#john punter

[mychameleondays]

Bryan Ferry: These Foolish Things

Island 87266 IT

Released: 5 October 1973

[thebeths]

[yespleasetommyshelby]

Before he cheats - Modern Tommy Shelby x reader

I've had this song stuck in my head for days and it's gotta go 😩 This literally took me all of 2 hours to plan/write/post and it hasn't been proofread so bare with!

Enjoy! 🥰

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"56, 57, 58, 59, 60, that's it, I'm done." I huffed as i threw my phone onto the sofa besides me, frown on my face as I sighed. "That's two fucking hours!" I muttered to myself stamping my feet into my trainers I threw my coat on before picking up my phone on some final hope that I'd actually had a reply, but low and behold, obviously not.

"Fucking Thomas Shelby always thinking with his mother fucking dick." I continued to mutter under my breath as I left my home on Watery Lane slamming the door behind me, my chest burning in anger. Stepping out onto the path I shoved my hands into my coat pockets, fists clenched as I headed the short distance down the road to the house where I'd practically grown up.

"Watch where you're fucking going!" I screeched as a teenager flew past on his bike almost knocking me into the road. "Fucking males and their fucking shit." I continued to slate each and every male that came into view in the 2 minutes it took to get to my destination, 'men are all the bloody same' my mum used to say, 'honestly, get yourself a women, their much easier.' Looking back maybe I should've taken her advice.

"Where is he?" I asked as I pushed open the doors to the betting shop that sat in Watery Lane, the punters and staff going silent as I watched with my hands on my hips. "Oh come on, you know exactly who I'm talking about!" I all but yelled into the silent room, after being with Tommy for 2 years now I had almost as much authority as him, almost.

"Y/n, not here." Polly's voice had my head on a swivel, finally spotting her in the doorway to John's office I stormed over ignoring the looks I was getting from everyone.

"Where is he Pol?" I sighed as I flopped down into Johns office chair. "And why are you in here?" I asked noticing that John wasn't in his own office.

"He's disappeared with Esme somewhere, honestly these Shelby boys and their dicks are ridiculous." She mumbled, lighting the cigarette she held in her hand.

"Tell me about it." I sighed, knowing that if Tommy wasn't in the office he was only going to be in one other place. "He's at the Garrison then." I asked, watching as she froze slightly before shaking her head.

"I think so, yeah, what's he done this time?" She sighed as she rubbed her eyes, having dealt with nothing but pissed up (and off) men and women placing bets they can't afford all morning, dealing with her nephews love life was definitely not on her to do list.

"Nothing Pol, he's done nothing which is the fucking problem! He was supposed to meet me 2 hours ago and I haven't heard anything since a lousy morning text all because he's too busy with that fucking whore Grace!" I ranted, reaching out and taking one of her cigarettes before lighting it and slamming the lighter down on the desk. "You know what I'm done." My voice sounded much more convinced then my mind as I said the words.

Shaking my head I stood up in a flash, out of Johns office and into Tommys within a second, without looking I reached behind Tommys desk and picked up the baseball bat that I knew he kept there in case of emergency's. Pushing my way past Polly who was stood in the doorway I made my way through the punters and out into the street without a second look, the bat weighing heavy in my hand.

"Y/n! What are you doing?!" Pol's voice follows me out into the street. "Come back inside!" She yelled, passers by stopping to look at the scenes, before a sharp look from Pol had them walking on.

"Woah! What's going on here?" I was stopped in my tracks as Arthur, John and Esme appeared from the corner ahead of me, grins on their faces as they looked from the bat in my hand to the scowl on my face.

"Looks to me that she's off to play baseball." John laughed, his input met with a thud on his chest by his wife.

"Would you two idiots shut up already." She giggled slightly as she pushed her husband into his older brother. "Now what's up with the bat?" She asked, smirking slightly as she had a feeling she knew exactly where you was going, after sitting on the phone for an hour the last time Tommy pissed you off she knew not to get in the way.

"Like John boy said." I shrugged, my hold on the bat tightening ever so slightly. "I'm going to practice baseball with a nice new shiny Land Rover I saw parked outside of the Garrison." I grinned before pushing my way through the trio and continuing on my way.

I couldn't help but let out a loud laugh as the Garrison came into view and just as I had predicted there was brand new Land Rover sat outside its doors. The brand new Land Rover that only 3 days ago I had travelled up to Scotland to collect with Tommy, not knowing that it would be the last journey I'd take with both him and the car.

"Y/n come on back to the shop love, we'll sort this shit out." Polly pleaded once more making me stop in my tracks, the Shelby's had been like a family to me, even in the years before me and Tommy had officially gotten together, being friends with Ada and all.

"I'm sorry Pol." I sighed shaking my head as I turned to face her and the trio that had followed behind. "But right now, right now he's probably slow dancing with that bleach blonde tramp and she's probably getting frisky. Right now he's probably buying her some fruity little drink 'cause she can't shoot whisky." I laughed a little, knowing for a fact that she couldn't handle the drink that Thomas Shelby worships so much. "Right now he's probably up behind her with a pool stick showing her how to shoot a combo, but he don't know." I laughed as I reached into my pocket and pulled out my keys, my hand wrapping around the longest and sharpest of them all, ironically the spare key Tommy had given me for this exact car.

I could help but grin as I stuck my key through the shiny black metal of the drivers door, the small act creating some kind of pleasure, a pleasure that only increased as I walked my way down the car, the key dragging a horribly crooked line right down the side.

"Right that's enough now! Cut this shit out!" Polly yelled, her eyes flickering between her nephews burnt lover and the door which he could come through at any second. "Think about what you're doing y/n." She almost pleaded, or at least as close as I'd ever seen her.

Ignoring her I made my way round to the passengers side, the metal bat dragging across the floor being the only sound to be heard, except for the muffled giggles that the other two Shelby brothers struggled to keep back. A wave of emotion hit me as I climbed into the car, a lone tear slipping down my cheek which I quickly wiped away.

"He doesn't deserve it." I muttered to myself as I quickly wiped it away without a second thought. "Fuck him and all the whores he's had in this fucking car." I growled gripping my keys as I began to carve my name into the leather seat.

"What the fuck is going on right now?!" My head snapped up as I heard another voice, Ada having stumbled upon my little rage room experiment, shall we call it.

"Ada! Nice of you to join us, i'll tell you what's going on shall I?" I asked as I hopped down from the car swing the bat up over my shoulder as I waved over to her. "Right now, your brother, you know the one that I'm supposedly engaged to, is in there living it up with that Irish tart of a woman!" I yelled, using the bat to point towards the door, not caring how loud my voice had gotten. "Right now she's probably up singing some white trash version of Shania karaoke, right now she's probably saying 'I'm drunk' and he's thinking that he's gunna get lucky! Right now, he's probably dapping on three quids worth of that bathroom polo!" I screamed, the more thought I put into what was actually going on just inside fuelling the rage even more.

I let out a gut wrenching scream as I swung the bat into his headlight, once, twice, three times moving on to the next I swung again laughing as the glass crashed to the floor before swing it into the windscreen for good measure. Throwing the bat to the floor I put my hands on my hips and grinned as I looked at the mess that was Tommy Shelby's new car before making my way over to Arthur.

"I need your knife." Holding my hand out infront of him. "Please Arthur." I sighed knowing that he always carried one no matter where he went.

With a sigh and grin he reached into his pocket and placed the small switch blade into my hand.

"Seriously Arthur?! Why the fucking hell did you give her a knife?!" Polly yelled as she threw her arms up in frustration, knowing that if anyone was going to be killed for this it wasn't going to be her.

"She asked nicely Pol." He shrugged, loving the fact that his brother was about to have the surprise of a lifetime and all he had to do was sit and watch.

Sticking the knife into the front tyre I smirked as the hiss of air filled the air, walking round and putting a knife slash in all of the tires for good measure, I stood back with a grin laughing at the look of amusement over the 3 Shelby siblings faces, the smirk on Esme's and the fed up look Polly had been giving me for the last 10 years.

"What the fucking hell is going on?!" The man of the hour roared as he stepped out onto the street, the pub doors banging against the walls before Grace appeared behind him, eyes cast down. "Answer me!" He bellowed, the vein in his neck popping with each syllable.

"Hi Tommy, remember me?" I asked sarcastically making his eyes jump to me, his face dropping ever so slightly. "You know, the fiance that you used to have!" I stepped forwards as I spoke shoving him back slightly, knowing if it was anyone else they would have recieved a bullet to the head, but I knew he'd never lay a hand on me.

"Y/n? I thought we were meeting later?" He asked, brows furrowed in confusion as he pulled his phone out of his pocket, the numerous texts and missed calls flashing on the screen and the time that read two and a half hours after the planned meeting time. "Oh." He muttered, wiping his hand across his face. "What have you done?" He asked as his eyes trailed along the nice long line that now travels the length of his new car.

"Yeah, oh." I nodded, laughing slightly as Grace stepped out besides him. "I suppose you missed the show while you were in there with ol' Gracie here. But I'll give you a rundown shall I? Well I dug my key into the side of your pretty little souped up four wheel drive, carved my name into your leather seats. I took a Louisville slugger to both headlights and slashed a hole in all four tires, maybe next time you'll think before you cheat." I couldn't help the tears that fell next, the adrenaline slowing and my whole body began to ache, the end of an era, me and the Shelby's.

"Y/n-" "No." I cut him off, not wanting to listen to any kind of reasoning he would throw at me, anything to get him back in the good book. "I might've saved a little trouble for the next girl, because the next time that you cheat, oh you know it won't be on me, no, not on me." I wiped my eyes before pulling of the ring that he had given me 6 months ago. "Guess I'll give it to you aye, Gracie." I muttered, throwing the ring at her feet before turning to walk away.

"Y/n!" His voice reached my ears just as I'd passed Polly, Arthur, John, Esme and Ada. "Y/n please!"

"Bye Tom!" I yelled without turning back, keeping my head up I shoved my hands into my pockets and carried on, not giving them the chance to see the tears that were currently streaming down my face.

-----

There you have it! My first fic where they don't end up happily ever after, hopefully you enjoyed!

Feel free to send any requests! 💖

[idontknowreallywhy]

75 - Part 2

Next part of this Scott’s-75th Birthday-Romantic-Fluff-Fest

If you are likely to be offended by the thought of old people still getting up to implied romantic mischief, maybe back away slowly 😆

💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙

Brains’ jaw had dropped, cartoon-like, when Scott had suggested One could be modded to include a permanent co-pilot seat. It had made logical sense though - as they expanded the rosta and needed to train the new recruits - it wasn’t ideal for the second to be confined to the jump seat with very little view of what was going on or ability to take over if things went south.

It was all about the quality of the trainee experience and not in any way about what the instructor had access to once the trainee got into the hot seat…

Alan had requested an anti-backseat-driver protocol to disable the co-pilot controls by default.

Scott had overruled him.

In fairness he was a decent teacher, especially when it came to all things airborne. He’d discovered a level of calm, of patience that didn’t seem to feature highly in any other area of his life. And, initial nervousness aside, his pupils seemed to enjoy the process of being taught which must be a good measure. The back seat driving thing? That was strictly reserved for when a brother was sat in front. He had never quite forgotten the pole cat incident after all. Nor had he quite forgiven his youngest brother for turning out to be a more instinctive pilot…

But he behaved himself impeccably with the younger end of the family and the other trainees.

He’d got a real thrill every time he watched one of them cross the threshold between Knowing-how and Feeling-how to fly Thunderbird One. She’d never been a Read-the-Manual kind of a ship which was why John and Virgil hated flying her. Some of the recruits, while achieving a level of competence, agreed very quickly with his brothers. But others, his eldest in particular, had Understood and he had glowed with pride as first One and then Eleven became almost an extension of her very limbs.

There was only one person he’d taught to fly by actually sharing the pilot seat, however. It maybe hadn’t been the most efficient series of lessons… he’d had to sneak into the file storage and edit a few of the security videos… before EOS caught him. Once he explained that certain certain others might be embarrassed to happen across the footage she’d at once offered to automatically cease recording and patch in a loop whenever the two of them embarked on a non-mission flight. Next to his wife, the AI had long been Scott’s staunchest conspirator.

As the years went on and the mission workload was shared between more people and then more ships, the chances to escape on those non-mission flights increased.

Scott had always loved to watch the sunrise. His wife… well she had needed persuading as to the merits of losing that extra couple of hours in bed. And when Scott Tracy needed to argue his case, he did it in style.

And thus was born their secret hobby of chasing down the best of the best. He’d started with Wainui Beach, naturally… then Uluru was also pretty much in their backyard. Of course having an aircraft that kind of permitted time travel over long distances helped, with the added benefit that if SOMEONE slept in too long to catch the one they’d planned, they could find another by chasing the horizon just a little further back. They’d covered the top 50 rated sunrises on the planet within a couple of years, then started hunting down the viewpoints nobody else knew about - the ones that were best viewed from a little higher than the average punter could climb...

It had also been a good excuse for his wife to peel him off the island when the Retired Commander’s tendency to back-seat-drive rescues caused… friction… with IR’s Actual Commander. Scott knew precisely what mother and daughter were up to but enjoyed their expeditions so much he never quite got around to objecting very strongly.

“Where to M’lady?”

She looked at her watch and did some mental calculation before frowning a little. Scott found himself distracted by wanting to run a fingertip over one of her silvery eyebrows and almost missed her answer.

“Hmmm, well given the date I was going to suggest Kala Patthar… but we took a little longer getting down here than I realised.”

Scott eyed his watch.

“What time do we need to be there?”

“Five thirty-seven.”

“And six and a quarter hours back… it’s not quite ten yet, we’ve got time?”

“Not at Mach 5, we’ll just miss it. No worries we can pick another site further… oh don’t make that face, Mr Tracy, you know the rules.”

“Oh come oooon… it’s my birthday! We can nudge the ceiling up just a teeny tiny little bitty bit?” He carefully adjusted his facial expression from petulant to puppy dog and, predictably, her expression softened just a fraction at the edges. He stepped it up with a little flicker of the eyelashes and, with only long experience and the faintest twitch of an eyebrow as warning, he ducked the cuff around the head she aimed at him.

“You’re irascible.”

“You love it.” He pulled her close and kissed her passionately. She sighed in mock defeat and patted his cheek.

“Hmmmmmm. Alright. Not above seven, though, or I’ll set the Tank on you.”

Scott punched the air in triumph and she burst into laughter. With a quick fist-bump to One’s landing strut and a cheerful “See you in a minute, Gorgeous” he grabbed his wife’s hand and towed her towards the pilot lift, the two of them giggling like a couple of teenagers.

[radfemsouthy]

Liberal feminists don’t care about women.

This South African libfem (who also works for the UN) is pushing for sex buying to be decriminalised in South Africa. It’s one thing to decriminalise the sex workers (women shouldn’t be punished), but it’s another to decriminalise the pimps, punters & johns too.

Statistics show that countries that legalise or decriminalise sex buying for johns see drastic increases in sex trafficking.

South Africa is known as “the rape capital of the world.”

The country is also a haven for international criminal organisations, many of which also traffic women.

She’s the same woman who wrote an article for Teen Vogue about why sex work is a legitimate career. This is an online magazine targeted towards teenage girls.

[beatleskinkmeme]

Late ‘80s/early ‘90s AU

John is down on his luck, and broke. Yoko took most of the money in their divorce, and what he had left, he lost in a spectacularly bad financial investment of Magic Alex’s musical time-travelling equipment. Having alienated nearly all of his friends, he spends his days hanging out at the bookies he brought for Pete Shotton, occasionally strumming his guitar for punters, but mostly writing angry letters to Melody Maker about Paul. Who, by the way has just completed his most financially successful sell out world tour yet. John writes furious letters that he has become a corporate sell out and sold his soul to THE MAN. One day he issues a challenge to Paul. Can he remember the spirit of rock n’ roll? Never mind about the stadiums, how about joining him on a Nerk Twins reunion tour? Just John and Paul, their guitars, and revisiting the tiny venues they played at in Caversham, the Isle Of Wight and Scotland. (He neglects to mention that the memory of what they used to get up to in their tiny single bed during this time is currently his number one wank bank fantasy). To his utter shock, Paul responds with a letter of his own to Melody Maker, accepting the challenge, and tells John that he’ll be waiting at the gates to Strawberry Field, at noon, with his guitar. Shit, what have I agreed to?! panics John. Too late now, The Nerk Twins are back!

.

[stephensmithuk]

The Hound of the Baskervilles: Second Report of Dr. Watson

CW for the NHS link as it contains some unpleasant pictures. Also a discussion of capital punishment.

Hearing aids were around at this time and electronic ones were being developed, but were not always very practical:

Some insect nets you can buy today:

"Confederate" means an ally. It does not mean that someone who dislikes Abraham Lincoln is around, even if the CSA got its name from that time.

"The devil entered into him" is a reference to Luke 22:3, where Satan "enters" into Judas at the Last Supper. In that context it is a willing demonic possession, Judas already being inclined to betray Jesus.

A scaffold in this context is a raised, stage-like area intended for public executions; so the punters could get a good view. While public hangings had stopped at this point, the term remained in use for execution facilities within prisons, even if they didn't look like the classic scaffold at this point; the hanged person usually dropping out of sight of any spectators.

The "yellow face" in this context is because Selden might well have jaundice:

Shooting an unarmed man who was running away would have Watson on a murder charge; he could not claim self-defence.

[muzaktomyears]

We took to the stage in the depths of depression. Bruno, very much in evidence, yelled at us that we must ‘make show’, which we did, more as a release for our mounting anger rather than to please him.

“All the way from Liverpool to leap around like a lot of idiots!” Lennon summed up. For that’s what ‘making show’ was all about – jumping around aimlessly, stamping, writhing on the floor. None of us had ever acted the fool like this on stage before.

[…] We went from one extreme to the other. John and Paul were the looniest. John did his best to imitate Gene Vincent, grabbing up the microphone as if he were going to lay into the audience with it, carrying it around with him, leaping about with it like a maniac. Paul roared around screaming like Little Richard and, as the days passed, an act developed.

Stu behaved something like a puppet and managed to hold on to the sort of James Dean image he had fostered, quietly trying to stay cool in the background behind his dark shades. There was not much I could do from behind the drums other than stand up and hop around the kit with a tom-tom under my arm. George paid serious attention to his guitar-playing, trying to prevent the sets from becoming too ridiculous.

The German rockers loved it and no one realized – least of all Bruno – that we were trying to take the piss out of them. But in the end it worked against us. This was the Beatles developing, creating excitement. ‘Making show’ would eventually take us over. However, at first it was a protest for the treatment we were receiving, letting ourselves rip because of the lousy digs and the sub-survival wages of £15 a week each.

We had one number we used to put in that began very slowly and sounded like smooch music. The audience would take to the floor and get all cuddly and close, then suddenly we would erupt into a frenzied rock tempo. At first it took the Germans by surprise – to us it was another form of protest – but then they started to request the song where we changed gear in mid-stream! Another back fire.

We used to stomp around half crazed for more than seven hours a night. Making show? You’ve never seen anything like it. Sometimes Paul wouldn’t even have his guitar plugged in, but no one noticed the omission with all the noise that went on. John used to roll around on stage when he wasn’t throwing the mike in the air; then he would twist himself into a hunch-back pose. By way of a change he would jump on Paul’s back and charge at George and Stu and send them reeling. Sometimes they would give each other piggy-backs. What little music there was would be made by George and Stu and most of that was simply rhythm. Other times John would hurl himself into a sort of flying ballet leap from the stage into the audience and end up doing the splits.

While the audience was dancing, John and Paul often jumped down from the stage and bundled into them like wild bulls; or maybe they would do ring-of-roses with them. But this is what the punters wanted and had paid money for. They didn’t want to sit around the listen to original Beatles’ music – not that a lot existed at this stage – and it was obvious that they appreciated the outrageous slapstick rather than the musicianship. They started to call us the beknakked Beatles – a German slang word that described us as the mad or crazy Beatles – but we never stopped to worry about it.

[…] Many of the stories that have been told over the years about the way we used to behave on stage allege that the Beatles used to have serious fights in front of the audiences. That wasn’t strictly true: a lot of it was just part of ‘making show’. What used to appear to be a brawl on stage began at the Indra, where nightly we began to take more liberties in the cause of ‘making show’. Paul, with possibly only one string on an unplugged guitar, would rush up to John while he was singing and pretend to butt hm. Feigning anger, Lennon would retaliate. It must have all appeared to be very real to the patrons and used to wind them up, but it was sheer pretence, a mock battle in which nobody was hurt. In those early days we were extremely close and the best of friends at all times and we would go through much together in the spirit of five rather seedy musketeers.

There is no doubt that John and Paul gave their all to ‘making show’ – even If they did find it a release from the frustrations besetting us all. Lennon gradually became bolder with each week that passed, haranguing the paying customers as ‘fucking Krauts’, or Nazis or Hitlerites. Later he extended this repertoire of venom to ‘German spassies’ (spastics), indulging in his obsession with the disabled which would later manifest itself more publicly in his writings, drawings and statements during interviews. For their part, the Germans, whom he also advised to ‘get up and dance, you lazy bastards!’, rarely showed any sign of understanding and would often applaud his insults.

[…] He gave many people in the audiences the impression that he was a buffoon, but what he did on stage was simply a form of escapism for him. He played the idiot who shouted his mouth off and yelled obscenities but was the outright victor in any slanging match. It was the kind of behaviour they came to expect of him. After these bitter attacks on the people who were paying our wages Lennon would simmer down as though he had just aired some long pent-up grievance and was relieved to have got it off his chest.

I used to try and explain this abuse of audiences to myself but could only conclude that John harboured no deep hatred of the Germans and that they were simply the scapegoats for his increasing frustration at having to entertain them in a fashion that really wasn’t his style.

At the Indra we acquired a friend who would stand by the Beatles for a long time to come. She was a lavatory attendant, a lady whom we christened Mutti. Anyone over the age of twenty seemed old to us, but I reckon Mutti must have been in her fifties, hence our nickname for her, sounding something like the German word for mother – Mutter. She was in nightly attendance backstage, where our poky dressing room adjoined the toilets (where else?). When we came off stage she would be waiting for the perspiring Beatles with towels and paper napkins and changes of shirt, which was very necessary after the rigours of ‘making show’.

Almost nightly as well she had to prepare a needle and thread for John to repair his pants after his dare-devil Nureyev leaps. But he always insisted on making his own renovations, just sitting there in his underpants, sewing away and using something like sailor’s tacks and a few reef knots. (Needless to say the repair would give way after the next performance!) If anyone arrived backstage – male or female – while he was working away in his underwear he would simply invite them to ‘come in and make yourself at home’ and continue with the task.

Beatle! The Pete Best Story, Pete Best and Patrick Doncaster (1985)

[augustusaugustus]

12.87 Playing It by the Rules

DEAKIN: Jim, look after the shop, will you? Keep the punters happy. CARVER: ???

Brownlow’s put a total ban on overtime, which is as popular as you’d think, and Chris is trying to get a woman he knows from his robbery squad days to grass on her boyfriend. John, meanwhile, is confused and unimpressed when Chris seems to be on a drugs suspect’s side in his interviews.

[blueiight]

Do you happen to know a good book about black americans in France before WWI? Around the Belle Epoque?

i cant think off the top of my head anything specific but i like these sources taking a look at the belle epoque [sections pulled under readmore] ..if anyone has specifically what this person’s looking for id love to see

In the northern quarter of the Bois de Boulogne in February 1891, not far from the bridle paths where the fashionable women rode à l’amazone, an Englishman called John H. Hood positioned thirty-eight men and women from the Kingdom of Dahomey in West Africa in an animal enclosure in the zoological gardens. “Ethnographic exhibitions” were guaranteed money in the pot—crowds were always up a third, more francs clattering through the cash registers. Since one showman brought fourteen “Nubians” as foils to his wild animals in 1877, there had been Samis, Kalmuks, Araucanians, Somalis, Ashantis, and Senegalese. Their appearance was organized by the French government to pique the public’s interest in colonial expansion. The Society for Anthropology came to measure skulls and complain, in 1881, that they were not permitted to examine the genitals of the Tierra del Fuegians. In January 1891, the Nouveau Cirque’s pantomime was La Cravache (“The Whip”), featuring Chocolat [the stage name of Rafael Padilla, an Afro-Cuban man born into slavery turned famous performer in France during the Belle Epoque] as a servant arrested by a policeman who thinks he is a Somali escaped from the zoological gardens. That year, the zoo offered punters the female Dahomey soldiers, or N’Nonmiton, whom they called Amazons. “These famous warrioresses, strange and legendary, who appear to us like a fantastical vision,” enthused the pamphlet that accompanied the show, “in I know not what troubling vapors of an African mirage, are here, under our eyes, with their picturesque uniforms, their deadly weapons, their dance and their war games, their savage and valiant demeanor.” The N’Nonmiton wore long striped skirts and strings of beads that crisscrossed their torsos, and duly waved scimitars and muskets in drill, while the Parisians watched from outside the enclosure. The previous October, France had defeated Dahomey in a first colonial war. (from the second link)

This period saw the blossoming of print cultures in Africa and the African diaspora, particularly Anglophone areas, which ‘saw an explosion of writing and print, produced and circulated not only by the highly educated and publicly visible figures that dominate political histories of Africa but also by non-elites or obscure aspirants to elite status’, as the work of Karin Barber has outlined. These figures included ‘waged laborers, clerks, village headmasters, traders, and artisans’ who ‘read, wrote, and hoarded texts of many kinds’; ‘[l]ocal, small-scale print production became a part of social life’. What we observe here are not simply ‘isolated examples of the uses of literacy scattered across the continent but the history of a remarkably consistent and widespread efflorescence – a social phenomenon happening all over colonial Anglophone Africa at the same time and with comparable features’ (Barber 2006: 1–3). This flourishing of print cultures was not isolated to the continent. Following Reconstruction in the US there was an explosion in African American literacy and newspaper production: between 1865 and 1900, over 1,200 black newspapers were established (Marable 1991: 8). African American illiteracy rapidly dropped from seventy per cent in 1880 to 30.4 per cent in 1910 (Detweiler 1922: 6). During the early twentieth century, a largely bourgeois postbellum African American press gave way to an increasingly radical mass-circulation media. ‘Never before had so many African Americans purchased and read newspapers produced by and devoted to the interests of their race’, observes a study of this press. ‘Never before had the printed word had as much impact on the everyday lives of middle- and lower-class Blacks’ (Digby-Junger 1998: 263–4). The implications of this efflorescence of print for political affinity – as with the other movements of the period – are far more complex than the ‘nationalism’ allowed for in Benedict Anderson's original formulation. (from the first link)

[natromanxoff]

Daily Sport - April 21, 1992

Credits to Roberto Macchi.

THANKS A BILLION FOR FAB FREDDIE!

[Photo caption: LIVING MEMORY: A Mercury lookalike in the concert crowd]

A MAMMOTH musical tribute to pop legend Freddie Mercury had the world rockin' in the aisles last night.

World rocks to his pop tribute

By ISABELLE MURRAY

A billion fans in more than 70 countries were watching the show live or waiting to see recordings withing 24 hours.

More than 100,000 red ribbons fluttered in the capacity 72,000 crowd in Wembley stadium.

They were a symbol of AIDS — which killed Mercury — and a silent reminder that the mega concert was to raise cash for AIDS relief and research.

Mercury's own image loomed large over the start of the concerts.

Video footage showed him performing his hit Bohemian Rhapsody that had become the show's anthem.

Then the fans cheered, screamed, clapped and wept together as they watched dozens of other top names make their own personal tributes to flamboyant Freddie.

For three hours, the acts from Britain and America thrilled the crowd with their versions of Freddie favourites.

Elton John sang Bohemian Rhapsody again.

Seal had the crowd cheering along as he sang Queen standard Who Wants To Live Forever?

David Bowie and Annie Lennox boomed out a stirring version of the chart hit Under Pressure.

And, in the emotion charged atmosphere, fans wept when George Michael and Lisa Stansfield performed a moving duet of the hit These Are The Days Of Our Lives.

Finally, all the artists sang God Save the Queen, traditional ending to Queen concerts.

The concert — which sold out three hours after it was announced — had fans from all over the world scrambling for tickets.

The international audience included music lovers from Japan, American, Italy, Germany, Scandinavia, France and from all over Britain.

Queue

Hours before the stadium gates opened at 4pm, fans queued for miles to pay a small fortune for concert merchandise.

Legions of sweating caterers poured 26,000 pints of lager and 64,000 colas for thirsty fans.

Peckish punters scoffed 20,000 burgers, 15,000 hot dogs and 3,000 buckets of popcorn.

There were 200 medical workers, including five doctors and a surgeon and 300 security officers.

Backstage, there was even a masseur and accupuncturist ready to deal with the stresses of stardom.

[Photo caption: LIZ: Condom plea]

Liz pays homage

SCREEN legend Liz Taylor flew from Los Angeles with a moving epitaph to Freddie... and a chilling warning for the fans.

She declared: "He died before his time, but the bright light of his talent still exhilarates us."

Then Liz spelled out the AIDS message to her massive worldwide TV audience:

"Protect yourselves. Every time you have sex, use a condom.

"Straight sex, gay sex, bisexual sex. Always use a condom wherever you are.

"The world needs you to live. We love you. We care."

Queen guitarist Brian May pledged that Queen will carry on.

But nobody will ever replace the great man.

• Donations should be sent to: CAF Mercury Phoenix Trust, PO Box 162, Tonbridge, Kent TN9 2XS.

[scotianostra]

Happy Birthday Scottish actor, writer, presenter and comedian Ford Kiernan.

Born Ford John Kiernan on January 10th 1962, Ford grew up in Dennistoun, before he went into comedy he worked as a tailor and then a barman at Glasgow University.

Ford first performed comedy in 1990 at Glasgow’s Comedy Club in the basement of Blackfriar’s pub in the Merchant City. He took up performing in 1993. A run of successful solo jobs led to him being offered a slot in the Edinburgh Comedy Festival in 1994, he followed the successful shows up the next two years at one of the top Fringe venues, The Gilded Balloon. In 1995 he won a Fringe First award at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival for his play Don’t Start Me.

On screen Ford has appeared in scores of shows, starting in 1995 with the Scottish comedy sketch show, alongside Ronni Ancona, Andrew Fairlie, Alan Francis and of course Greg Hemphill. Other shows include, The Baldy Man, Rab C. Nesbitt, Chewin the fat, Sea of Souls and Dear Green place. On the big screen he was in The Slab Boys, The Debt Collector and Angels Share.

Of course we know Ford Kiernan best as Jack Jarvis, one half of the comic duo Jack & Victor on Still Game with the aforementioned Greg Hemphill, the two also penned the series’.

For those who don’t know, Still Game is about a gang of Glaswegian pensioners who struggle to get to grips with modern living. Kiernan plays disgruntled pensioner Jack Jarvis who lives with his pal, Victor McDade in the fictional Glaswegian suburb of Craiglang.

Ford is married to wife Lesley with whom he has a daughter, Kaye, they tragically lost their boy, Sonny in 2012, his mother passed away just three months later.

The ninth and final series of Still Game was aired in 2019, since then Ford has teamed up with fellow Scot Craig Ferguson, in Then came you, where a lonely widow plans a trip around the world with her husband’s ashes, to visit the places they loved in the movies, critics were a bit indifferent about the film, but looking on IMDb the ordinary punters seem to have liked it, and I think the film certainly had its moments and is worth a watch.

At the tail end of last year Ford and Greg got together to promote bottles of their whisky. As well as signing bottles in shops around Scotland the pair also met fans at The Dirty Duchess in Finnieston.

For iofficianados the whisky is described a having notes of honeyed orchard fruits and sweet malted barley with a delicate peat smokiness and notes of fresh vanilla and oak spice.

[female-eren]

So I’m looking through a book called Meat Market: Female Flesh Under Capitalism and found this... “The recent resurgence in the feminist movement in Britain in particular has seen issues such as abortion rights and the pay gap elbowed out in favour of monolithic tub-thumping about sex work. The argument has descended into a stark moral binary between a vision of sex work as an activity wholly based on free choice or — the more common feminist viewpoint — wholly exploitative. ‘Equality for women is a farce in a society where it is considered normal for men to buy our bodies,” said Finn MacKay of the Feminist Coalition Against Prostitution. “We can’t be free while so many of us are literally for sale. As long as I believe prostitution is a form of violence against women, then how can I work alongside anyone who promotes it as a job like any other?’ The clunky notion that prostitution is itself violence against women — even, presumably, when both parties are male — obstructs more useful analysis. Only when one acknowledges that sex can, in theory, be sold without exploitation can one ask why it so rarely is, even in the richest societies on earth. Prostitution is still one of the most dangerous, stigmatised and poorly rewarded jobs that a person can do. Violence is done to sex workers by pimps, johns and punters as well as by the state in the form of police coercion. The marginalisation of the labouring bodies of sex workers is an extreme form of the marginalisation of the labouring bodies of all women. For that reason, the extension of workers’ rights to all those who sell sex should be a point of urgency for feminist activists.”

No the fuck it shouldn’t. It ISN’T a job.

[manwalksintobar]

Mass  // Elaine Feeney

Mass will be said for no more bad language and gambling and wanking that the Athenry boys are doing, down the back of the castle, down the back of the couch, all the punching and hitting and groaning, moaning at the Turlough boys, the Clarinbridge boys, the boys from Killimordaly, down the back of the Presentation grounds.

There will be mass when you lose at the Galway Races
 and for the saving of your soul if you take the boat to Cheltenham.

There will be a mass for when the horse runs, and when the horse dies, and for the bookies who win and the punters who win,


and the bookies who lose and the punters who lose.

There will be mass for hare coursing and flask-filling.

There will be mass for your Inter Cert and your twenty-first, There will be a filling-out-your-CAO-form mass.

Mass will be held in the morning before the exams, mass will be held in the evening for your bath.

There’ll be a special mass on Saturday afternoon for your Granny. There will be a mass for your Granny’s boils and aches and black lungs and ulcers and spots and diabetes and psychosis.

There’ll be a mass for the anointing of the bollix of the bull above in the field near the closh over the railway bridge.

Mass will be held before the College’s Junior B Hurling Final, it will be held for the Connaught Cup Junior A Regional Final in wizardry and sarcasm.

Mass will be held on top of the reek for the arrogant and meek, and the bishop will arrive by eurocopter. There will be a mass to get him up in one piece and back in one piece. Masses will be held in the outhouse.

Mass will be held for the safe arrival of new lambs and the birthing of ass foals.

Mass will be held in your uncle’s sitting room but his neighbours will be envious and later stage a finer mass.

There will be a mass to find you a husband, and a few masses to pray he stays.


There will be a good intentions mass. Your intentions if they’re good will come true. Mass will be held for your weddings and wakes and when you wake up.

Mass will be held for the Muslim conversion.


Mass will be held for George Bush.


Mass will be held for the war on terror.

Mass will be held for black babies and yellow babies and the yellowy black babies.

Mass will not be held for red babies. They have upset Pope John Paul.

Mass will be held for your brother when he gets the meningitis from picking his nose. Mass will be held for your cousins when they stop going to mass.

Mass will be held for the harvest and the sun and the moon and a frost and a snow
 and for a healthy spring and red autumn, for a good wind and no wind, and for a good shower and a dry spell, and for the silage and the hay and the grass and the turf.

There will be a saving-of-the-turf day. There will be a saving-of-the-hay day. There will be a saving-my-soul day.

There will a mass for the fishing fishermen.

There will be multiple masses for Mary around August when she did all the appearing.

There will be a good mass when the statue cries rusty tears. There will be a good mass and a great collection.

Mass will be held for the cloud people.


Mass will be held for apparitions and anniversaries and weddings and baptisms.

Mass will be held to church your sinned body after giving birth, there will be mass to wash your unclean feet.

Mass will be held for all your decisions so you don’t have to blame yourself.

There will be mass for the poor dead Clares.


There will be mass for the Black Protestants if Paisley allows it. Mass will be held for the De Valera’s and the Croke Park goers.

There will be a mass for the conversion of the Jews (and their collection).

There will be a mass for the communion class, there will be a mass for the no-name club non-drinkers. There will be a giving-up-smoking-the-Christian-way mass.

There will be a mass for the Christian Angels, only Christian ones.

There will be no mass for your freedom, but the air will be pea sweet and the sky will clear.

Mass will not be held for the souls of your gay sons.

Mass will not be held for song-and-dance makers, the apple cart topplers.

There will be no women’s mass.

There will be no mass solely by women for women. Your daughters will not hold mass.

There are strict rules for these masses.

[upwiththegood]

MAIDSTONE  STROKE  GROUP 

DECEMBER  NEWSLETTER

 

 

 

 

 

 2022

 

 

 

 Its coming up to that time of year again, yes “Christmas”, and we have our christmas lunch to look forward to on Thursday 8th December at the Village Hotel Maidstone, or if you don't read this till after the Christmas lunch we hope you enjoyed it. It is a little early maybe but, Wendy and myself, John, Kathy and Richard would like to take this opportunity to wish each and every one of you and your family a Merry Christmas. I'm sure you wish each other a Merry Christmas also. It has been a very strange year in many ways we have gone through many things as a group and in our own lives, and come out at the end of this year better we hope as a group. We have some idea's for next year in terms for pushing our group forward which we will put forward a few months into 2023. I would like to THANK JOHN on behalf of you all at Maidstone Stroke Group for the COMMITMANT and HARD WORK he puts in ALL YEAR, a lot of work goes on behind the scenes by various members myself included.Our commitmant now is next year and with fuel prices etc going up we have to reflect this in terms of outings ( costs ) so maybe you the members can put ideas forward to us, we will be looking at places we maybe make our own way?. AGAIN A HUGE THANKYOU TO JOHN.

 

 

                             Article by Peter Fenton

BETTER BRAINS

Punters who gamble on horses have higher IQs

 Blokes who gamble on horses tend to be brainier than those who do not, research shows ?. A study of nearly 15,500 British male punters found horseracing enthusiats had a higher than average IQ. Experts claim they often make complex decisions – unlike other wagers, such as the lottery or slot machines. For each step up on the IQ scale, punters spent around 21 per cent more on horseracing, around £800, researchers found. The study shows intelligent people prefer more complex punts such as accumulators, with only 19 per cent of bright sparks opting for simple bets. More than 19 in 20 horseracing enthusiasts – including the late Queen who was an avid fan of the sport – also bet. They spend around £4billion a year at the bookies. The University of Eastern Finland and Liverpool University study says: “Compared to the average man in our sample, the average better has a higher IQ score. It is plausible intelligent people and those with numerical ability gain satisfaction from absorbing themselves in tasks involving 'crunching numbers' such as horse wagering. They enjoy the intellectual challenge.' Writing in the journal of Behavioral Decision Making, researcher Jani Saastamoinen said: “Horse betting

has been described as an intellectual form of gambling par excellence.” He added: “Bettors use knowledge ans skills to make a careful judgment of the outcome of a race and even losing bets are a source of pride as opposed to winning by pure chance.”

 

                   Article from daily paper            

 

 

CHEERS! 2 PINTS FIGHTS DEMENTIA

Reduces risks by a third

 

 Two pints a day help to slash the dementia risk by more than a third, a study reveals. Experts found teetotallers faced the highest risk of developing the brain wasting disease after analysing the boozing habits of nearly 25,000 over 60s. In comparison people having between one and two drinks a day saw their risk plummet by 38 per cent. Scientists claim alcohol may protect the heart, which in turn helps to cut risk of dementia. Another theory is it reduces the build – up of toxic proteins linked to Alzheimer's. Writing in the journal Addiction, researcher Dr Louise Mewton from the University of New South Wales, Australia, said: “Drinking up to 40g a day (five units) was associated with a lower risk of dementia when compared with lifetime abstaining.”

 

Article from daily paper

QUIZ

Here's a music quiz from the 1960s for all you oldies

 

 ONE – Who sang this song: “Running Bear” around 1961 ?

               

 ANS --------------------------------------------------------------

 

 TWO – Who played this song  “For once in my life” during the 1960s ?

 

ANS --------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

 

 

THREE – Who played this song “Don't sleep in the subway” during the 1960s ?

 

ANS ---------------------------------------------------------

 

FOUR – Who played this song “'Im Henry the V111, I am” during the 1960s ?

 

ANS -------------------------------------------------------

 

FIVE – Who played this song “Lay Lady Lay” during the 1960s ?

 

ANS ------------------------------------------------------

 

SIX – Who played this song “Sweet Talking Guy” during the 1960s ?

 

ANS ------------------------------------------------------

 

SEVEN – Who played this song “Soul Limbo” during the 1960s ?

 

ANS ------------------------------------------------------

 

EIGHT – Who played this song “Blue on Blue” ?

 

ANS -----------------------------------------------------

 

NINE – Who played this song “Bristol Stomp” during the 1960s ?

 

ANS ------------------------------------------------------

 

TEN – Who played this song “I Got the Feelin” in the 1960s ?

 

ANS -----------------------------------------------------

 

ELEVEN – Who played this song “Puff, the Magic Dragon” in the 1960s ?

 

ANS ----------------------------------------------------

 

TWELVE – Who played this song “Glad all over” during the 1960s ?

 

ANS ---------------------------------------------------

 

 

 

THIRTEEN – Who played this song “Wild Thing” during the 1960s ?

 

ANS ----------------------------------------------

 

FOURTEEN – Who played this song “Cathy's Clown” during the 1960s ?

 

ANS ---------------------------------------------

 

FIFTEEN – Who played this song “Your Precious Love” during the 1960s ?

 

ANS ---------------------------------------------

 

SIXTEEN – Who played this song “Do you Believe in Magic” during the 1960s?

ANS ---------------------------------------------

 

SEVENTEEN – Who played this song “I'm Telling you Now” during the 1960s?

ANS ---------------------------------------------

 

EIGHTEEN – Who played this song “Something Stupid” during the 1960s ?

 

ANS --------------------------------------------

 

NINETEEN – Who played this song “La La Means I Love you” during the 1960s ?

ANS ---------------------------------------------

 

TWENTY – Who played this song “Girl you'II Be A Woman Soon” during the 1960s ?

ANS --------------------------------------------

 

 

All answers in next months newsletter

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A

HUGE

THANKYOU

TO JOHN

FROM

ALL

AT

M.S.G.

JOHNS  NOTICE  BOARD

 ONE ---- Xmas dinner is fast approaching we have 37 people attending, you can arrive anywhere from 10.30am if you want to grab a coffee first. To arrive at the inspiration suite for 12oc to be served dinner from 12.30pm. Geoff Stevens will be there to entertain. Finishing anywhere between 3 and 4oc you can stay for a coffee if you wish at costa.

 TWO ---- On Tuesday the 20th December, which is our last meeting day, this year it will be slightly different as June dines son Gary is putting on an event for his Mother and us to include a musician for 2  and a half hours and a buffet which will be catered for by Jane at Tovil club. Everyone is welcome and we hope to cater for about 40 people. Please come along and help June enjoy her event. ( there wont be bingo & raffle on this occasion )

 THREE ---- Brick lane will be going ahead on Weds 8th February by Brookline coach we have 27 people going and so far 7 have paid their £50 pp, so would like to collect in January ASAP.

 This year has been a particularly difficult year with dwindling numbers and organising viable events, we are going to try to put our best foot forward and see if we can come up with some ideas to remedy that. Meanwhile myself, Diane, Peter&Wendy, Richard, Gerry and Kathy wish each and everyone of you a very good Christmas and a prosperous new year.

                                                                               JOHN

[scouscr]

@luckhissoul​ | starter call

In old London Town, the fall of night brought about its transformation; the hustle and bustle of commuters had stemmed to a steady trickle, the majority homeward bound and fit for rest and sleep, never sparing a thought for what happens upon their depature. For others like himself, the city’s real appeal was found in the dark hours, beyond the glare of street lamps and bustling pubs, packed with thirsty punters. 

Dawn to the city’s murkiest corners, he walked along a deserted path, tailing smoke along the way, eyes peeled for the slightest hint that something might be amiss, in the place that these days he knew better than his own home town. Further complicating matters was the onset of a feeling he couldn’t quite shake, a sensation that had begun just after sundown, that told of trouble to come. Mostly convinced that it would turn out to be a false alarm, the small part of him that still believed something was going to happen had been enough to steer him onto the streets, favouring exploration over a nice, cold pint.

Knowing little of what he should be searching for, he crossed street after street, one corner after another, straying further away from people, from safety in numbers, leaving himself... exposed. A target. Soon to be found by thr hunter, the same being that would turn out to be the cause of the sensation that plagued him this whole time.  

Turning another corner, he came across the bugger, standing off in the distance, in the middle of the street. No confirmation of identies were required, for the blond, having borne witness to a vast amout of terrible, wretched beings before now, could tell intuitively that this one would become another addition to an already lengthy list.

“Shit...!” Letting out a curse, the blond began to backtrack, not taking his gaze off of the foe in the distance, who, for their part, appeared to start walking towards him, with apparent purpose. Unsettled by this, out of an abundance of caution, John, thinking on his feet, stretched an arm out towards the approaching being, his fingers splayed and palm facing the other. He never liked to do this, but when faced with a potential threat, he saw no other alternative available, and so, stifling another curse to himself, he called upon the art. 

With it, he summoned white-hot tongues of fire to the tips of his fingers, the flames casting a glow so strong that it lit up the street like a lightning bolt. In the dazzling brightness, he managed to get a better look at the enemy, not recognising anything about them, but that wasn’t all. Beyond them, at the very fringes of the flame’s light, he thought he spotted another lurking there, but couldn’t be sure. 

One foe was bad enough to take on without any preparation, but two? 

He was fucked.