follow her, his eyes sheepish like a scolded dog.

"Then why does it taste so vile, it's definitely not supposed to taste like that..." Claire said, looking around at the rather messy worktops. Jamie always did have the impression of a bull in a china shop. This kitchen was much too small for him, and even though she didn't mind doing the domesticated things, Jamie insisted that he make the tea today, and she soon realised it was something he had never done before.

"Then I just added the sugar... See?" Jamie said, and Claire realised he was holding a small salt shaker in his hand, to which she began to laugh, much to his dismay.

"That's not sugar!" She made to take the shaker off him. "It's salt!"

"Oh..." Jamie scratched his head, his cheeks flushing a bright pink. "I thought the S stood for sugar."

"No, the sugar's over here..." Claire proceeded to pull a little blue tin from her cupboard, and sure enough, inside where the dazzling sparkles of sugar grains.

"Go and sit down, I'll make us a proper cup of tea." Claire shooed him from the tiny kitchen as Jamie sat down in the chair by the desk and pawed through one of the books that sat there.

"Ah well... I suppose I'll stick to what I know in future." Jamie said, with a defeated sigh, but there was humour in his tone.

"I appreciate the offer!" Claire said, laughing to herself as the kettle boiled. She moved to lean on the door frame, arms folded, looking at Jamie lovingly, as though he were a small child who'd tried their best.

"I don't think tea-"

There was an almighty crash that broke Claire's sentence. The sound of loud cheering and banging outside. Jamie's head turned to look toward the window to see a crowd forming, moving steadily down the hill outside.

"What are earth is going on..." Claire exclaimed, running to open the front door, Jamie right behind her.

On the street there was a great buzz of people chattering and laughing, Claire felt a little relief to understand nothing terrible had obviously happened but she was still curious.

Front doors lay wide up, people where crying, shouting and cheering. Strangers grabbing each other in tight embraces, throwing their heads back in euphoric laughter. Claire and Jamie merely stood at the doorway watching, more confused than ever before.

"It's over!" Shouted a red haired woman, leaning over Claire's gate. Her hair was in rollers, kept in place by a hairnet. She looked as if she might jump over the gate altogether with glee. "The war! It's finally over! The Germans surrendered!" She cried, before she moved along to join the crowd of happy people.

Claire couldn't quite understand what she was hearing. It didn't seem to hit her as violently as she thought it would. All those years, cooped up alone in the wards of the hospital, she imagined a day where all of the fighting might stop and how she might feel.

She gasped loudly, her face breaking out into a smile. It was finally over. She looked up at Jamie, who still seemed confused but smiled back at her nonetheless, catching her infectious happiness.

"Oh Jamie..." She whispered, the words seemed to flutter out of her in an airy laugh. Over five years this war had slogged on, and many began doubting if it would ever end at all. But it had. It was now. It was over.

Claire threw her arms about Jamie's neck, feeling lighter than she had in years. It was like a wash of relief ran through her body, assuring her that now everything would be all right. The dark gloomy clouds that refused to let her look to the future where vanishing and the world seemed lovely again, and for the first time in a long time, she was happy merely to be alive, but most of all to have Jamie here to share it with.

Jamie patted her back, leaning in to smell the sweetness of her hair. Although he had not been here long to see the full affects of war, he had been here long enough to see how awful it was, unlike any war he had ever known. And like any war, the relief and happiness felt when it had ended were the same, no matter the century.

"Aye Claire..." He muttered back into her hair. "The fighting is done." Was all he could manage to say. Jamie understood what this meant to her. He had watched her exhausted form drag out of bed every morning and sludge back home every night. Now, it was done, there was light at the end of the tunnel at last.

Claire pulled herself from him, laughter leaving her lips as she turned to walk up the garden path but not before she made to grab Jamie's hand, taking her with him. They left the little yard and ventured out into the joyous crowds. Immediately someone thrust a bottle of champagne into her hand and she made to gulp it, long and hard before thrusting it into Jamie's chest.

He too took a generous swallow, but not before making a face of bitterness as the fizz stung his nose. "Aye it's no whisky, sassenach..." He remarked, but Claire was too enthralled about what was going on around her to take notice.

People where hanging out of open windows, children skipped around their feet with little Union Jack flags in their hands, waving them and laughing ceremoniously. Someone was blasting the delightful tunes of Glenn Miller's 'In the Mood' on a radio to the crowd. Strangers hugged strangers and people had erected tables with food and drink that seemed to appear from nowhere. And Jamie and Claire where in the middle of it all, a celebration not to be forgotten. The war was finally at an end.

***

Some hours had passed, day had turned to night and the party didn't seem to end. People were growing merrier on the copious amounts of alcohol being supplied. Merchants left their shops to join the celebrations and all in all, the good atmosphere was infectious. Winston Churchill had announced the end of the war in Europe, and for once Claire could feel weightless and happy again, even if deep down her heart did sink for Frank, who had never lived to see this day come to pass.

"Aye... War doesn't seem to change in the passing of the centuries." Jamie seemed to conclude after a long moment of thought, he had spent a great deal of time just watching people. "At least the celebrating a victory is verra much the same." He commented to Claire who had now lost count of the drinks she had consumed.

"I was beginning to think this war would never end." Claire replied, taking a swig of whisky, no longer did she wince at the sour taste and the burn it left in her throat that made her want to gag, she had grown used to it's flavour now.

"I think ye've had enough lass..." Jamie tried to say, moving to attempt to try and pry the glass from her hand, but Claire tugged it away before he could get it.

They had found themselves sitting on bar stools in one of the numerous crowded bars in Edinburgh. The sound of people laughing and singing merry songs was music to Claire's ears, it had been so long since people were so happy and carefree and Claire wanted to revel in it while it lasted.

"Don't start." Claire said, rolling her eyes. Although she couldn't deny the slur in her words and the fact that the room seemed to be spinning. She attempted closing one eye to see Jamie clearly. His red head was fuzzy in her vision but there was no denying it was him.

"Aye I've seen that look before, sassenach and it usually means it's bedtime." Jamie said with a smirk, moving to pull the glass from her grasp this time and downing it's contents himself. The Scottish had a reputation for being able to handle their drink remarkably well, and Jamie was no exception.

"How dare you!" Claire scowled in an exaggerated rage, irked that Jamie thought to do such a thing. "Don't you dare tell me what to do!" She slurred. "If I want to sit here and drink until daylight then I fucking will!"

"Aye, sassenach." Jamie said carelessly, ignoring her words. Every time he made to try and direct Claire from the pub to take her home, she would dart away. That was until Jamie managed to grab her, and he lifted her tall, slender form with ease and slung her over his shoulder.

"Put me down!" Claire started shouting, kicking her legs and wriggling. "Put me down you god damn bloody bastard!"

Jamie merely laughed, as did the many other people he passed along the way as he brought a very drunk Claire home to her bed.

***

"Here we are..." Jamie said finally, slumping Claire down outside her garden gate. He had came to know the area well enough to be able to get to Claire's house and back. "In ye go." He directed her, the front door still wide open from before.

"No!" Claire replied like a defiant child, head spinning from the alcohol but she refused to take orders from Jamie.

"Aye ye will, or I'll lift ye again." Jamie replied calmly, folding his arms and looking at her with a smile at how she was behaving. He had never seen her mad with drink before, her hair seemed to stick out in a fuzz that made her resemble an irked hedgehog.

Claire made to walk away, but staggered and fell. It was then an almighty laugh left her lips. The anger at last had seemed to leave her, and now the infectious giggling set in.

"Come on... Ye bloody fool." Jamie laughed, grabbing her and lifting her up. This time she gave in and held her arms around his neck, like a tired child being carried to bed. Giving in to the defeat, too lethargic to want to argue or fight back. Suddenly, a warm cosy bed seemed to sound heavenly.

Jamie set her down the on the bed and she lay back, hair askew and laughed some more, it was breathy and easy and he knew the tired groans of sleep where not far off.

"I take it ye had a good day then sassenach..." Jamie whispered, a toothy grin on his lips as the answer seemed obvious.

"Wonderful!" Claire replied with a loud sigh, stretching her arms out on the bed. It had been a very long time since she was able to let her hair down and enjoy herself without any fear at the back of her mind or stress from her constant shifts at work. Work hadn't even entered her mind today, but she would deal with the repercussions tomorrow, the thought of now made her head spin again.

"I'll bid ye goodnight then Claire." Jamie said, making Claire sit up in sudden alarm to see him leaving the room.

"Don't be silly..." She groaned, outstretching an arm. "Sleep here." She patted the quilt beside her.

"I'm fine with the sofa, still." Jamie replied, but seen Claire was defiant again. She had rose from the bed to move to grab him in the dark, suddenly being without him seemed truly unthinkable.

Her hands moved to grab his stubbled chin, forcing his lips against hers. For a moment, Jamie gave in and moved his lips against her own, but he soon knew this was a different kind of kiss, and one she had not given before. Without realising, Jamie was being pulled back to the bed. Claire's nimble fingers moved down his shirt, never before did buttons seem to irksome as her hands struggled awkwardly trying to remove his clothes.

A gentle grasp from Jamie made her drunken recklessness stop for a moment, but only to protest. Jamie seemed to know where this was leading, but Claire had a desperate longing for him, as he had all along, but the alcohol had only seemed to heighten it. She had to have him now. The flame within her would not be silence by his honeyed words.

"No sassenach..." Jamie whispered, moving to push her eager hands away.

"But I want you..." She muttered back against his lips with impatience, her forehead touching his.

Jamie smelt the strong stench of whisky on her breath, and although he fought with himself for rejecting her like this, he knew her head would perhaps ache with regret all the more tomorrow if he allowed her to explore her passions. He could not have her like this, until he knew that is what she wanted, with a sober mind.

"Yer drunk out yer mind Claire..." Jamie replied almost sorrowfully. He didn't want her to think he didn't want her, it was quite the opposite.

"I'm not!" She said with a defiance, though there was a rueful whine in her voice that knew it to be true.

"I want ye Claire..." Jamie whispered, wanting her to know how true it was. "But I canna have ye like this..."

Claire seemed to understand then. For a moment the drunkenness seemed to vanish, and she felt open and ashamed. She moved back on the bed, clutching the top of her dress with a shy embarrassment, her face looking as though she might burst into tears at any moment.

Instead of saying anything more, she lay down on the bed, curled up like a kitten and Jamie felt his heart ache for her.

"Sassenach..." Was all he could muster, opening his mouth to say more but nothing would come out.

"Goodnight Jamie." She whispered with a tired sigh, and Jamie took his leave to the cold sofa downstairs.

[tetsuwan-atom]

Villain Headcanon: Lucius Einholt

This one has been a long time coming. You’ve seen him on the blog already doing the rounds in one particular interaction and coming up in another. Now that there is a proper story and background fleshed out for the main story, I can present thee for all to view. This is a relatively new character, originally conceived for one particular interaction, but has of course been expanded to tell a wider story in the main context. This then is the story of Lucius Einholt, Lord Master of the Dark Arts.

Faceclaim is Young Black Jack.

Trigger Warnings include: Experimentation, Self Experimentation, implications of mutilation and self-mutilation.

Lucius is an interesting character.

As a baby, he was raised by caring parents, born in Victorian times. A family who had long tried to throw away a shaky past from generations ago, to begin a proper life, a real life, away from torment, controversy and suffering. The Einholt family cherished their precious son, taught him values and morals. They raised him to be a good boy, to be kind among all.

...But he was only ten years old when he was whisked away from his life by forces who had been watching him his whole life. Forces who had actually been watching his family, for many a time, many a century, even. He was confused, scared, why did these people take him away from happiness and love?

It was because he was supposed to be their saviour, their messiah resurrected, to lead them to a new dawn, a new empire which would consume the whole multiverse. It was a destiny he did not know of in the beginning, no. These grotesque beings kept him isolated. They had to study him, observe him. His morals and values had to be crushed.. and they weren't sure how to do that. They could break him, destroy his psyche, but he was not supposed to be a puppet, he was supposed to be the one to rule. They too, could not force his anger, for it might prove a curse on their species. They had to turn him into that ruler, something which would take a lot of work.

Through his late childhood and teens, he was looked after by maids and servants, treated like royalty. Royalty was supposed to be pampered, after all. When he asked why he was here, they said it was simply for his own good.. and he will see the reason one day. They also put him through training, they needed him to be a fighter.. and he was surprisingly capable, but not enough. They had to make him a good fighter, better than a good fighter, for to rule was to be strong.. and while he had the makings of a strong boy, he had to be stronger than them all.

Scientists experimented, with what would be realised as the dark. Infuse him with that darkness, that energy, make him the darkness' best weapon. Spells of such torture, such pain, coupled with surgery, infuse his organs, manifest strength in the dark. A stronger body, stronger muscles, stronger heart. The initial scars were from this phase, the initial phase of working on him, to make him a carrier, a breathing weapon of darkness. Even part of his face was modified, as a consequence of enhancing his vision, his eyes. Again he asked why, he pleaded why in his emotions, why make him like this. Again, they said it was for his own good.

Finally he reached an age where they believed him to become a man. An age where they could finally tell him what he was meant to be.

He is a great descendant of a powerful man they called the Demon King, who was well prominent in Samurai-Era Japan. The Demon King was an entity that they believed ruled the underworld, controlled demons, created and manifested all sorts of dark horrors. He was selfish, cruel, he sought domination across all of life to plague with demonic hellspawn and rule it all at the very top. But his success was not to be, as a legendary Samurai, known to many as the Lightning Tiger, would challenge the Demon King and drive him to his death, in an active volcano, the only thing on the mortal planet powerful enough to consume him and extinguish his very being.

They wanted Lucius to follow in the Demon King's footsteps, to become that new generation, a new Demon Emperor who could harbour in that new age, in a world that was ever changing. But Lucius, he had different ideas. He found his ancestor sickening, disgusting, he, could not lead such an abominatory cataclysm that would consume all that lived and breathed. They picked him because he was the closest they had ever seen to the Demon King, like he could well have been the son of such a man. Nobody else in that bloodline fit like him, he was the perfect fit.. but he was not going to take up this offer, he would reject it outright. These beings that tortured him, turned him into that weapon that would guide them.. and he was meant to be put on that pedestal? To spread it everywhere? No. He could not be that Emperor.. and he condemned them all for such a greedy, selfish view.

These demons, they of course did not like his answer to their proposal. They got angry, enraged, their messiah had rejected them, their objective, their goal. They saw red, blind red.. they turned in an instant and all they wanted was to tear him apart limb from limb. No true Demon Emperor would turn his back on his own kind.. and he was their own kind, he could not be anything like his parents with his makeup. They saw him then as weak, pitiful.. he had to die. He had to be eliminated, their search to continue once more.

But... he wasn't going to let them kill him. They made the biggest mistake in turning him into a wielder of the darkness first, then telling him what they wanted him to be. It meant that he was too powerful already to exterminate.. and he was able to get out, killing and maiming as many demons as he could to escape the hellhole maze that they made underground. He got out, he saw light, he saw freedom.. but he was lost.. he was without a home, out in the open world. A world unfamiliar to him.. a world that would not be kind to him, as he searched for a new home. He could find his parents, he could reunite with his family, but the experiences he found back in the mortal plane would lead him to believe that it was best to instead let them think he was dead.

Every place he went to, every town, they sensed something in him, something which brought fear, anger, repulsion amongst the population. They sensed his darkness, his abnormality. The infusion of negative energy had left part of his hair white. He was physically a freak and the energy he gave off, nobody wanted to go near him. Every town and city he went to, he was ran out of, nobody could trust him. He was like an outcast of this world. The good, the kindness instilled in  him, it was beginning to wane. How can you be kind to someone if nobody will give you a chance? How can you show these people that you are a good person if the darkness reeks all over you, that they can smell it on you, that all they see from you is an individual to greatly fear, to stay away from. Get close.. and he might kill you in the dead of the night. That's what they thought..and word spread around like wildfire. Now towns he was visiting, they already knew of him, they came at him with pitchforks and knives, with torches, they wanted to kill him. They blamed him for their troubles, their sorrows, that he killed people just by being in town, that the flowers died all around him, that the sun was darker and the clouds brewed. They were all blind to his soul, they just saw him as the Devil sent from Hell. He was not safe anywhere, even when walking alone in a forest, they tried to pounce on him, tried to kill him.. and in having to defend himself, to have to end lives, he did not feel good about it.. but in that defence, they saw even more reason to get him. They spun the story that he murdered those poor souls who were trying to tame him, that he was to become a criminal, that he HAD to die no matter what.

Everyone was looking for him now, nobody could rest easy while this supposed Son of Satan was on the loose.

Thankfully, word got to the right people as well.. and soon he was being sought out by another party. In a moment where a whole army chased after him, a whole congregation charged with ending his life, he was found by someone, a group of people, who used magic and trickery to confuse the angry mob, shielding him to let him escape.. and in getting him out of danger, they would reveal themselves to him. There was one village, remote, nobody knew it existed, for good reason. They were known as the Order of the Dark Arts, a cult by any other name to the villages. They hid themselves away for the same reason Lucius was running, for they were persecuted, chased, the nearby towns wanted to eradicate every single one of those 'Satanistic Believers' as they called them. The Order took Lucius in, housed him, kept him safe. They were hospitable, they taught him their ways. They worshipped the dark, that the night kept them safe, only bathed in the moonlight when it shone. The darkness showed them to be wary of the light, first persevered as the light of flames from torches of the mobs that used to hunt for them, but also in that the sunlight would hide the deviousness, the hunters in their droves. They used the darkness to see, to give them solace. They practiced dark magic to further their safety, they showed him what it could do for him.

The thing that won him over, was that they were not seeking to dominate the world or the multiverse. They just wanted to live in safety, as a peaceful community, that worshipped the darkness for what they saw as their comfort.

They did not see it as nothingness or extinction, they saw it as strength, resolve, union, comfort, happiness. They celebrated, they congregated. It was a community that bred and flourished. He would become part of that community, showing resolve to become their leader, their protector. He lead only in the stead that he had to keep them safe, for he was one of them, he was filled with that darkness, that negative energy.. and he found a purpose in this village to show kindness, even in the circumstances that he was in.

He trained more, he experimented further on himself only in ways shown by the Dark Arts to further his strength, his speed, his power. He did all he could to become more and more powerful, to become unstoppable. His body now littered with scars from all he did on himself, the pain he bore through, for pain was an indicator that one was to become stronger in the end.. and he was, he found himself truly in a position to take care of the village that raised him. He would become their Lord Master, a title that was once held by an individual who birthed the town, killed while rescuing his kind many a moon ago. Lucius would become more than his predecessor.. and he lived with this Order, studying the darkness, researching it, reading about it, wanting to know all he could, doing away with the cliches, the misconceptions, that the darkness was not something to be feared, that it did not mean consumption or destruction. There was peace in it, not peace in death, but peace in life, that one can live in it, around it.. and that darkness must always be present in the multiverse, just as present as the light. No more, no less.

His powers and experimentation had allowed him to outlive all that he knew, the villagers that he lived with, they all grew old, they died.. and their offspring grew old and died.. and so on. He was their constant, almost like their God.. but he never wanted that title. He did not see himself as a God, he saw himself only as their Lord Master, their protector, to shield them in the darkness from those who sought to annihilate them. Centuries passed, but they did not move with the times, the changing landscape. Even as the 20th and 21st century came past, they did not catch up. To them, their world was still a time away, still in the Edwardian times, only just running around in Tin Lizzies, but without the magic of electricity. The darkness did all they needed, the magic gifting them with homes, clothes, means for food, everything. They were happy. He is their Champion of the Dark.. and he will forever keep them safe... to forever keep their peace, the peace he always wanted. As well, he still bears the last name of Einholt, in memory and tribute to his long lost family, the family that raised him and loved him.. and he hoped that they are looking fondly on him, that he is still their good natured boy, the boy he brought them up to be.

But despite all his good, his care, he is to this day still labelled a target, a target of misconceptions, of fear, of uncertainty. The modern age brought information to people at such rapid pace, including organisations of intelligence and science. Forces outside deduced his story, his lineage, they read up on his publicised kidnapping, they tracked down the underworld and found out that he was the descendant of the Demon King from all those years ago.. they did not know of his peace.. and they were concerned that he was out there, on the loose.. and that one day he would rise again and become a threat to all life and mankind. They would seek to find him, to subdue him.. to kill him before he could get the chance. After all.. it's in his lineage... right?

You have to ask yourself. Is he really a villain? Or is he only made out to be, a scapegoat, in the eyes of the blind light, that's seen in so many people, populated across the globe... and the multiverse...

Lucius, by nature, is a sophisticated individual. He endeavours to be kind, but he is also very wary, especially of outsiders. Centuries of living in his solitary village showed that trust to outsiders does not come easy, in fact, it rarely comes at all, unless you can prove that you are not biased, that you are not blind, that you can see beyond your misconceived teachings and can respect the other side of the coin. He does not tolerate judgement or bias, of any sort. He will defend his people to the death, from any and all foes. They are his world, his life, his everything. He is a researcher, avid in many teachings and wants to know more about the world around him and the greater multiverse, even keen to research the other side, even if he is a fully dedicated follower of the Darkness for all of eternity.

He is listed as approach with extreme caution. Indeed, you should approach with caution, but not for the reasons that they want you to think...

Verse Specific:

Bladena Verse ( @xbloodsoakedx​ ): In this verse, Lucius was whisked at birth to the Church of the Great One. There, he was experimented on brutally, in many different ways, even going so far as to try and shatter his psyche. He was one of many ‘Weapons’ created to protect the church from all threats. In his case, he was crafted to protect the world against the likes of warriors like Rokuro Hengawa, powerful entities who came close to eradicating the Church entirely. It is in that nature that he is aptly named the ‘Atomite Killer’ in confidence, since he was literally made to threaten even the most powerful of Gods. A common theme is that he is supporting and working alongside the Church’s newest weapon, Violent Violet.

[must-be-brooklyn]

31,36,53,58 for Blush? 💞

Yikes! Sorry this is late! School is hell at the moment :D 

Anyway, anon, you really know how to put a combination together - this was really fun to write ahaha

31. “You weren’t supposed to laugh!”; 36. “Did I say that out loud?”; 53. “I’m flirting with you.”; 58. “I’ve been in love with you my entire life. Ever since the day I first met you.”

Ship: Blush

Words: 1.1k

Era: Modern, college au

Warning: Some language from Blink.

When Mush entered the tiny dorm room that he shared with Blink, he could not stop his mouth from dropping open. Cheap, party bunting was taped haphazardly to the wall, there were cut-out snowflakes scattered around that appeared to have been made out of old lecture notes, and even the floor was almost clean. In the middle of it all, Blink looked at him like a dear in the headlights.

“You’re not meant to be back yet,” he said, straightening his posture and setting down the scissors and half-cut-out shape as if they had done something to offend him.

Mush stepped inside and closed the door behind himself, so it was just the two of them and their weirdly decorated room. Looking around without replying, he kicked his shoes off and dropped his bag into the corner. “Prof cancelled class. Anyway, what’s the occasion?” He gestured towards a misshapen snowflake stuck to the cupboard next to him. “Never took you for the decorating type.”

Laughing, he studied the decorations around the room again. When he was looking at them more carefully, he could see that they must have taken at least most of Blink’s morning to put together.

“You weren’t supposed to laugh!” Blink sounded affronted and crossed his arms over his chest.

Mush looked back at him and grinned. “So, what is it? Who’s it for?”

Blink seemed uncomfortable as he stared back at Mush. “You always said you wanted to decorate the room and, well,” he shrugged as his eyes flickered around the room. Turning into himself, he began to look embarrassed. “Pretty shitty, I know. Wanted to do something for you. You’re a pretty good roommate for putting up for me.”

“Grand declaration of your love for me, or something?” Mush’s tone was bright and teasing, but his smile weakened. The thought of Blink sitting in their room, cutting out little bits of paper and fixing them to the wall all morning made his stomach clench in an unpleasant way. It felt like the type of things sappy, in-love couples would do and that only reminded him of everything he was missing out on. He had enough of that whenever he went to Jack and David’s dorm and saw the little polaroids they had all around.

Blink just stared at him as though in a stupor. “Yes.” His eye was glazed and face completely impassive.

There was an awkward silence where neither of them could quite believe what had just happened, until Blink violently flinched. Mush’s heart was in his throat; it was an unfortunate fact of his life that all of his friends, except for Blink himself, knew way too much about his hopeless, teenage-like crush. This felt like the type of fever dream he had gone through last summer with the flu.

“Shit, did I say that out loud?” Blink balked and fell onto his bed, which was made neatly with the pillows fluffed and blankets turned down. It was a foreign sight. Usually, he pulled the blankets up and made do with that for the day.

Mush gingerly sat down on his own bed and his eyes flashed between Blink and his own, socked feet. The polka-dots were not interesting, but he could not bear to watch him for too long. Nausea crawled up his throat like an unpleasant smell.

“You mean it?”

Blink’s gaze drifted back to him. “A bit?”

Mush let out a heavy breath through his nose. “So, that’s a yes?”

“Maybe?” Blink snorted and crossed his arms over his chest. “Fuck it, sure, yes.”

Face relaxing into a smile, Mush could feel his heart beating through his chest as if it was about to break his ribs. His mind buzzed with a million things he wanted to say and he could not quite find the words he needed in order to voice them.

Blink regarded him with a cautious expression. “That’s good, right?”

Mush stumbled over his words trying to get an answer out. “I’ve been flirting with you literally since I met you.” And, okay, maybe that was pushing it a bit. Mush’s attempts at ‘flirting’ had all been mild disasters that his friends classified as failures of epic proportions. Nothing had actually gone wrong, but it had never really gone right, either. Race had said himself that it would be generous to call it flirting. But, seeing Blink’s face light up made it worth it.

“Seriously?”

Shrugging, Mush smiled. “Trying to, I guess? I’ve been in love with you my entire life. Ever since the day I first met you.”

Blink’s entire face went bright red and he reached for one of the half-finished bunting pieces to twist between his fingers.

It took a minute for Mush’s words to process through his head. “I mean…” He rushed to correct himself and then trailed off, losing momentum as he realised that he had no idea what he wanted to say. “Yeah…”

“Fuck, okay, yeah,” Blink said. The triangle tore between his hands, and he lifted his eyes to meet Mush’s. “So, maybe I’ve liked you for a while as well?” His face began to turn back to its normal colour as he continued to grin. Mush could scarcely remember seeing his face as bright as it was then.

“Then, like, d’you wanna go on a date?” Mush asked. His stomach turned inside out.

Blink nodded quickly. “Yeah, totally. Right now?”

Mush blinked at him for a few moments. “Uh, sure.” He stood and reached for his closest pair of shoes. “What about the café near the union?”

“Perfect.” Blink pulled on his own shoes and cast down the destroyed parts of his off-cast bunting piece. “When’s your next lecture?”

Mush shrugged. “Who cares? Tomorrow, probably.” He could not have cared less if he had tried; all he could think about was that within the last five minutes, he had somehow managed to end up going on a date with Blink. That in itself felt like a near miracle.

“Okay, good. Cool. Shit, yeah, okay, let’s go.” Blink opened the door, almost tripping over his own feet in his rush to get out. “Ready?”

Mush hurried after him, grabbing his wallet, keys and phone out of his bag as he did. “Absolutely. Let’s get out of here.” Hurrying out of the door and settling into stride next to Blink, he grinned. “Thanks for decorating.”

[unit7designmethodsgeorgesmith]

YCA Asset Creation:                   Queen Elizabeth Illustration + Cover Design

20.03.19

Today I started working on my illustration of Queen Elizabeth for this project. I wanted to have her on the front cover of a graphic novel that I would be designing. The background would have Big Ben, which you can see in the previous post below. 

Rough Linework 

So, to start with, I sketched out a rough drawing of the Queen in a drawing program called Clip Studio Paint. Out of Paint Tool Sai, Photoshop and this, I find this to be my favourite program to draw and paint in. For this rough sketch, I used a thin watercolour brush like I usually do. I used various different reference images from Google. I decided to draw her like how she looks most of the time. I think that the hat and the curly hair are kind of her defining parts. The hair was really challenging to get right—I’m not very good at drawing curly hair/hair in general. The hat looks pretty good too I think. I tried to get it to look like her as best I could, as far as this particular style will let me, and I think I kind of pulled it off, but I still need to improve on my faces in general. 

Polished Linework

After finishing the rough sketch of the Queen, I thought it time to go over the lines. To do this, I created a new layer, and then lowered the opacity of the sketch layer, so that I could go just make out what I was drawing over. I don’t really like how the lines turned out once I compare it to the original sketch work, because it kind of lost the sketchy and rough charm, but I thought that I could probably make up for that when it comes to painting it. In this screenshot, you can see her outfit now—it is her usual outfit that she appears in public wearing. I went with this one because it was simple, and I would prefer to keep the focus on her face if possible. Overall, I’m not a big fan of how it looks right now, but I’m confident that I can improve this soon. 

Colouring

The next thing to do after finishing the linework was to colour in the Queen’s main parts, so I’d decided that I wanted her outfit to be coloured red, since I was adhering to the colour palette of the Union Jack; red, white, and blue (the blue will be the sky, white for clouds). I chose a regular not-too-saturated but not-too- desaturated red shade for her clothing and her hat. For the moment, I want to have the rose thing on her hat red, but maybe it will look good if I am to make it white instead. I chose a middle shade of grey for the hair, because I would need highlights for it as well as, obviously, darker tones. A regular white skin tone and plain white for the eyes and mouth for now. The mouth is white at the moment as I plan to show teeth, but later on I change this. 

So, to colour this in, what I do is I create two layers—one where I will colour whatever I want, so the hat and torso for example. And how I colour is I use a pen to draw around the outside using the red, and then I just fill in the rest because it is much more easy and efficient than colouring in the hat, and then doing the outlines. Anyway, after I’ve coloured the parts, I use the second layer above the coloured one, and apply a clipping mask of sorts. This enables me to paint on this layer, only on the colour that I’ve filled in, an extremely useful feature. 

Painting Face I

Now it was time to paint the face that I’d coloured in with the skin tone. I added the necessary shades first, like with her face lines, which I’ve exaggerated in her favour, the shade under her nose and shadows being cast by her hair, look to the left and right of her face. Also, you may have noticed that I completely forgot to draw the eyebrows from the second screenshot onward, so i corrected that below. I painted in the inside of the ear using dark shades also. It was fun to paint underneath the head, where a shadow is being cast. The shadow being cast from her hat makes her look almost evil and scheming right now, I think it may be because the eyes aren’t painted yet. There must be a relatively harsh lighting right now with how dark I’ve made the shadows—probably midday sunlight or something. There are all sorts of shades among the shadows, underneath the hat are a mix of greys, oranges and also a bit of red and pink nearer the top, where the colours from the hat bounce off. The shadow below the head has multiple shades too, mainly the same as the shadow from the hat, except from reds. There is a slight pinkish shade on the left side of the of the shade, bouncing off of the clothing, and an orange shade just under the chin.

Painting Face II

Next I decided to work on the face some more to try and finish it. I started with the eyes. The eyes were under the hat’s shade, therefore, I needed to paint them accordingly. This meant that the main white in the eye would be a darker shade; grey. I painted her eyes a greyish blue, like her real eyes, and kept the shading quite minimal. After I finished the iris, I went over the outside using the blur tool to give it a soft look. Then I went back to the brush tool and did one white stroke on each of the eyes, and airbrushed a slight white over the middles of them. I think that it really adds to the painting and makes her eyes look less dead, which is something that often unintentionally happens when I’m drawing eyes. After finishing the eyes up, I moved to the mouth. After a bit of experimenting, I realised that making her grin was a bad idea, mainly because I just couldn’t get it to look right, but also because, once I drew her with her mouth open, presumably in joy, it looked a lot better.

I also tidied up the face shading, using the blend tool to blend parts that looked like they were too harsh and intruding. Next I continued on with the mouth area, and painted her red lips. Right now they don’t look very good, like they’re too thin or something, I fix this somewhat later on. I painted a small white dot on her lips to look like a highlight, which I think really goes far. Finally, I worked on the hair—easily my least favorite part of the illustration. For starters, even the sketches don’t look good to me, so adding depth to the hair via color wasn’t sounding too thrilling. But alas, I continued on, and painted them in a way that is acceptable, not great but I’m okay with it, so I continued with the shade from the hat, and painted a dark shadow coming from one edge of the hat to the other. It kind of dips, down and then up at the edges, which corresponds to how close the hair is to the sides of the hat. There aren’t many different shades among the hair, but I did decide to make it get lighter as it went down, no particular reason really, I just thought it would look nice and kind of a little less boring.

Painting Outfit I

Next I worked on her outfit, which wasn’t too difficult to come up with something I was pleased with. I looked at references of her wearing this kind of stiff outfit when I was sketching, and the reason I call it stiff is because there are minimal wrinkles on the outfit, not really any lines to introduce any shading to, and the lighting that I went with doesn’t really help me there either. Instead I used some of my usual tricks to add some kind of nice depth to something that is really flat otherwise. I painted a gradient from a desaturated purple-ish red from the bottom of the composition, to the red that I started with nearer the top. Although, this isn’t to say there’s no shading whatsoever, there is a nice shadow that continues on from the neck from the one that is being cast by the head. This shadow has a nice variety of shades in it, some greys, some purples and reds, and a slight desaturated orange as a bounce light from the skin tone that is very close by. There’s also some other shading as you can see in the illustration. Also a dark shade where the button is sewn through.

Painting Outfit II

I am nearing the end of the illustration, and next is to do the hat, which I thought would be difficult. Luckily so, I got kind of distracted by my linework—it was really messy still, therefore, I needed to clean it up, which took quite a while to be honest, though I think it was worth it. Essentially, I went over the hat lines with a thicker brush and then erased the thicker parts to correspond with the rest of the lines throughout the drawing. Now, it was a hat, not much I can think to shade really. I did the same gradient trick that I used with the outfit, and then also did a slight darker shade down the right hand side of the hat, to give it a slight beveled effect—make it look as though it was rounding off towards the edges, as a hat would do. I may still work on the hat some more later. I made the strip across the bottom of the hat a darker shade so that it didn’t look too boring. Now, for the white flower thing, I’m not sure what to call it, it was a challenge at first. I started by trying to make each of the points join together at the center where it would be darker, but as that looked terrible to me, I decided on a much more appealing way of painting it. As you can see, it looks quite soft and pastel-themed almost. I used a slightly large brush size to paint these blobs everywhere to create the effect of something that was puffed out. I’m really pleased with how it turned out, and I love the colours that I used in it. Again, looking at it now, the hat will probably need some more doing to it, but right now, I was roughly done with the painting.

Finished Queen Elizabeth Illustration with Cover

[tgr489]

Mystery girl

I’d had minimal contact with my ex all week but I found myself going past her hotel a little too often, was trying to see if I’d catch a glimpse of her with a guy. What for? To prove what I’d seen was correct? Probably. I decided I would ask her anyway face to face when I saw her, but that never happened, meeting her I mean, I would ask her when I saw her next. The night before I was due to catch up with her I couldn’t sleep, too many thoughts running through my head as usual so took a couple of sleeping pills, 3 to be exact. They seemed to do the trick, knocking me out like a tranquilzer and offering up one of the most vivid dreams I’ve had for a while which scared the fucking shit out of me. Not because it was anything on the horror front, it was far from it, but it’s realism had me wake up in a pool of sweat with my heart beating like a jack hammer trying to get out of bed. Pacing around the room trying to make sense of what I’d experienced and whether it had been a dream or actually happened worried me even more, but I couldn’t. It felt like the weekend I took Ayahausca, the real, merging with the imaginary, some of what I had seen had actually happened but in a different way, like I was reliving that moment and got to decide an alternative outcome. I tried to call Lily to explain to her to see if she could help me make sense of it, but she didn’t answer, which is when I realised it was still only 6am-ish. I stripped from my cold wet t-shirt and shorts and had a shower then went to try Lily again but it was still early. I was still fraught so had a banger to try calm me down. I needed to speak to her desperately but didn’t want to wait so a rash decision was made to go see her. I grabbed my helmet and ran the few blocks to get my bike, hoping it’d give me no troubles, which thankfully it didn’t, and I was off.

I didn’t have much gas so took it easy through the city and tunnel and peeled off the expressway to find a gas station in Newark. Fuck that place is depressing. Sorry if anyone reading this lives there. While I was filling up I couldn’t get a parody of Empire State of Mind I’d once heard out my head. Must look that up again on YouTube. With the tank full I was off, taking it easy again, getting to grips with myself and the road. In the end I put the fear of my dream behind me, a bit, and concentrated on the road opening the bike up more and by the time I’d hit Springfield I was totally focussed and cruising at a nifty 200kph eating up the distance, pushing it to over 250 at one point which that was a bit hairy. I took the last stretch of the journey pretty sedate, arriving in Mt Union in just over 2.5 hrs, epic. I was flush with adrenaline, feeling a little overwhelmed. I knocked on the door and there was no answer, had my jaunt out her been in vain and she was away? I sat down on the porch and thought for a moment and I could feel the panic in me start to rise wondering why I’d bothered to come and maybe I should’ve just tried to see my shrink. I rolled a banger for want if something to do and as I smoked I looked around her yard seeing various kids toys dotted about. No one leave with all the stuff about I thought. I called her again and as it started ringing a car pulled into the driveway, it was Lily, I almost started crying as the feeling of relief washed over me. I walked to her car as she was getting out, staring out me with a quizzical look on her face and as she was saying ‘hey Rye what are you doing here?’ I gave her a big hug and said ‘thanks for being here, I need to talk’. She’d figured that out by my early calls but had been running errands and apologised for not calling back and said I should’ve messaged her, which hadn’t even crossed my mind. Stupid, but no substitute for speaking in person. I helped her in with some things and put stuff away, with some general friendly small talk. She gave me a hard time for riding so fast. We made coffee then we sat down in her garden on the terrace and got down to why I was there, my dream.

It went as follows - I walking down a street busy with people, it was familiar, maybe a street in the village but the feeling it gave me was of a time i lived in Sydney, but it was more European with the streets a little narrower. I was wandering fairly aimlessly, people watching as one does, checking out the eye candy, when a girl walked past me and we made eye contact for the briefest of moments. She had a clarity around her that the others didn’t, her eyes, large and dark lashed, like that iconic photo of Twiggy, no other make-up visible, gave me the slightest of smiles. As she passed I turned to check her out from behind, as I do, because she looked familiar, too familiar like I knew her, but she was further away in the crowd than should’ve been possible. Something compelled me to follow her, so I did. It was like that scene in the matrix, Neo following Morpheus, I was getting bumped by those coming towards me while the girl seemed to slip through unscathed. Every now again she would turn her head as if knowing I was following, teasing me with the ease of her passage, until all I could see was her blonde pony tail bobbing in the distance. Frustration was mounting so I stepped into the street as there were no cars, but as soon as I did there was one coming towards me, so I ducked into the other side of the street where there were none, but then one was following me so I had to run to keep ahead of it. I looked for a break in the oncoming cars and darted between them, made the sidewalk, tripped and knocked a load of people over. They never got up, just lay there like mannequins. I was picking myself up as quickly as possible to engage again with the onward run and the girl was standing in front of me offering me her hand. I took those delicate, slender fingers in mine mand stood facing her, unable to speak because I wasn’t sure what to finally say. We stared at each other for minutes but seconds, then she said ‘come and find me then.’ She raised her eyebrows ever so suggestively, turned and walked away. Immediately the crowd surrounded me and she was gone. I tried to pursue her but the crowd was like a mosh pit and I couldn’t escape. At that point I woke up.

All Lily could say was ‘interesting’, then disappeared to make coffee. I rolled a banger. Lily wouldn’t have any at first but it didn’t take much persuasion, she was one of the biggest party mongers I know in her 20s. ‘So what was so scary about the dream? Everyone has those type of dreams at some point, not being able to run away or reach something.’ This I know, I’ve had them, not for ages but I did when I was younger. ‘Because I know the girl, of sorts’ when I say I know her, I don’t, but I’ve seen her a few times in my life, randomly in different places. I explained. The first time I saw her was in San Francisco when I was staying at the Fairmont, it was in the restaurant and she was a few tables away with some friends and I was more captivated by her than the people I was with. Long blonde hair tied in a bun, slim with long slender legs in tight ripped jeans. I saw her again a year or so later in LA, at some party in Hollywood that I got dragged to by Will (Araya’s husband). I recognised her immediately as we passed each other. Same blonde hair, worn down this time with sunnies keeping it back. Blue eyes the colour if forget-me-nots (ironically). I looked behind to confirm, but got pulled away by Will intent on having me speak to someone irrelevant. I saw her again a little later across the terrace. Same figure in shorty shorts, but I couldn’t get away from the knob I was talking to, which I deemed important at the time, and when I did we were leaving for the airport. The last time I saw her was in London about 3 years ago on Leather Lane. I was working at Grey and we were in a breakfast strategy meeting with a client. I was absentmindedly staring out of the window onto the street at the back of the office when there she was, walking past in a white mini dress. I couldn’t mistake that figure and flowing hair. Thinking there was some sort of fate behind me seeing her again I excused myself from the meeting, ran out of the office round to the back hoping to head her off but she was nowhere. I spent the best part of an hour looking around with no luck. Figuring she may have been in her way to work, it was before 9, I looked out for her every morning for a week on the off chance I’d see her again. Sad I know but I was convinced there was something in it, obviously not because I turned up a blank. A few days later I was in New York and forgot all about it.

Lily asked me if I was sure it was the same girl but knew this was a redundant question because she’s aware I never forget faces, so was curious.

She asked me what I thought it meant. All I could say is that maybe I’m supposed to meet that girl, or was supposed to meet her and that’s why I’ve consciously noticed her. I’m a believer in these things, it’s happened to me previous. Once meeting a guy in Bangkok, Eddie, when I first went travelling. We spent a drunken night together, him showing me the ‘sights’ and giving me some pointers for my journey. I saw him again a year later in Darwin as I was getting off a boat from Indonesia, he had been living there for a few months, saving cash to travel on. We spent a couple of hours in the pub together. We then bumped into each other in my local pub in Redfern, Sydney, nearly a year ater. He had just arrived and taken a room in a house 2 doors down from where I was living. We ended up becoming best friends and business partners in a venture there. I have also wondered if the mystery girl had ever noticed me and has had the same dream, or one where she is asking me to find her. Lots of questions. Lily said I was in tune with ‘the signs’ that surround each of us, or more so than most. She gave me a book to read ‘The Power of Now’ by Eckhart Tolle, said I can learn a little more from it about living more in the present. She said that people generally have the hang ups of living in the past or worrying about the future and that stops them noticing and focusing on the present. This is true and i recognise in some respects I’m like a kid like that, not really dwelling on the past and planning for the future very little. Will give it a read and see what it throws up.

I went with Lily to pick her kids up from their friends rather than hang around the house, and was tasked with entertaining them when we returned so Lily could sort out dinner. It certainly was a challenge to mediate between each of their demands. Raiden just wanting to play footie and run around the garden, Yasmin with her dolls and a strange game of schools. Was glad when Josh came home to give me a break. Kids require an energy exertion on a while other level, something I’m not remotely prepared for. Dinner was an amazing squash risotto which didn’t last long and there were clean plates all round. I cleaned up while the parents out there kids to bed and I was just about to sneak out to the garden for a banger when I was told I had to read bedtime stories, demands from the kids. Was easy, Dr Seuss for both, ‘Oh the Places You’ll Go’ and my fave ‘Fox in Socks’. Was tired at the end and supremely grateful when I came to the kitchen to find my friends chatting with a bottle of wine open. ‘You’re good with the kids,’ Lily said ‘you’ll make a good dad one day.’ I could only come back with the fact I’m not ready to give up my current life. Josh just said that a nice balance is always found when it comes to kids. It’s a toughie because there’s only one real way to find out, and there’s no turning back once you do. Josh was beat by 10 so he crashed leaving Lily and me to stay up a little longer, reminiscing over days long since past until she turned in leaving me to finally have that banger and crash.

Next morning was a shocker. Woken by Yasmin climbing into bed with me at 6 along with so many cuddly toys. Tried to ignore her but it was a big fat fail, her persistence was admirable. I got up and asked if she wanted pancakes, of course she did, and went to get her brother. Josh came in at 7 to a peaceful kitchen with his kids well fed. ‘You’re a natural’ he stated. ‘Once is fine. Every day would be a different story’ I said. Lily followed shortly after and simply said ‘you’re going to work with Josh today, I have things to do’ I was gonna bail back home but with some arm twisting I was convinced to stay, until Sunday.

I got some work gear from Josh and we went to the project he was mid-way through. He owns his own joinery business and is currently building and installing a bespoke kitchen for some huge house not far from theirs. His work is good and the team he has follow the same perfectionist mantra. I spent the day being a lackey and humping things back and forwards which had me pretty shattered and aching by clocking off time. Post slog beers were very well received. As soon as we got home we were attacked by his kids and their demands for attention. He got off Scott free as I, being the newbie, was the main focus. I managed an hour before I was done and went for a shower, totally fucked. Josh took over parental responsibilities and said that Lily and me should go out to catch up, so kind. We went to a pretty good bar and had too many beers, for her not me. Was hilarious seeing someone who used to be able to outpace me 2-1 on all fronts in such a stupor by the end of the night. I had to wonder if Josh knew how crazy she’d been in her past and whether she’d told that we’d once had a brief thing. The walk home cured most of her wobbles so she was ripe for a smoke when we got back. She shouldn’t have done but did. Sitting together on her terrace brought back old times, post club/party, when we’d shoot the shit and ramble on about everything and nothing. How things have changed, more for her than me. Rain came so we took it inside and settled on the sofa in the den. She was asleep in no time sprawled out with her legs over me. It was bedtime but I felt selfish, wanting to hang on to something buried in the past. I sat there for about 30 mins stroking her legs and staring at her, thinking how bearing twins had been kind on her body, that motherhood suited her and could it have been different between us. I came to the conclusion that what we had was special and I wouldn’t‘ve changed it any way because we had always been great friends and anything else may have soiled that. I needed to sleep, so flipped the other way so we were top and tail and passed out.

Not quite so brutal a wake up on Saturday but it was still fairly early. My alarm clock was kids in the kitchen having breakfast. Listening to them chattering away was fairly entertaining. It was a pretty nice day so we went for a drive into the forest and had a picnic. I spent most of my time talking to Josh as I got the feeling he was put up to it by Lily to have a man to man talk. I’m sure she’s given him lots to go on following our Ayahausca weekend us guys open up differently to each other. His advice - if it were me I’d have nothing to do with the woman from LA and I’d move on. Sounds like you have a few options. Easier said than done when you’re dealing with it at the front line. With the day dead and the kids in bed is grown ups cracked a bottle another bottle of wine and sick of talking about me I settled on asking and finding out even more about their going’s on. They have a solid plan for the next 5 and 10 years, by which time their kids will almost be adults. I’m lucky if I can think 10weeks into the future with any degree of clarity. Is that bad, or living in the moment good? I went to bed on the question of what do I wanna be doing at 40?

I left around mid-morning, much to the disappointment of the kids, so I promised to come back. ‘Lily’s parting words - ‘don’t get involved with Elise, she’s bad news, and I think deep down you know it, but don’t want it to be true.’ It made me sad to hear it but I trust her so much and it’s the truth. ‘There’s a girl out there who you obviously want, subconsciously, you just have to find her.’ ‘How do you find someone when you don’t even know their name?’ ‘Look for the signs Riley. Besides you’re a smart and resourceful chap.’ She gave me a kiss on the check and said ‘promise me you’ll ride safe.’ I did, but only after I did a wheelie away from the house and up the street.

Later gators

[theoptimisticpatriot]

English identity and being white (5)

A personal reflection by Sunder Katwala, Director, British Future

Nobody told me when I was eight years old that there was any question of whether I was English. It was the first national identity crisis that I can remember: would Kevin Keegan would be fit to go to Spain for the 1982 World Cup? I was football-mad kid. The newsagent kept a reserved copy of Shoot! Magazine for me every week. How could anyone think that England’s prospects were none of my business?

Like most people, I had a national identity a long time before I held of any theories about national identity. I probably started out as “equally English and British” without hearing about how sociologists ask people to weight the relative importance of our different national identities, given that our teams competed under both names in different sports. Realising that I was English may even have come first, by a random quirk of sporting chronology. Having had no memory at all of the 1980 Moscow Olympics, when I was just six, I do remember being glued to the 1984 Games beamed in from Los Angeles. After a fierce controversy about whether the South African teenager Zola Budd should be allowed to become British, I saw Seb Coe, Daley Thompson and Tessa Sanderson win gold medals for Britain. Whether you could be black and British was not something that my ten year old self would have assumed was a settled question, though some people were pleasantly surprised to see that confirmed again, by Linford Christie draped in the Union Jack in Barcelona in 1992, or even when Mo Farah won his gold medals at the London Olympics another two decades later.

Of course, my teenage self gradually became aware that national identity was more controversial and contested than I had realised as a child. Attending football matches in the 1980s introduced me to vocal and visceral public racism, and then to anti-racism too. I heard Cyrille Regis talk about receiving a bullet in the post warning him not to step on to the Wembley turf to play for England. I saw bananas thrown at John Barnes – and heard that England fans had chanted “one-nil” when he scored his brilliant, mazy goal against Brazil in the Maracana, to put England two-nil up. Black goals didn’t count was the theory, for those whose allegiance to the National Front trumped celebrating the team’s best player. Who should be allowed to be English was clearly something that some people wanted to argue about.

I didn’t know much about politics – but politicians seemed to have a lot to say about sport and identity. When I was sixteen, Norman Tebbit declared that a large proportion of Britain’s Asians failed to pass his cricket test. “Which side do they cheer for? Its an interesting test. Are you still harking back to where you came from or where you are?”

I didn’t like that. My Dad had been here over two decades. Expecting him to ditch India for England to prove his loyalty to this country didn’t seem realistic or fair. Its not how identity works – and it wasn’t really cricket. But my main problem with this “cricket test” was that I had always passed it. I vividly recall my Dad jumping dementedly around the living room as the underdogs India defeated the invincible West Indies in the 1983. I was happy that they won – but it was his team, rather than mine. Still, the test really wasn’t cricket. I still supported England – though not really, to be honest, against that brilliant West Indies team of Viv Richards – but kept rather quieter about it. Insistent demands for assimilation can set back the thing that they claim to want.

My eighteen year old self would have been considerably “more British than English”, though undoubtedly still both. The public image of Englishness was too exclusive, too aggressive, with supporters marauding around European capitals, singing “if it wasn’t for the English you’d be Krauts”. I got involved in efforts to change that, among football supporters, using the St George’s Flag at Wembley to promote a more positive patriotism. And I became much more confident about being English – again – after the glorious football summer of 1996, in which “football coming home” told a much softer story of a celebratory English identity, not arrogantly expecting victory, but proud of our role as hosts and never giving up hope of one day winning again. 

What do we take from this?

The new YouGov findings for the Centre for English Identity and Politics will come as a pleasant surprise to some.  If Englishness has been largely left to fend for itself, it has done much better than we might have expected. Perhaps we owe rather a lot to John Barnes and Paul Ince, and now to Raheem Sterling, Moeen Ali and Nikita Parris as powerful exemplars of how our country has changed. We have left Gareth Southgate and Lionessses captain Steph Houghton to be narrators of our modern English identity, inviting us all to be part of and support our team, partly because so few others in public life have stepped up.

But it is important to understand that the inclusive Englishness we recognise in sport could also reflect the latent, under-recognised and under-articulated everyday lived reality of England today. 

These findings make me wonder if we have rather underestimated the importance of a “birth-right claim” to English identity as a potential driver of inclusion rather than exclusion.  We worry, naturally, about an exclusive “nativism” in the era of Trump and Salvini. But perhaps we have overlooked how birthright claims have an inclusive impact too. If being born in England is an important, undeniable claim to be English then this inevitably expands the group of who we, the English, are. 

Migrants to Britain like my Dad understood that they were invited to be British: that is what his new passport said. Nobody talked to him about Englishness; migrants to England have rarely identified as English. But that was different for their children, born British, in England. There was no sense for us of “keeping a suitcase packed, just in case” as first generation migrants would sometimes say, metaphorically or actually, when recalling the Powellite era. That birthright confidence that there was nowhere to send us back to extended to a stake in Englishness too.

After all, I was born in a hospital in Doncaster, in Yorkshire, in England on an April day in 1974. My parents had come from India and Ireland to work for the NHS. That is a very British story. But if you are born in England, and grow up in England, or you ever visit friends in Scotland in a United Kingdom increasingly aware that it is a multi-national polity, then it gradually becomes obvious that it is an English story too.

That is why there has been a significant and quiet inter-generational shift – from a sense of belonging to England to the right to stake a claim to English identity. Perhaps seeing John Barnes or Paul Ince on the TV helped to clinch the point – but, once you thought about it, it became obvious that you didn’t need to be called up to play for the national team to share the English identity too. 

Sport can have an unrivalled symbolic power. Nations are imagined communities, where we share something with millions of people that we don’t know. Shared experiences can make us a community of fate, sharing memories of victories and agonising defeats, that become stories of who we are and what we hope for together.  But sport has had an outsized importance, because English identity has so often been invisible outside of the stadium. England has so few institutions – beyond a football, cricket and rugby team, unless we remember a Church famous mainly for being somewhat agnostic.  There is a striking contrast with Scotland – which, for a long time, placed far too great a burden on glorious sporting failure as the symbol of a nation, until a much broader cultural, political and social renaissance in shaping a modern Scottish identity meant that much less would ride on dodgy refereeing decisions on the pitch.  It is time for Englishness to follow suit.

It is not so difficult to be mixed race, English and British, to be black and Asian and English, but that discourse lacks the familiarity of a decisively civic and multi-ethnic Britishness.  We may have seen – and shared and enjoyed - an inclusive Englishness, as a “show not tell” phenomena on the pitch. We have done less to develop a way of talking about English identity that reflected that reality.

These new findings show that is increasingly recognised and accepted – across the generations – as a broadening of the category of who we, the English, are, that most people think now reflects who we, the English, are today. We might not win the women’s football World Cup or the cricket World Cup this summer – but it is good to have some good news about England. It should increase our confidence that we can shape the inclusive Englishness that we want to share.

[ultrasfcb-blog]

Chris Ashton: Sale winger

Chris Ashton: Sale winger

Chris Ashton: Sale winger

Ashton ‘feels like a new player’ after England recall

Sale winger Chris Ashton says he never expected to be back in the international set-up so soon after returning to England.

The 31-year-old has not played for England since 2014, but was named in a 44-man training squad on Thursday.

It comes after he secured an early release from French Top 14 side Toulon to join Premiership side Sale.

“It’s a strange feeling. I feel like a new player and I’m happy to be back in the group,” he told BBC Sport.

“I wasn’t supposed to be back in England. When I went to France I thought that was it for me and I could spend the next few years in France enjoying rugby.

“The season went really well and I enjoyed it, but the more the year went on the more I wanted to be back here and back in this environment.”

‘It was tougher than we thought’

Former Saracens player Ashton broke the Top 14 try-scoring record last season, with 24 tries in 23 appearances, but left Toulon just one season into a three-year contract.

“It bothers me to think I only did a year at it,” he said.

“I thought I was open-minded, but not enough. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be, and maybe the whole purpose of it was for me to do a year. I hope that anyway.

“Pretty quickly my wife and I realised it was going to be tougher than we thought. We went over with a nine-month-old baby. We both have big families and we’re both very family orientated.

“I did very much enjoy the rugby, but family comes first and if we’re not happy at home it’s not much use.”

Chris Ashton has scored 19 tries in 39 appearances for England

‘It always bothered me not being involved’

Wigan-born Ashton was part of Eddie Jones’ first England squad in 2016, before serving bans for biting and eye-gouging.

After impressing in France last season, he scored a hat-trick for the Barbarians against England in May and has been rewarded with a place at a three-day training camp in Teddington.

“I missed playing for England,” he said. “It was tough to watch being in England, and I hoped when I moved to France that would go away but it didn’t. I always wanted to be part of it.

“I’m the kind of person that has to learn for myself. I do things and then learn later. I made the decision I wanted to go and try and I did that.

“It’s always bothered me not being involved, but I hope I’ve got a couple of good years left yet at it.”

With just 14 months until the World Cup in Japan, Ashton says the tournament has always been on his mind.

“The day the World Cup isn’t on my mind is probably the day I stop playing,” he said.

“It’s what everyone wants to win and being in France and seeing that opportunity go by would’ve been tough for me to take. I couldn’t accept that.

“Even if I don’t get in and I don’t play for England, at least I’m giving myself the best opportunity.”

‘I can’t focus on other people’

Ashton, who played the majority of his games for Toulon at full-back, is seen as a winger by England head coach Jones.

It is a position of real depth in the England squad – including players such as Jonny May, Elliot Daly, Anthony Watson, Mike Brown and Jack Nowell – but Ashton says he is not afraid of the competition.

“I’m not bothered where Eddie Jones sees me as long as I get a chance and I get a game I’m happy wherever that is,” he said.

“This is just a small step in the right direction being allowed into the camp for two days and I just hope it carries on.

“We have got some really talented players in the back three but it’s down to me really and I can’t focus on other people. I’ve got to focus on what I’m personally going to do for my team.”

BBC Sport – Rugby Union ultras_FC_Barcelona

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