#journo life

[worldchampionpeccobagnaia]

wsbk british round slayed so hard no one had recovered from it in time for motogp british gp and that’s the real tea on why the crowd numbers were so low

[bcofl0ve]

were you in the parkland shooting? i hope that’s not triggering to ask, i just genuinely am curious ❤️

you’re so fine- i’m alright talking about it as long as no one is too invasive haha. but no, ours was about a month later- the first post parkland i’m pretty sure. the parkland anniversary is just. weird to process and always has been bc in a way it marks what was the beginning of the end of the ‘before times.’ when the ~movement~ really picked up right after and the national school walkout day was a thing i dove into planning the one at mine. it went great. and 6 days later it was us. not so great.

[moonshynecybin]

reporter marc au is so sad to me sorry yall. Why would you put my baby Marc through life altering injury ( i say life because for him since 4 year old his life has been bikes) my poor boy who could have had it all, now reports... its sad

stories are conflict!!!! and i think its like. an interesting thing to consider precisely because marc's entire world is motorcycle racing... like its an emotional transition for any professional athlete to retire— esp someone like marc, who is prodigious and insane and we KNOW has a history of attempting to push through injury (and who also was financially supporting his family as a teen! like its his whole world AND its bigger than himself even)— and to have to process that ending at a young age would create a really interesting emotional reality for marc-as-reporter that i think would play into how he treats vale... like hes not going to pull any journalistic punches with vale because he simply will not allow himself to fail ! just like real life ! and vale cant except that. just like real life....

[batshit-auspol]

So a show on the national broadcaster wanted to demonstrate how outlandish baby names will get rejected by the government.

Only problem is, when they had one of their journos submit a name that should have absolutely been rejected for her newborn kid, the government just... approved it.

Which means her newborn baby child is now legally known as 'Methamphetamine Rules' and thanks to how NSW operates even if she changes the name it'll still be on the kid's birth certificate for life.

[devotioncrater]

"we need more of trent's coming out backstory" hear me out here but i think we got a good amount. like let's just. bring our heads together and critically think about what was given to us. what we already know. and then let's decide if more is even necessary

we know trent has a daughter around the age of 6. she is a child.

per james lance in his vulture interview, we know that trent "wasn't living the life he wanted to live".

now, per episode 6, we hear trent mid-sentence go "i had to come out to her twice" and that she believed him the second time. that now he and whoever she may be are closer than ever. immediately colin asks the follow-up question: "and your daughter?" to which trent goes "she's happy".

context clues just even from that conversation with colin alone point to the "she" as an ex-wife. not a mother. an ex-wife. "so is trent bisexual then?" no, the man is not, because there is a massive difference between being a closeted gay man in a straight marriage and a closeted bisexual man. one involves a man who cannot romantically/sexually love his wife no matter how hard he tries, and the other can.

would being a closeted bisexual man still suck? yes, it would. but why have trent pour his heart out to colin — tell him straight up "i must have a reason for that, mustn't i?" — and bond over shared experiences of life in the closet? it would not hold the same weight. it just would not.

if you're still unsure whether trent has an ex-wife, think about the timeline we know of him.

trent has a 6 year old daughter, who was 3 when the show started. trent still had his persona of a scathing journo back then, up until end of season 1 episode 3. he begins to thaw out, but doesn't completely do so until end of season 2. he throws his past career away to pursue something he feels more aligned with. is it so hard to connect a line between that career move and his own personal life?

he had to come out twice. we don't know the specifics of the first time he tried to come out, but we do know the second time stuck. and with colin asking specifically about his daughter, context clues lead us to believe that she was a good reason why.

it's not a difficult storyline to imagine: closeted gay sports journalist marries a woman -> he can't love her the way she needs him to -> tries to come out -> she denies it in some form because they're married -> they have a child to save their marriage -> the marriage gets worse -> their child is caught in the crossfire, unhappy -> he can't keep living like this, comes out a second time -> she finally believes him for the sake of their daughter and him too -> divorce amicably and are closer than ever -> daughter is happier because she's no longer in a stressful environment

we don't need to know more. and it's a private story, one trent opens up to colin about to bond with him. trent is a private man. it makes narrative sense to not have him give a monologue about his failed marriage. the scene is about colin, too. colin is the focus here, not trent

[petermorwood]

Word changes...

All of the following is IMO, so YMMV. :->

*****

Anyone noticed how "weaponry" is used nowadays in places where "weapons" would work just fine (and is often more correct)?

Yes, they ARE interchangeable, sort-of, but it's clunky and sounds to me either slightly journo-pompous or like a failure to remember the right word so plugging the most similar one into its place.

ETA: I checked one of my dictionaries, and while "weapons" is more modern, "weaponry" is an obsolete word which has come back into favour. I wonder why...?

*****

"Decimate" turns up all the time, usually when the correct word is "devastate".

Merriam-Webster says: "It's totally fine to use 'decimate' as a synonym for 'devastate'. This is why."

Beg to differ.

As the M-W article points out, "decimate" originally meant a Roman military punishment applied to one man in ten of a guilty unit. (Initially execution, but this had a rotten effect on unit morale, so it was reduced in severity to fatigues, extra drill or restricted rations.)

That's now considered a far too specific meaning and only linguistic pedants dig their heels in. Quite right too, and I speak here as a (bit of a) linguistic pedant...

However, it remains a useful word for more generalised incomplete destruction of living things - saying a regiment, flock, herd or population was "decimated" implies there are some survivors without quibbling over how many tenths. If totally wiped out, however, that's when words like "destroyed" or "obliterated" are more appropriate.

On the other hand something inanimate like a factory, city or region would be "devastated" - and in addition, saying someone is emotionally devastated is understandable, but saying they're emotionally decimated is peculiar.

Two words, several meanings.

It's like cutlery: a spork can replace knife, fork and spoon, but individual utensils give a lot more precision and variation of use.

*****

There are also a couple of real howlers, not just transposed words but actual errors.

One I've heard several times is using "siege" (a noun, or thing) instead of "besiege" (a verb, or action).

For reference, there's a term called noun-verbing, and the practice is quite old: "table the motion / pencil you in / butter him up / he tasks me", but all are either when there isn't already a verb-form of the word, or as a more picturesque way of saying something.

(Interesting side-note about "table the motion": in US English, it means "to postpone discussion" while in UK, CA and I think AU English, it means the complete opposite, "to begin discussion". Why there's this difference, I have no idea, but it's worth remembering as a Brit-fix when writing, also in a real-life business context.)

There IS an existing verb for the action of surrounding a castle and cutting it off from outside help, and that verb isn't "sieged". It's "besieged" or "under siege". Anywhere using "sieged" as a verb is wrong. The Firefox spellchecker in Tumblr Edit Mode is telling me it's wrong right now.

Merriam-Webster, I'm looking at you again.

*****

There's also "coronate" used as a verb. "The King was coronated at Westminster Abbey". Nope. He was CROWNED.

Coronate is an adjective (meaning crown-shaped) and was coined in in the 1600s by a botanist, as a word to describe the shape of certain plants.

The current Royal-associated usage seems to be a bastard back-formation from "coronation", because the act of putting on a crown is the verb "to crown".

This is almost identical in German, French, Italian and Spanish, with noun and verb the same. The only difference is that their verbs have, what a surprise, verb-endings (-en, -er, -re and -ar) on the noun while English does not.

Because English doesn't like to make things that easy...

"Coronated" might be people trying to sound archaic, or those who've bought into the dopey "said-is-dead" school, who perform any linguistic contortion to avoid common words, and who've been taught that repetition in a sentence - "crowned with a crown" - is BAD.

Is "coronated at a coronation" in some way better?

Guess what's got uncritical examples...

If that's M-W scholarship, I'll stick to the OED and my old but utterly reliable New Elizabethan Dictionary, thanks very much.

*****

Language is funny: sometimes funny ha-ha, sometimes funny annoying, but often just funny peculiar, because English etc. etc...

[laurfilijames]

Like My Dreams

Part 1

Intro

Pete Dunham Masterlist

Pairing: Pete Dunham x female reader

Words: 4.8k

Warnings: Mentions of a broken leg, use of crutches. Bruises and cuts. Swearing. Alcohol consumption and use of pain medication. Discussions of fighting.

Summary: Life is getting back to normal for Pete, including going back to work and participating in his first scrap since almost getting killed, and little does he know that an unexpected person is going to step in and show him that while football is life, there may be more to life than just football.

After moving home to help your sister with your nephew, Jack, after her divorce, you meet his bruised, but gorgeous teacher, and later discover you're connected in more ways than one.

A/N: Part 1 is here!! Pete deserves the world and I'm using this fic as a way to rebuild his for him.

---

"Have you heard from the Yank at all, there, Peg Leg?" Swill asked through a grin, ducking when Pete raised his arm up in an attempt to hit him.

"Aye, I'll beat you with my crutch, you cunt," he threatened, turning away for a split second before making a quick jab at his mate with the proposed weapon, making Swill jump and spill his beer. "And yes, I have. Turns out our Yank mate has sought his revenge and managed to get a recording of that geezer Jeremy admitting he put the blame on him, so he's right back into Harvard now and will be graduating soon as."

"Ahh, result!" Swill cheered, clanking his glass against Pete's before extending his arm out to cheers with Ned and then Ike.

"Gonna be a proper Journo now."

"Good on him," Ike nodded.

"Yeah, yeah. Says he's planning a visit back across the pond soon as he's done," Pete explained.

"Oi, when are you going back to work, Pete?" Dave asked, handing him a fresh pint before taking a sip of his own.

Pete took a long drink, tilting his head to the side and shrugging slightly as he swallowed his beer. "Soon, I hope. Apparently the little lads have been giving the substitute a right time. I already had to go in and give 'em the what-for…tell 'em to be nice while I'm away."

"Bloody buggers," Dave sighed, shaking his head.

"Told them I'd taught them better than that." Pete took another sip, wiping his mouth with his hand. "Their response was that they wouldn't have to be such shits if she wasn't such an old, miserable cow."

"Yeah, there's no doubt you're their role model, then eh?" Dave laughed.

Pete shrugged in agreement, finding no point in arguing.

"Once I get out of this cast I can go back in," he explained, turning and leaning his back against the bar. "I'm itching to get back to it, but more just to get out of Steve and Shannon's place."

"That bad?"

He sighed, choosing his words carefully, "Shannon is being nice to me for the first time ever, but they fuss constantly. It'll just be nice to go home."

"Yeah, all in time, mate." Dave clapped his shoulder, happy Pete was being cared for and wasn't spending the long days of recovery alone.

There were days his leg ached like hell, and after ditching his crutches about a week ago, Pete sometimes wished he still had them to lean on. He sat on the edge of his desk, reading out loud to the class from there rather than pacing through the desks like he had been, his limp becoming more and more noticeable with each step, but despite the pain from the long days of being back on his feet, he was grateful to be back in his classroom with life pretty much back to normal.

Being back in his flat helped with his overall recovery too, having felt desperate to get out of Steve and Shannon's stuffy place and in the familiar comforts of his own, having appreciated time spent with them and his sweet nephew Ben, but ultimately relieved to relish in the peace and quiet.

The bell rang, signaling the end of their school day, and Pete marked his page and closed the book, glancing at the clock in slight disbelief that the day was already over.

"Okay, boys, we'll pick up there tomorrow," he announced, collecting some papers on his desk as his class packed up their notebooks and began filing out of the room. "And remember your assignments are due on my desk first thing Tuesday morning, so get cracking on them!" he shouted over their excited voices, some of them moaning in disappointment over their homework.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket to see a text from Bov confirming their plans to meet at the pub later for beers, and excitement buzzed through him knowing that in two more days, West Ham was playing Manchester at home. The two firms hadn't seen each other since the GSE surprised them at the station and embarrassed the hell out of them, and word was that they were gunning for a comeback more than ever. Pete knew he would have to be careful, but the thought of getting back into fighting and experiencing that rush as his firm kicked the shit out of the other's whose bruised pride had never recovered from the last time made him feel like he was close to invincible.

"I don't know why you keep eating it, then, Bov," Pete scolded, walking through the doors of The Abbey with his mate who kept going on about his sore stomach, unable to help the laugh at his expense as he watched him hold his gut and beeline it right for the toilets.

"What's the matter with him?" Dave asked, nodding in Bovver's direction as he struggled to get by other patrons.

Pete shook his head and sighed, "Bloody guy insists on ordering the hottest curry going and then fucking complains about his insides turning as soon as he's stuffed it down."

"He'll never learn, will he?"

"Nah, serves him right," Pete chuckled, clanging his glass against Dave's after being handed it.

"I don't know about you boys, but I am more than ready for the weekend," Ike said exasperatedly, "work has been kicking my ass."

"You best be rested up for our big event on Saturday…" Dave warned, earning a scoff from him.

"Yeah, yeah, you know I'm good for it. When have I ever let us down?"

Dave opened his mouth to quip at him, but started laughing when Ike shoved his arm and directed his attention to Pete. "What about you, eh? You feeling up to it?"

"Mate," he said pointedly, his eyebrow raised, "more than I ever have." Pete grinned, knowing each of them would be keeping extra close watch on him despite him feeling like no one would be able to knock him to the ground.

"I've been trying to get Fiona down here for some drinks," Swill started to explain, "her bestie is here staying with her for a bit and said they were looking to go out on the pull-"

"Aye, I'll show your sister a good time," Ned interrupted, causing Swill to glare at him seriously.

"Don't you fucking think for a second you're gonna touch my sister."

Pete laughed into his beer, listening to the two of them carry on until Keith interrupted them.

"Isn't she the hot one that moved away a few years back?"

"Yeah, that's the one," Swill confirmed.

"Oi, she's fit as fuck," Ned chimed in, making a crude gesture with his hands.

"She's here helping her sister out with her nephew or something, I dunno," Swill nonchalantly explained. "I keep telling her that Fi's place is too cramped and she should come stay with me."

"In your dreams!" Pete laughed, "Poor girl would be traumatized if she spent more than five minutes with you."

"Yeah, well, you'll just see when she comes 'round, eh. I'm very charming when I need to be."

"The only charm you're going to have is when you're helping me kick the snot out of Manchester's top bloke." Pete wrapped his arm around Swill's shoulders and necked the rest of his pint, the exhilaration of the upcoming match and fight already tingling through his veins.

"Fucking right, mate!" Swill cheered, patting Pete on the back aggressively to help pump him up even more.

Saturday turned out to be one of the best days Pete could remember having. The Hammers won 2-0 and him and the boys made the ruck afterward almost look too easy, but it didn't go without it's evidence.

He looked at his bruised reflection in the mirror, having missed seeing various shades of red and blue marking his face, his skin tender as he pulled the razor down over it before rinsing it off under the tap. He smiled to himself in thinking a clean shave would make up for his appearance when he showed up to school that morning, the colours even more pronounced than they were yesterday, having already earned glares from other staff members as he walked through the hallways to his classroom. The little lads always got a kick out of seeing their teacher's battle wounds unlike the Headmaster, but Pete still did his best to set a good example for them and prove to everyone that even a Weekend Warrior could maintain his professionalism. Pete winced when he went over a cut on his cheek, making blood spring from it again, and washing the remaining shaving cream off his cheeks and chin, he dried his face and went through to his bedroom to get dressed.

"Have a good day, Jack!" you smiled, watching your nephew climb out of the back seat of your car, thinking how dapper he looked in his neatly ironed school uniform and finding how he styled his hair with a bit of gel too sweet. He was growing up so quickly, ten going on fourteen it seemed like some days, and despite the circumstances, you were grateful to be around him more. There was no doubt that the split between your sister and his dad was tough on him, but overall he seemed to be coping okay, and you hoped a small bit of it was because his one and only amazing Aunt was there to help look after him. Part of your designated duties were to drop him off and pick him up from school and football practices, your work hours more flexible and easier to line up with his activities than your sister's, and it was the least you felt you could do to help out.

"Thanks, Auntie."

"You've got your football gear, right?" you called out through the passenger window you quickly rolled down before he got too far from the car.

"Yup," he confirmed, holding up his cleats and giving his backpack a shrug to keep over his shoulder.

"Okay, then, I'll see you at half four when practice is over. Maybe we'll go grab a bite and see a film?"

He scowled, "The match is on tonight!"

You raised your hands in mercy, "May the football gods forgive me!"

It earned a laugh from him, making you smile, the little 'see ya!' he gave you as he turned and ran off toward the building enough to make your Tuesday feel a little less mundane.

Glancing out of the corner of your eye at the backseat as you reached for your purse, you did a double-take, noticing Jack's lunch bag and homework left forgotten on the seat.

"Shit!" you hissed before giving a long sigh, looking out the window for any sign he was still around.

He was long gone into the school now, forcing you to switch your car off and take it inside, and you trotted down the pathway quickly in your heels so as not to be late to work yourself.

Something had cheesed-off the secretary already this morning, and with little to no help from her, you took it upon yourself to wander down the hallways in search of Jack's homeroom.

"You alright there, Jack?" Pete asked, passing out a worksheet on each desk, his concern growing after noticing the sulk on the boy's face. He looked like he was about to cry, having finished rooting through his bag for the second time since he'd gotten into class, clearly searching for something that wasn't there.

"I don't have my assignment." There was so much defeat in the poor kid's voice, and Pete couldn't bring himself to be cross with him even if he wanted to be.

"It's alright, mate, you can hand it in tomorrow."

When that didn't seem to ease his troubles over it, Pete crouched down beside his desk, his leg complaining as he did.

"You did do it, yeah?"

"Yes," Jack confirmed, his disappointment not fading. "I think I left it in my Aunt's car."

"Right, then there's nothing else to be done about it for now, eh? Mistakes happen, I won't knock any marks off for it."

"I forgot mine, too, Mr. Dunham," the boy sitting behind Jack called out.

"No you did not, Louis," Pete said through a wince as he stood. "The only thing you forgot was to actually do it."

Louis, along with all the other boys, laughed, the kid being famous for never handing in anything on time or simply neglecting to do half the assignments tasked in the first place, his admission not coming as a surprise to Pete.

About to explain the instructions on the pages he had just handed out, Pete was interrupted by a light knock and the door opening, making all of them pause to look at the slightly embarrassed, but extremely beautiful woman who was disrupting their class.

"I'm so sorry," you began, smiling in your bashfulness. You looked directly at Jack, making Pete swivel on the spot he stood on to follow your gaze before looking back at you with a big grin on his face, watching as you held up a folder containing what had to be his forgotten assignment.

"Looks like you've got yourself a guardian angel, mate," Pete smirked, limping over to the door where he opened it more for you.

You apologized again, but somehow couldn't wipe the smile from your face as you got lost in Jack's teacher's vibrantly blue eyes, the colour seemingly enhanced and appearing almost fake due to the reddish bruises that surrounded them.

"Don't give it another thought," he assured you, looking back at you with a similar amusement before reaching his hand out to take the folder decorated with West Ham United stickers from you.

More bruises and cuts decorated his knuckles, making you wonder what the hell this man got up to when he wasn't teaching your nephew, and you made a mental note to ask Jack questions about it all later.

"You've forgotten your lunch, too," you spoke, peeling your eyes away from the man who made butterflies flutter violently in your stomach. Jack trotted up to the front of the class where you stood, taking the bag from you sheepishly.

"Jack, you're a very lucky lad," Pete began, moving to perch on the edge of his desk. "I don't have anyone bringing me my lunch if I've left it."

You shrugged and nervously tucked your hands in the pockets of your jacket now that they were free, biting your lower lip to try to stop yourself from smiling more.

"I won't take up anymore of your time," you said to the impossibly handsome teacher, maintaining eye contact with him as you took a step backwards toward the door, praying your feet didn't betray you. "Sorry, again, for the disruption."

"Not a problem at all," he said slowly through another bright grin, his head tilting curiously as he crossed his arms over his chest while you walked through the door, closing it behind you.

The second it latched you heard the entire class erupt in a long 'ooooooo', jeering their teacher as any group of ten-year-old boys would for talking to a girl, making you smile even more when you heard him shush them and chuckle lightly before continuing on with his lesson.

10:47 Fiona: We're going to the pub tonight.

10:49 You: …

10:49 Fiona: I said, we're going to the pub tonight. That's an order.

10:51 You: Fine.

10:51 Fiona: Don't be mardy. We need to get out of the house. I promise to show you a good time.

10:51 Fiona: Plus, there's a match on, so it'll be full of fit lads.

10:52 You: Is that really your main selling point?

10:52 Fiona: Yes. We'll see which of us can get the most free drinks.

11:09 Fiona: I'm taking your silence as a yes.

11:09 Fiona: Maybe you'll even get a snog or a shag in the toilets!

11:17 You: I swear you're a bigger perv than your brother.

Tucking your phone back inside your desk drawer, you bit the inside of your cheek and sighed out deeply, trying to regain concentration on the computer screen in front of you, but it was helpless. All you could think about was the fraction of a possibility of seeing Jack's teacher there, the teacher whose name you didn't even know, out of the simple fact that he probably spent his time outside of school in a pub watching football as most men did. Even if he did happen to be in that exact pub, in that exact part of London, on that exact night, the chances of him being there without a woman, or many, hanging off his arm were slim. Maybe he was even engaged or married, happily at home on a Tuesday night with his missus…

Regardless of your speculations, you continued to think of the way he had looked at you, letting this silly and unexpected fantasy get the better of you, recounting every moment of your meet-cute and how unbelievable it would be to find yourself tangled up with the likes of him. Had you exaggerated the glint in his eyes and the brightness of his smile, or how he made your whole body tingle with that nervous-excitement enough to feel like you were floating?

With another sigh, you willed yourself to get a grip, needing to get something accomplished in your workday, the chances of seeing him outside the school slim.

Still, a girl could dream, and smiling to yourself, you secretly thanked your friend for her persistence in taking you out.

Several very distracted hours later, you pulled up beside the pitch outside the school, seeing a small mob of boys in various coloured jerseys running around it, and your eyes immediately found and fixed on the tall coach that was unmistakably the same man who had occupied your mind all day.

You sat for only a couple of minutes before their practice was over, watching the banged-up teacher with a hitch in his step walk around collecting pylons while the boys ditched their jersey's into a bag and started to clean up their belongings piled near the fence.

Jack ran to your car even though his bags were far too heavy for him to be, and seeing how sweaty he was along with the muddy stains covering his gym gear, you wondered how many of these pick-ups it would take until your car began to smell like gross footy equipment.

"How was it?" you asked when he hauled on the door and threw his stuff in, flopping himself into he back seat before shutting the door and putting on his seatbelt.

"Good. Thanks for bringing my assignment, you're a legend."

"Don't I know it," you winked at him, taking one last look over at his teacher who just so happened to be staring at you, and you felt yourself flush from head to toe as you tore your gaze away from him and blinked into reality, putting your car in gear and driving off.

You were quiet for a couple of minutes, debating quizzing your nephew about his teacher, and ultimately decided there was no harm in it.

"Does your teacher always show up with bruises on his face?"

Glimpsing in the rearview mirror, you saw Jack smile. "Mr. Dunham? Yeah, most of the time."

"You're acting like that's a normal thing, Jack," you laughed, "Why is he always battered?"

"He's a Hooligan, so yeah, it's normal."

"A Hooligan?”

"In a footy firm?” he emphasized in the form of a question, like it was the most obvious thing. “Yeah. West Ham’s, obviously."

You nodded, trying to wrap your head around the information you were getting. You knew of the firm because of Fiona, having heard the odd thing about it through her because of her brother Swill, but the ins and outs of football were something you didn't pay much attention to anymore. You weren't even sure if Swill was still a participant of the barbaric side of football, assuming he might have given up his hooliganism in exchange for his respectable career as an accountant.

"Mr. Dunham's the coolest. He's everyone's favourite teacher. A lot of grown-ups and other teachers think he's bad or whatever, but he's the nicest out of anyone and is really smart, too," Jack went on, pulling you out of your thoughts for a moment. "I want to teach history like him when I grow up. It's my favourite subject."

"Well, then, I'm sure glad I brought in that assignment for you."

"Yeah, I was real upset that I forgot it. I want to keep my grades up in his class."

It was incredible to hear your nephew talk like this, finding a role model in someone so unconventional, but seeing as his father wasn't really one to look up to, you figured it was good he found someone who inspired him.

"Right, my man," you announced, parking in your sister's driveway. "Enjoy the match! I hope they win!"

"Mr. Dunham says they will for sure. Birmingham doesn't stand a chance!"

"Well good, because even I am going to watch it tonight!"

Jack pulled a shocked face, "You're gonna watch football?"

"Yes! Cheeky…"

"Make sure you cheer for the proper team!" he laughed, tugging on his West Ham shirt to show you the crest. He closed the door after taking out all his things and ran up to the house where he stuck his tongue out at you from the porch, making you laugh and shake your head.

"Want another one, Pete?" Bovver asked, nodding to his empty glass that had been drained for a while now.

"Nah, man, I'm good. Gotta be sharp for work tomorrow."

"Since when?"

Pete glared at his mate, not wanting to get into too many details, the truth behind his reduced consumption of pints being he had just taken some pain pills on account of his leg. He had done his best to cope with it, but after running around too much at practice he had to give in, needing something to help take the edge off.

"Oi, Fi's on her way over," Swill said, sitting down beside Pete.

"Oh, tonight? Sweet," Pete said, curious to see who her friend was and if she was actually as fit as the other guys kept claiming she was.

The Abbey was packed by the time the game started with the GSE dispersed throughout to watch on the various screens hung on the walls and above the bar, Pete sticking to their usual spot in the back corner where less people were gathered.

He spotted Fiona making her way through the crowd, judging by her tipsy smile and half-finished pint that she had already been here for a decent amount of time, the atmosphere of the whole place very rowdy as the Hammers maintained a lead.

"Pete!" she called, nearly pushing someone down to get to him to give him a hug.

"Aye, aye!" He stood and accepted her embrace, unable to recall the last time he had seen her.

"How are you doing? You gave everyone quite the scare!"

He chuckled, "Yeah, all good. I'm doing fine now, thanks, Fiona." He took his seat again and looked up at her with a smile, watching as she clapped her hand on her chest.

"What a relief, you should've seen how gutted they all were. Swill was beside himself."

"As they should've been!" he laughed, spinning his empty glass on the coaster. "You enjoying the match?"

"Wha- oh! Yeah," she laughed, her smile somehow larger than her brother's, "I'm not paying all that much attention if I'm honest!"

"I can tell!"

She shrugged and took a long sip of her drink, glancing around the bar.

He nodded at her, his brows knitted, "Where's your friend?"

"Hell if I know! Somewhere over there," she waved, motioning in the direction of the pool table, "Ned and Swill are chatting her ears off."

"Sounds about right…"

Pete settled into his seat and drew his focus back to the match as Fiona went and greeted someone else, but he'd be kidding himself if he pretended his thoughts weren't constantly on you, unable to get you out of his mind for even a second. He wondered if he would be lucky enough to see you again; if Jack would just so happen to forget something on a weekly basis and if you were going to be the one consistently picking him up from school and football practice, or maybe even be the guardian he would get to sit down and discuss Jack's grades with at parent-teacher interviews.

But it was rare for lightning to strike twice.

The Brigid Abbey Pub itself was incredibly charming, even if most of the people occupying it were far less so. Swill was the same as always, never changing his lewd, loud ways despite being forced to be well-mannered and respectful throughout the day, but it was rare that anyone had ever made you laugh as hard as he did. His mates were all there, most of them hanging around where you and Fi were, but mentions of someone named Pete and his whereabouts kept coming up.

You found yourself taking in your surroundings more than the game itself, looking at all the plaques and paraphernalia that hung on the walls, all while scanning the crowd in hopes of spotting the one person you somehow felt desperate to see again.

"Who are you looking for?"

"Hmm? What? No one," you lied to Fiona, though very unconvincingly.

"You spotted a fit bloke, didn't you?" she said with a grin that rivaled Swill's.

"Yeah, me," Swill chimed in, causing Fiona to talk back to him about being gross and them to start bickering as they usually did.

They always managed to make you laugh, and you had to admit you were having a better time than you thought you were going to, enjoying the company of your bestie and her brother, who's mates were exceptionally kind and welcoming.

It wasn't until you overheard a couple of them discussing a fight they had had that you really started paying attention to what was happening around you.

“Wait, are you still part of all that?” you asked Swill, grabbing his arm to make him turn around to face you.

"For life!" he exclaimed, "I'll be dead before I leave it."

"Yeah, well, some of you are making that come true more than others," Fiona scoffed.

You screwed up your face in complete bewilderment, "Wait. What?"

"The head of the firm," she began explaining, "their mate, Pete, nearly died about four months ago in a fight. He's just been back to work the last few weeks and everything. It’s a complete miracle he's even alive."

"Jesus Christ," you muttered. "And he still fights?"

Ike huffed out a laugh before turning serious, "Oh, fuck yeah…like nothing ever happened."

The rest of the lads all excitedly started recalling how intensely this Pete had fought the other day, going on about how their fearless leader was back and stronger than before.

"Is he here?" you asked, wanting to meet this death-defying prodigy of England's roughest unofficial sport.

"'Course he is," said Ned, "he's sat over there in his usual spot." He nodded toward the back corner of the pub, and standing on your tip-toes, you attempted to see over the hoard of heads between where you were and there, but it was impossible to manage.

It was almost hard to believe that these men, who held regular jobs and had seemingly normal lives, still carried on the insane, delinquent habits of the firms brought on from decades prior, and even more so that after one of them was nearly killed, they continued on with more pride than ever.

The match ended in a win for the mighty Hammers, the high spirits of their dedicated supporters lingering on in the pub, helping to keep Pete going despite being the most sober one of all his mates. As the groups of people started to thin out, he was finally able to spot where Fiona and the rest of them had been loitering, his eyes trained on one person in particular.

His heart hammered in his chest as he downed the rest of the beer he had been nursing, praying for the slight nervousness he felt to calm.

"Well, fuck me," he murmured under his breath, standing from the table where he left Dave asking him what he was on about and where he was going.

Not bothering to ease his friend's mind with an explanation, Pete slowly made his way through the crowd, almost afraid that if he moved too quickly, the scene he was walking toward would vanish from his sight like a mirage.

A grin that met his eyes crept up his lips, thinking that maybe dreams didn't fade and die and it was possible that lightning could strike twice after all.

---

Part 2

Taglist:

@stealfromthedevil @inbar-thomas1980 @theesirenteller

If you would like to be added to the taglist for this series or any others, please comment, send an ask or a DM! 💗

[heich0e]

miya osamu is not really the type of guy to lose his cool. not outwardly. not publicly. not this far into his adult life.

but when a sports reporter keeps writing articles about how MSBY's golden-boy setter, miya atsumu, has been performing poorly in the current v-league season—which upset atsumu every time and end up with him distraught at osamu's restaurant, crying into his tuna and spring onion rice ball—osamu has had enough.

when the young restaurant owner uses the verified onigiri miya twitter account to announce that anyone who brings proof they sent a complaint to the popular sports publication about that loser journalist who's been trashing his brother will get a free onigiri out of it, people show up in droves—copies of printed out emails and screenshots of twitter DMs condemning the articles that have been written about MSBY's number 13 in hand.

he's smug, he won't lie, that the articles stop after that. a full week passes with no new slanderous headline (and no crying brother at his counter,) and then another article-free week follows. he's not sure if that scrub journo got canned because of his smear campaign, but he doesn't particularly care either. the guy got what was coming to him for talking shit about his brother, as far as he's concerned.

what osamu's not expecting is you showing up at onigiri miya one afternoon, absolutely furious, with a stack of documents in hand that show outline just how atsumu's stats have slipped this season compared to the last; that show the formal reprimand your work issued you as a result of his handiwork; that outline your various credentials and professional accolades that make you more than qualified to have been writing those articles and criticizing tsumu's performance in the way that you were.

and osamu knows he fucked up. he knows that the trouble he got you into at work was unwarranted. he knows that even though he knows those two things he's still raising his voice right back at you, in the middle of his restaurant, because he still thinks 'ya coulda been a little nicer about it!'

and worst of all? he knows that even in your fury you're the prettiest thing he's ever laid his eyes on.

[gabessquishytum]

This has been haunting my head forever, but as we all know Robert Smith was the leading inspiration for Dream in the comics with more than a bit of Neil sprinkled in there (and a few other goth rock bands like Bauhaus' Peter Murphy) and I just can't get over the image of a goth rockstar Dream.

It's the late 70s, and our boy Dream is riding a creative high of LSD and pedal effects to the top of the pops. They're calling the band he fronts, name and members are up to you or whoever takes this idea on, Goth bc they're too dark for New Wave but are just upbeat enough to steer clear of Televison's particular brand of Post-Punk. It's a newer label but a fitting one considering how dour and moody the genre has gotten since Ian Curtis's death. One he despises as he claims he's very happy with his current success and how his life is going.

But he's not happy. He hates playing to the newly forming stereotype of his fans, but he isn't. Celebrity Marriages hardly ever last and his relationship with his novelist wife is crumbling around him. He loves his son but the touring schedule is killing all of his free time. He's also pretty deep into substance abuse but he wouldn't admit it to his big sister let alone the random journo who has a camera in his face while he's trying to catch a 5:30 am flight to start his newest tour. He's just burnt out and creatively stuck as the label tries to pigeonhole him into this new subgenre, which he doesn't want anymore. Life, his life, can't be doom and gloom forever even though that's where it looks like it's heading. Forever being hailed as the Nightmare King.

Meanwhile, three radio stations over, Hob Gadling is desperately trying to hang onto life. He's a bit older now than when he first broke out onto the music scene as a rambunctious coat rider of the Sex Pistols, but he's still going strong. Punk has always been his outlet. Life sucks and you keep on living despite it. It tried to kill him not long after he debuted with substance use, but he powered through it and got clean. His wife died in childbirth, but he stuck around to raise his son. He even took a three-year hiatus and completely missed how much the sound had changed from his younger years. Even as post-punk has risen in popularity and the friends he knew have either died or changed their sound completely, he won't give up hope! Punk's not dead and neither is he. No matter how long his hair gets or if he grows out of his leather jacket.

The two meet rather coincidentally. Hob just happens to be opening for Dream on the Europe leg of his tour. Unsurprisingly the tension around Dream's band has become a powder keg and when he finally snaps and fires his guitarist, his bassist also leaves. With half the band gone, Dream considers calling it quits right then and there. Fuck the new album, fuck the last fifteen or so dates. He wants to go home. But Hob sees how close they are to finishing the tour and puts his foot down. They will finish the tour! So he offers up his services to Dream. He's not bad with a guitar and if Dream can cover the bass, then he'll play all night if he has to. Because out there on stage? That's life and he wants to keep making people happy and give them something that might transcend time and space. To never die bc his name is there among the annuls of rock history.

And in time, Dream will come around to his new friend. He will learn to appreciate the zest for performing and living his new friend has. He will also think he has the greatest body known to man and will forever laugh at the terribly done anarchy A Hob has tattooed on his ass, but that's neither for here or there. For now, Dream pulls himself together and gets his bass out from the dark pits of hell the roadies call gear storage. For the show must go on.

Oh god I want an entire novel length story around this. It’s fantastic! I have so many thoughts about these two!!

Hob is falling in love with all the new sounds that he’s hearing. He spent his time on his hiatus being a suburban dad, and now he’s back on the scene is just feels amazing. He can’t get enough of Roxy Music and David Bowie and Elvis Costello. And he’s determined to drag himself back up among those names! He’s got so many ideas of where punk can go! And he’s fascinated by Dream and his band. The lyrics are a little dark and wallowy, but Hob understands that actually people need to hear that. Life in the UK isn’t easy, particularly for young people. They need something loud and desperate and real. Little does he know, Dream feels like what he’s doing is so far away from being real. He feels likes such a fraud. He can’t get off the hamster wheel except by shooting up and passing out.

Hob recognises all of this in approximately 0.5 seconds after meeting Dream. It makes him pretty sad, but he’s determined that he’ll lift Dream out of his funk. If nothing else, he’ll make him love music again.

So when Hob said he was OK with a guitar, he was lying - he's actually a bit of a genius, and it's fair to say that Dream falls a little bit in love with him about half way through the sound check. Instead of hiding in the dressing room and licking his wounds over the band breaking up, he actually watches as Hob opens for him. Hob is very classic punk, it's all very "fuck the government, fuck me up the arse" kind of stuff, but Dream doesn't get bored for a single second. Hob is just that entertaining, and his riffs are insane. Dream itches to write a song for him. And when Hob ends the set with a jokey little song that his five year old son allegedy wrote the lyrics for (lil Robyn is very punk, just like his daddy) Dream’s eyes actually get a bit misty. It's probably all the smoke.

And there's really no time to get emotional! Dream’s drummer, Constantine, thankfully didn't walk out with the rest of them. So somehow, with Hob’s virtuosic guitar skills and sheer determination, plus Dream’s refusal to fail yet again, they actually make a really decent show. Dream feels a tingle of the old spark that he used to get when he first started out - it probably has something to do with the way Hob upends a bottle of water all over his head half way through the show and grins like a maniac.

After the show they crash in a local hotel. Hob calls his kid from the payphone and Dream wishes that he had the courage to do the same. Instead he takes some pills so he doesn't have to feel the high from the show gradually wearing off into nothingness. He doesn't know why Hob comes and sits next to him in the dark, pressing against him from thigh to shoulder. He stays for the whole of Dream’s trip, in fact, humming something quiet and classic. Dream feels quite ashamed of himself, and for the first time he thinks that maybe he'd feel better without the drugs. Maybe.

As the tour gets off to a slow start, Dream starts to notice that Hob is having some kind of positive effect on him. Just little thing. They get breakfast together, so Dream actually eats something, which is unusual. Their little arguments don't get out of hand, because Hob never lets them escalate. When Dream is angry and spitting at the world, Hob is sure to point of something positive. Not that Hob doesn't get sad, too - he just deals with it differently. He goes for long walks, and turns off the news when it gets bad. He gets himself a snack when he's irritable, and laughs about it afterwards.

Dream writes him a near impossible guitar solo and it feels like a "thank you".

They have a sweet, unexpected first kiss. It's 2am and they're standing at the edge of the road, waiting for a mechanic to come out to their broken down tour bus. There's no one around to see, so Dream rests his head on Hob’s shoulder. He's sore, and weary. Hob turns his head slightly and tucks an arm around him, and it just happens. They kiss. It is, of course, the first of many.

And you can bet that Dream kisses that anarchy tattoo a million time, too.

[jamiesfootball]

one thing about me is i EXCEL at stupid ideas so! here is a Stupid Ask for your daily dopamine dosage.

post-s3, roy attempts to be A Good Coach and implements team bonding activities such as sunday board game nights. this has the unforeseen consequence of walking into the locker room monday morning to find moe and colin arguing over whether monopoly is True Capitalist Propaganda while sam sneaks jamie $200 from the bank to get out of jail next week.

This. This actually matches up well with a thing I introduce at the end of my post-season fic.

This bit is not from the post-season fic, but there are definitely some plot points I'm cribbing from it. Here have some nonsense:

There were pros and cons to the new wellness initiative in the locker room.

And 'Wellness Initiative' was the phrase they were using. Not 'show-and-tell', no matter how many times Trent suggested it. Although with how many goddamn talent shows Roy had been forced to sit through in the past weeks, the former-journo might have been onto something. For a team full of professional footballers, a lot of them had found the time to sharpen other talents.

The idea had been simple: at least once a week, they were going to sit around as a team, and they'd take turns picking a topic that had nothing to do with football.

'Share-and-tell' Beard had called it, and Roy had growled until Higgins erased the name from the whiteboard.

Books, movies, whatever song they had bleeding through their headphones in the weight room, Roy didn't care. For one hour a week, they were going to...God help him...bond as a team. Share. Communicate. Maintain the resplendent inter-team hivemind bullshit that got them so close to winning the whole damn thing the year before.

Even if Moe's lockpicking demonstration was a disturbing hour of his life that he'd never get back.

But keeping the team functioning as a team was only half of it. Truth of the matter was, it helped the little idiots to have an outlet, something to get them out of their heads for a bit so that Roy didn't end up hugging a crying player in the boot room every other week. Four times had been enough, thanks.

Colin, the second-time boot room offender, had cocked his head like a Welsh corgi and asked, "Would it be all right if I brought my piano?"

"The one that weighs 800 kilos and broke your mother's floorboards?"

The next week Colin showed up with a new electronic keyboard that did not weigh as much as a baby rhino. He spent his hour taking pop song requests.

"Do I have to do a book report?" Jamie asked defensively when his turn came around. The three weeks before his turn had gone to fucking book reports. Even Roy was desperate for a change up. When he reassured Jamie that he only had to talk about books if he'd actually read a book he fucking liked, the relief on the number-one little idiot's face had been immense.

Jamie showed up for his turn with playing cards, a case of poker chips, and a bouquet of roses. The lads spent the hour shouting about cheating, and after a surprisingly aggressive run of bluffs and flushes, Dani Rojas walked away with all the flowers.

While Roy was distracted by Dani, who lamented that now he would need to buy a florero for his flowers, and Jamie, who thought Roy's water bottle would make an excellent vase in the meantime, he completely missed the gleam in Sam's eye as the unassuming player shuffled the card decks back in order.

---

Sam Obisanya was a fucking menace. One day Roy would retain this information.

Most days it was easy to forget. He had a calming effect on Jamie, who was less prone to biting when Sam was around. This made Jamie quieter, which made Isaac and Colin and Dani quieter, which gave the overall impression that things were peaceful in the locker room.

What Roy always forgot to add to the equation was that Jamie had the opposite effect on Sam, who on a normal day would never be found smiling like a post-canary cat while monopoly cards flew around the locker room like projectile weapons.

"I'm not paying you rent again, Cockburn!" Colin shouted.

"You keep landing on my square. It's not my fault you're bad at dice!"

"Bruv, quit throwing shit. It's my turn and I almost got all the railroads."

"The railroads are statistically the worst spaces to own; you know this, yes?"

"War is inevitable in a system where capitalism is dominant," Moe pointed out from where he sat lotus-style on the bench, abstaining from participating in the 'game of the exploiters.'

"Oi, Sam," Jamie whispered, sitting up a bit to tug at the edge of the other player's jumper. "While they're fightin', can you get me out of jail?"

Sam nodded at Dani, who flicked his hand in a way that spoke volumes on how he'd thrashed the team at poker. Two beige notes appeared in Sam's hand, and just as quickly disappeared into the collar of Jamie's shirt.

"Cheers," Jamie thanked him. He settled his head back down into Sam's lap, making himself cozy like a spoiled, cheating cat. "Never was any good at Monopoly."

Sam's smile was angelic, but his eyes glinted in a way that boded horribly for Roy's heart pressure. "Next time I can bring Settlers of Catan. Or Risk."

"Ooh. Risk. Should we team-up?"

Who knew Sam's talent would be putting Roy Kent in an early grave?

[anonymoushouseplantfan]

This is Meghan lashing out at Kate because she has the life Meghan thinks she deserves, the loving husband who has an actual future, the picture perfect children the world is in love with and the public adoration. It kills her that even at her most popular (and she was never really that popular even at the start) she never got near Kates level.

I think this applies to Harry as well, his ego won't ever let go of the fact he's the spare with a dud wife the public didn't like from the start and has 2 kids who will never touch what the Wales kids will. He wants what William has as much if not more than Meghan wants what Kate has. This is HIS family, HIS father and the woman he said is as close to a sister as he's ever had and he's allowing and actively helping some backstreet journo and his wife to tear them down in the most disgusting and vilest way.

His mother would be ashamed of him, the only things she ever wanted was for her boys to stay together and represent the monarchy and country she loved (even in her last few years she supported the monarchy and said publically she didn't want to harm it) and he and his wife have attacked everything she loved and stood for. Shame on him, I know Meghan gets most of the blame but Harry is the real villain in my opinion.

Harry’s a Shakespearean villain at this point.

[kcsplace]

After his divorce some of Trent's colleagues give him a gift certificate to a psychic. After weeks of it sitting on his desk one of the other journos guilts him into using it - "stop wasting our money, wanker" - and off he goes, figuring at worst he can get some sort of article out of it.for the fucking Light Life or whatever it was that the new editor wanted them all submitting to once a month.

The psychic is clearly a lunatic, but he endures it all with a smile because he's going to eviscerate her in print and stop her from taking another penny from the grieving and the lost. Or, drunk journo-twats.

Its not until he's leaving that she throws out, blase as anything, "oh and your soulmate is a man named Ed, hes not from around here"

Hes halfway home when he stops into a pub and decides, well, he has to disprove the whole thing, so yells out "IS ED HERE??"

Only for the good looking, moustachioed man at the bar to raise his hand. "I win something?" Trent wants to scream; the man sure as shit ain't in Kansas anymore

Bellying up to the bar, Trent introduces himself, and then somehow it's four hours later and the barmaid is throwing them out with a twinkle in her eyes

Standing awkwardly on the pavement, staring at the Green, Trent's about to open his mouth when Ed starts talking

"I don't know about you, Trent, but this is not how i saw my night going. No sir. When you walked in, I thought to myself "now, that's the most handsome man I've ever seen, and then you asked for a Ted and I just-"

"I'm sorry, what??"

"You asked for a Ted."

"I asked for an Ed."

"Oh. Well, then we're in a predicament."

"Not Ed?"

"Ted."

"You're sure?"

"Since 1974"

"Shit."

"My mom did try calling me Eddie for a bit, does that count?"

"I…I don't know."

"You don't know?"

So Trent explains the whole thing to increasingly amused Ted.

"I see your problem. Well, I would like to see you again Trent, but I understand if you wanna find your Ed, and I might not believe in a higher power, but I sure don't wanna piss off one that might believe in me. But see, i believe in rom-communism, so hows this? In two weeks, if a Ted is good enough, I'll meet you back here. 8pm."

[moonshynecybin]

literally marc and devotion topic of alllllll time... wld love to hear all ur thoughts...

Okay your post got me on this and it is beautiful!!!!!!! essential scholarship…

like marc has never liked anything or anyone casually in his LIFE!!! i am. constantly thinking about this lol i think its a load-bearing aspect of his personality. idk like professional sports is already such a chaotic whirlwind of travel and media barrage and commodification of your person that it means you really need those big pillars in your life to ground you… and marc chose a lot of those people from a pretty young age. i mean his best friend is his brother. he cried about leaving his team all weekend in valencia he looooooves them. only way he was remotely okay leaving that team even to win was if he was going to the garage next to alex lbr. and he still maintains he might come back. 

and one big theme from all the motogp journo’s podcast and stuff i listen to is how kind of removed from the rest of the paddock and weird marc is. very good at holding everyone at arms length. not reallyyyy good friends with the other drivers. withholds in a very deliberate way. please consider this hilarious photo of him hanging out with joan mir and ignoring his ass to talk to his brother. like for example fabio loves marc! but marc likes fabio. hes still nice! hes friendly! hes not. well forgive me he is not going to anyones house in the offseason. anymore. wonder why.

hes just… so selective with this devotion and so complete with it. its an exclusive little club but he would die for them all…. never lost anything he didnt leave clawmarks on. including racing! he just cant except a reality in which the things he loves are absent from him he finds it intolerable. which is a big part of why i dont really believe him when he says he’s over his and vale’s epic breakup. I think he wants everyone to BELIEVE he is over it bc itll lead to less questions about it and well. my man marc only likes being percieved on his own terms and the sepang incident was something decidedly not on his own terms. and he hates showing his soft little underbelly about it. I think his little docuseries are very much coming from a place of discomfort wrt to how the inability to define his own narrative happened with all that. and also so he can tell the world he is Over valentino Please Stop Asking. so.

[taraljc]

Right, so clearly 20-25ish years ago, Geoff gave up a life of crime and took a job on the 12th Earl of Halstead 's country estate. Why? Who knows. Maybe his parents were in service and worked at Halstead Manor and he grew up on the grounds. Maybe he was from the village originally.

For whatever reason, he walked away from the life--but he knows what's what, and he definitely knows Robert Glass.

Bobby Glass would have been 10 years Geoff's senior, and it's entirely possible the whole reason the Earl (who was absolutely 100% Terence Stamp's generation) not only so readily accepted the proposal but a spearheaded the agreement amongst the Glass family and 12 other aristocratic families is because he trusted Geoff's counsel despite (for who knows? maybe because of) the fact that Geoff had an affair with his wife and Charlotte is his daughter.

So inside my head, regardless of whether or not we do get a second series, my head canon is that Terence Stamp was Bobby and Geoff's previous boss, the one they broke away from. Maybe Bobby took over Terence Stamp's business by force, maybe Bobby built his own in the '70s brick by brick with his blessing. But there's history there. It's three generations of Glasses and Hornimans side by side.

And I think Blackmailer Frank the former journo with integrity knows all of the story. Or at least, all the various pieces of the puzzle, but a puzzle he hasn't put together because he doesn't know what the big picture is.

Something happened 20-25ish years ago, and maybe it involves Susie and Jack's mum's death and maybe it doesn't, but I don't think the timing is coincidence.

Fuck. I'm gonna have to write something. And I also very clearly need to rewatch Sexy Beast.

ETA: If I do write something, it will almost certainly begin 'In retrospect, all things considered, he should have sold the Gainsborough.'

[marquezian]

‘Some PRs won’t be happy until MotoGP is just a corporate event, stripped of its beauty and soul’

(OP Note: Mat Oxley has a new article out about his battle with KTM's PR but its behind a paywall so I grabbed it since it's a great read! here's the original link)

The MotoGP paddock can be a battlefield between PRs and journalists, who have opposing goals. Once again Mat Oxley has a MotoGP PR machine coming after him and this time the fallout is gloriously entertaining

A couple of years ago I had a disagreement with the PR people from a MotoGP team who tried to stop me doing my job.

I wrote a blog about it. Because a journalist’s only power comes from his or her laptop. If we don’t tell these people to back off, pretty soon there’ll be no point in journalists attending races, so you’ll all just have to enjoy the PR releases instead.

Also, these stories offer fans an interesting insight into the weird and occasionally wonderful dynamics of a journalist’s life in the paddock.

Even better, this latest story is hilarious in its craziness. The team’s PR machine started out complaining that I hadn’t used a certain word in my story (even though I had), while banning their engineers from using that word.

Freaking weird.

It seems like PRs like these won’t be happy until MotoGP is no more than a soulless corporate marketing event, stripped of all its joy and beauty, existing purely to sell you stuff, with a bit of motorbike racing on the side. Just like Formula 1.

Most MotoGP PRs do a great job. They arrange interviews and generally help us to write about MotoGP. Back when I started, in the late 1980s, the only way to talk to a rider was to go knocking on his motorhome door. Or his tent.

Now some PRs behave like we’re there to help them do their job (flog product), rather than the other way around. If any PRs are in doubt about this, the clue is in their job title: PR, for press/public relations.

I still love MotoGP for the racing and technology, and I enjoy talking to the world’s greatest riders and engineers, but the layers of PR bullshit grow thicker and stickier each season.

Clashes between journalists and PRs are inevitable, because they have contradicting objectives. Journos want to dig into what’s going on, while a PR’s job is to protect the brand. Truth isn’t their number-one priority.

Like George Orwell wrote, “Journalism is printing what someone else does not want printed. Everything else is public relations”.

The world’s first PR person was American Edward Bernays, who during World War I was hired by the US government to sell the idea of the country entering the war, when most Americans weren’t keen. He was so successful that he set up the world’s first PR agency after the war.

Among his numerous corporate gigs, Bernays was employed by the US tobacco industry to get women smoking, because at that time few women smoked. He consulted a Freudian psychoanalyst and promoted cigarettes to women as ‘torches of freedom’. This campaign was another big success.

Bernays’ work spawned a global PR industry that now works in every sphere of human endeavour.

Press relations – as Bernays proved – is a psychological game: you tell journalists selective truths, giving them information you want them to have, while hiding information you don’t want them to have. You cultivate friendships with journalists, because if they like you, they just may be nicer to your brand. And you stay friends, even if you hate their guts, because that’s a game.

Also useful is the possession of a vague idea of how journalism works. That’s why some of the best PRs are former journalists, who swapped sides to make more money. “Journalism is more fun,” one journo-turned-PR told me. “But PR is much more lucrative.”

The Red Bull KTM team is one of MotoGP’s best – hugely dedicated, massively hardworking and well looked after by its management. It enjoys possibly the best morale of any factory team. There’s always a buzz in the KTM garage – the mechanics really enjoy what they do and usually give a friendly nod when you walk down pit lane.

Its riders Brad Binder and Jack Miller are great to talk to and its engineers are generous with their time when you want a quick chat behind the garages. And I’ve had some great interviews with motor sport director Pit Beirer, engine designer Kurt Trieb, technical director Sebastian Risse, crew chief Paul Trevathan and others.

I last interviewed Risse (whose nickname in the team, which includes several Sebastians, is Clever Seb) during last November’s Malaysian GP.

The full interview was published on this site a while back, running to more than 2200 words. The print magazines I work for – in Europe, the USA, Australia and Japan – are more restricted on space, so I had just 500 words to cover each manufacturer, including rider and engineer quotes.

If an editor says he or she wants 500 words, you write 500 words, not 499 or 501. Magazine writing has to be tight, with quotes edited for clarity and brevity. I’ve been doing this for more than forty years, so I think I have the general idea.

PRs who try to control me by telling me what to write is like me walking into the KTM garage and telling the mechanics how to tighten the RC16’s brake bolts. I’d rightly get a slap.

And yet a KTM PR thought it a good idea to tell me how to do my job. This PR accused me of making “misquotations” in my magazine story and asked me to contact my editors, so they could make “the necessary corrections to reflect what was said accurately”.

At first, I thought it was a joke because I still have the tapes and transcripts of the interviews.

But I take the attack seriously. KTM asked these magazines to correct my text. I have no contracts with any of the magazines that publish my stuff, so I’m only ever as good as my last story. And why would an editor want to employ a journo who changes quotes to alter their meaning? Because that’s a serious crime in this job.

The attack seemed especially perverse because my story was very complimentary about KTM’s MotoGP project – “It’s a fantastic motorcycle to ride,” said Miller

To make sure I wasn’t being wrongheaded, I forwarded KTM’s email to two renowned MotoGP journalists, who between them have covered the championship for eighty years.

“I can’t understand what the complaints are about,” wrote Michael Scott, the doyen of MotoGP journalists, who started covering GPs in the early 1980s. “It is a journalist’s job to edit comments for brevity and comprehensibility. However, if someone is going to nitpick about exact wording, you either have to adopt the approach of [a former MotoGP journalist] and publish every ‘um’ and ‘er’ and every half-finished sentence and end up with overlong garble, or report in indirect speech, to preserve clarity and ensure brevity. They are nitpicking because they are nits.”

Sounds like a carpet stroller trying justify their existence,” wrote my other colleague, who covered his first GP around the same time. “It’s astounding, just mindless nitpicking. The really baffling thing is that the context of your story is 500 words of positivity about how KTM are tech trendsetters!”

I would’ve published the rest of this email, but it was way too rude.

I even contacted Britain’s National Union of Journalists to ask its opinion. “I can’t see anything that changed the meaning,” replied an NUJ advisor.

So why is KTM so mad at me?

The first complaint concerned my magazine headline and subsequent discussion about the RC16’s carbon-fibre frame.

(Italics denote their words.)

“We note that in the headline you included ‘CARBON’ whereas in the text itself you’ve removed this and kept it to just ‘frame’.”

A quick read of the story – below – reveals that the word ‘carbon’ did indeed appear within the story. Twice. Whatever they’re smoking is making them paranoid and confused. And a bit sleepy too.

Next, KTM complained about this.

“We are convinced that sooner or later everyone will have carbon frames,” says Risse.

This sentence was edited for clarity from the original, “We are convinced that sooner or later everyone will end up on this”. This was Risse’s answer to my eighth consecutive question about the RC16’s carbon-fibre frame, so there was no doubt that “this” referred to carbon frames, so the meaning hasn’t been changed.

Their last complaint concerned this Miller quote…

“We’ve been able to find more grip with the carbon-fibre frame, so the thing I’ve been working on is understanding the front end to carry more corner speed.”

This quote was subbed for clarity and brevity, from 49 words to 28. Cutting text is a major part of a journalist’s job – in fact it often takes longer to edit a story down to the required word count than to write the first draft.

This was Miller’s full quote…

“We’ve been able to find quite a bit more grip with the new chassis, so that’s the biggest thing we were trying to chase and we’ve got some steps coming to keep improving that and trying to understand the front end a bit more, to carry some corner speed.”

Again, both quotes say the same thing: the new frame gives more grip, but we need to find more corner speed.

What the PRs would’ve liked me to write was something like this, to signal each of my edits to the reader…

Risse, “We are convinced that sooner or later everyone will end up on [have] this [carbon-fibre frame technology]”.

And…

Miller, “We’ve been able to find [quite a bit] more grip with the new [carbon-fibre] chassis [sic, the swingarm was already carbon-fibre], so [that’s the biggest thing we were trying to chase and we’ve got some steps coming to keep improving that] and [Ed: what he’s been working on is] trying to understand the front end a bit more, to carry some corner speed.”

There’s a reason you never read quotes like this: because they’re ugly to read, they make the speaker sound ridiculous and they use twice the space, so the story would contain half the information.

This is why I don’t like PR people telling me how to be a journalist.

As already noted, the story praised KTM’s valiant attempts to beat Ducati. Perhaps its PR geniuses would’ve been happier if I’d more accurately reflected KTM’s recent efforts in MotoGP and written this instead…

Despite massive investment from KTM and Red Bull, working with Red Bull Advanced Technologies (arguably the world’s foremost motor sport aerodynamicists), having one of the best riders on the grid and taking some of the key brains from MotoGP dominators Ducati and Öhlins, KTM is the only manufacturer not to have won a single dry-weather grand prix in almost three years, since June 2021. Even Honda and Suzuki have won more dry GPs in that period.’

During the Sepang tests I had a lively, er, conversation with KTM, in the hope they’d realise their accusations were false. The PR doubled down, so I suggested KTM sues me, so we could go to court and let the experts decide. My offer was declined.

When I got home from Sepang I contacted the magazines that had published the story, because KTM wanted them to make corrections, where possible.

And this is when things got really funny.

The first of my editors that contacted KTM’s PRs told them he had reviewed the transcripts and story and saw no need for any corrections. It provoked this response from KTM’s motor sport PR chief.

“To be clear on this – nobody from KTM clarified that the new chassis was a carbon fibre chassis in 2023 and we were surprised and disappointed to read it as a quote from an official KTM spokesperson.”

So that’s it! KTM engineers weren’t allowed to use the term carbon-fibre to describe the RC16’s new frame, even though everyone was talking about it.

Risse and I spent more than three minutes talking specifically about the carbon frame. He went into some detail describing how it improved the bike but couldn’t actually say carbon-fibre.

How wild is that?!

KTM’s PR wonks had gone wonky – they were in a terminal tank-slapper, triggered by diametrically opposing brainwaves.

What I would’ve given to be sat in that PR/marketing meeting…

“Ladies and gentlemen, our genius MotoGP engineers have designed a genius new frame, so our genius marketing plan is to ban our genius engineers from mentioning their genius creation to anyone. Even though everyone already knows about it.”

“Dude, you’re a marketing genius!”

High-fives all round.

I assume that following this great meeting of the minds the KTM PR team gave KTM’s actual chief MotoGP engineer a bollocking for not telling me that the carbon-fibre frame didn’t exist.

Talk about the tail trying to wag the dog.

And now the crowning glory to this comedy wild-goose chase.

A few weeks after my chat with Risse, another journalist interviewed Risse and he did say the word that should not be said. (I wonder if the crack PRs returned to the office of their actual chief engineer to give him another bollocking.)

So, the PR boss was being economical with the truth when he told me that, “nobody from KTM clarified that the new chassis was a carbon fibre chassis in 2023”.

These people have their knickers in such a twist that I wonder how they get out of bed in the morning.

One last thought: a PR’s job isn’t only to establish good relations with journalists, it’s their job to promote MotoGP to a wider audience.

Considering that motorcycle racing is currently the world’s 30th most popular sport (after horse dressage!), I believe these PRs would be better spending their time trying to grow the sport – by getting stories in mainstream magazines and so on – instead of chasing after journalists for petty nothings.

Finally, I’d like to wish Red Bull KTM all the best for the 2024 season. They’re a great bunch of people (mostly) and I’d love to see them winning GPs again.

[wildfernflower]

Tony is a Band Manager not Music Producer. Problem is that except for the major media that interviewed Cait most are crappy articles on dubious online sites that simply copy and paste wrong information from other shady sites and continue to post as clickbait. In a recent podcast with Lauren Lyle, the host clearly said that he knows Tony very well and that he is The Fratellis' band manager. HIs name is mentioned twice on the band's last album with thanks and appreciation. He doesn't need a SM to do his work. Phone calls, messaging, e-mails and in person meetings are still used to do business and obviously he does them all.

The fact that you continue to use wrong info. to push your own agenda is quite clear to anyone who is aware of both sides.

“Tony is a Band Manager not Music Producer”

Whether T is a music producer, band manager, or both, it doesn't make his persona look better, more professional, or just more "real". In numerous articles though he’s mentioned as a music producer:

According to your own words, these are “crappy articles on dubious online sites that simply copy and paste wrong information from other shady sites and continue to post as clickbait”. So these are not credible sources, as you’ve admitted, but no others exist. Nobody can verify his qualifications and find out what his real job is, because there is no mention about him to be found either in serious press or on serious websites like Linkedin – you have surely read my reply to an Anon, where I compared T’s skills and accomplishments (zero entries) to those of N. Brown, the tour manager of The Fratellis.

The difference is striking and puzzling, but you deliberately ignore it. It seems natural and beneficial for a career and recognition in any field, specifically in the music/entertainment industry, to have many skills, achievements, contracts, etc. and to make these facts public and widely known to the potential new clients. Well documented career path proves professionalism and competences of the producer/manager and encourages the clients to start successful cooperation, regardless of what your working style is. Why to harm your own career by staying anonymous and hiding that all? (Unless you have nothing to show …). T does have a phone (we saw him sitting at the table glued to the screen during the events C had dragged him to), possibly he has an e-mail address, too … Do you expect him reciting his competences each time a client calls him? E-mails and phone calls are “still used to do business and obviously he does them all” – do you know him personally to be sure what his working style is and that he “obviously” do them all? Perhaps you believe T enjoys such a broad recognition and his accomplishments are so significant that he’s in great demand and doesn’t need any publicity? So why nobody has heard about him? If he was that recognized, why - when press reported on C's wedding 4 years ago - had there never been any mention of how outstanding and talented man Caitriona had married? Usually, the journalists (especially tabloid journos) dig a lot to find out some interesting facts and details about the person with whom the celebrity is getting married to. But nothing more apart from T being a music producer had been found back then and hasn’t been so far. Isn't it a bit weird? I’ll bet many people hadn’t heard about him and his profession until then.

“His name is mentioned twice on the band's last album with thanks and appreciation”

That’s possible, maybe his name was mentioned also on one or two older albums of Fratellis, you probably know better than me. But have anybody heard about his other achievements? Is that all he did during all his professional life? One mention on the album? Almost 20 years in the industry working supposedly as a producer/manager, almost 47 year old guy and his only “success” is his contribution to one album and being acknowledged once or twice by the same band? No cooperations with other artists? No other projects? Simply these acknowledgements? That’s all? T and the members of Fratellis are surely good friends, there was a photo of them on IG, and probably that’s why he’s mentioned occasionally as a manager, and why Fratellis are his only connection with the music industry over many years.

“In a recent podcast with Lauren Lyle, the host clearly said that he knows Tony very well and that he is The Fratellis' band manager”

This was the first time anyone had spoken publicly about T in the context of his career in the music industry. How do we know what he said is credible? Perhaps, as I wrote in my comment back then, that journalist wanted to give his good pal T some publicity if he’s not doing well in the music industry? It’s a bit suspicious to mention him at all, and definitely unprofessional to suggest him managing Fratellis links OL to great music. If T is such “an amazing fella”, why does C never say a word about him and never mention his name, why isn’t she proud of him, why does she never walk red carpet with him, why does she avoid being photographed with him in front of the media wall, why is he always trailing behind her along the corridors, why does she use him as a coat hanger, why does she keep him in a background, why is she ashamed of such an “amazing fella”? It seems to me that T is much more involved in his job as Cait's paid assistant whom she drags along everywhere, even to insignificant interviews, to prove he’s her husband than he is in his alleged job as the music producer/manager.

“The fact that you continue to use wrong info to push your own agenda is quite clear to anyone who is aware of both sides”

I’m not pushing my own agenda, I don’t force anybody to adopt my point of view. I’ve explained how I see the things.

If you think I'm using wrong info, please, tell me the source of the correct one if you know. If you're “aware of another side” – perhaps you're in touch with T, or hanging around with the people who know him, or have tips from reliable friends in the know, etc. - feel free to share your knowledge and prove me wrong by evidence.