#mr barleycorn

[moonstruck-stormy]

The masters of the bazaar (+ Mr Barleycorn) have been sushified! Learn sushi terms with me!

In the reblogs is a poll about what ailments you’d get from eating them

[mr-barleycorn]

Kissie :]

[waterlogged-detective]

The fluffiest space bat for @moonstruck-stormy C:

[the-fl-bat-spectrum]

Mr Barleycorn on the Bat Alignment Chart

On the left is the mode of the results, and on the right is the ratio between the opposing spectrum sides

The stats are below:

Total Votes: 38 participants

Those Feratu (in general): 11 votes

Hi Doggy (in general): 15 votes

(Ratio between Hi Doggy/Those Feratu =26.7% in favor towards Hi Doggy )

__

Hear it Hurgling (in general):  14 votes

El Wiwi (in general): 12 votes

(Ratio between Hear it Hurgling/El Wiwi = 14.3% in favor towards Hear it Hurgling )

There are 2 modes: Hear it Hurgling/Those Feratu and El Wiwi / Hi Doggy (very divisive)

5 people do not know what a Mr Barleycorn is :[

Hear it Hurgling/Those Feratu= 6 votes or 15.8%

Those Feratu= 2 votes or 5.3%

 El Wiwi/Those Feratu= 3 votes 7.9%

 Hear it Hurgling=4 votes or 10.5%

Neutral= 0 votes or 0%

El Wiwi= 3 votes or 7.9%

 Hear it Hurgling/Hi Doggy= 4 votes or 10.5%

 Hi Doggy-= 5 votes or 13.2%

El Wiwi/Hi Doggy= 6 votes or 15.8%

 What the hell is a Mr Barleycorn ?= 5 votes or 13.2%

[the-insouciant-scientist]

Barleycorn my enormous beloved

[the-dye-stained-socialite]

the elutheria crew!!

i think they deserve cuddles, barleycorn most of all. it's far too sad

i accidentally drew them more bat like than anthro whoops!

and then face closeups and species under the cut!!

Mr Barleycorn, based on a Spectacles Flying Fox

Mr Pipes, based off of a Little Brown Bat

Mr Pennies, based off of a Wrinkle Lipped Bat (not wrinkle faced!)

and finally, Mr Menagerie, based off of a Canyon Bat

[house-of-mirrors]

Since you’re playing skies rn, for the character bingo: Mr Barleycorn please!

There's no box for "pokes them with a stick while whispering 'what's ur baggage'" or "needs so much therapy" but those are spiritually blotted too, Mr Barleycorn is my friend who has so many issues, I am tugging on its sleeve right now asking it to tell me a story

Living in the corpse of your old boss whom you hated for enslaving you, serving the god that killed her, claiming you aren't lonely... ok

[feivelynart]

Sunless Skies Mod: portrait images for vanilla characters Mr Barleycorn The Bespectacled Official Lord Langley Sweet Jane

[topoet]

Spooky Traffic

By Traffic I have, as either stand-alone or mp3: Mr. Fantasy – original & expanded (1967); Traffic (1968); John Barleycorn Mist Die (1970); Low Spark of High Heeled Boys (1971): Welcome to the Canteen (1971); On The Road (1973); Smiling Phases (1991). So you might say I was a fan lol. Though my interest did drop off after Low Spark. I loved their first single: Paper Sun/Hole in My Shoe & had the…

[jane-d-ankh-veos]

Consider: Revolutionary Mr Cards ✦ specializes in the Council's Christmas Cards ✦ firsthand researches ways of defying the Chain ✦ realized that no matter how Great, it’s a Game ✦ overjoyed at developing night vision ✦ still plays with October and May because all three are addicted now ✦ keeps Mr Barleycorn company ✦ undermines the Bazaar from within and whets some Masters’ grievances towards it ✦ flies with local Curators all over Eleutheria without needing an engine

[teabooksandsweets]

A City of Bells

Chapter IX — Part II

There was no need to ring at the front door, for it stood hospitably wide open, and Peppercue and Barleycorn, who always assisted the Bishop’s decrepit old butler Baggersley on festive occasions, were hovering about to help them off with their coats. The huge stone-floored, vaulted hall was very cold and they parted with their wraps reluctantly. “There are two fires lit in the gallery,” whispered Baggersley, with intent to cheer, and totteringly led the way up the lovely carved staircase.

Baggersley was very old, looked like a tortoise and was not of the slightest use. His dress clothes, green with age, hung loosely upon his withered old body and he could not now remember anyone’s name, but suggestions that he should be pensioned off were not favourably received by him, so the Bishop kept him on … “A disgrace to the place,” the Dean said. “A—er—disgrace.”

“Archdeacon Jones and family,” quavered Baggersley at the gallery door and the Fordyces, Mrs. Jameson, Felicity and Jocelyn trooped smilingly in. The Bishop, whose sight was poor, had a moment of confusion until Grandfather whispered hoarsely, “’Smee, Bishop,” when he identified them with relief. The shortness of Baggersley’s memory, together with the shortness of his own sight, made the arrival of guests something of a strain.

Few lovelier rooms were to be met with at this time in England than the gallery of the Bishop’s Palace at Torminster. It stretched the whole length of one wing of the Palace and was perfectly proportioned for its length. The polished floor shone like dark water and the linen-fold panelling on the walls roused the students of these things to ecstasy. At each end of the gallery a log-fire was blazing, its glow reflected on floor and walls, and in the centre was a Christmas-tree, its top reaching to the ceiling and its branches laden with twinkling candles and presents done up in coloured paper. The choirboys stood in an excited group near the tree, looking terribly clean in their Etons, their faces shining with soaps and their eyes with expectation, while near them stood the dignitaries of the Close with their dependents, smiling with the urbanity of those who feel themselves to be in the position of benefactors but yet have had no bother with the preparations. It was certainly a great occasion, and from the walls of the gallery the former bishops of Torminster looked down upon it from their portraits, the flickering firelight playing queer tricks with their painted faces so that some of them seemed to smile at the happiness, and some to frown at the frivolity, while one gentleman at the far end of the room was distinctly seen by Henrietta to raise a hand in blessing.

The choirboys’ presents were given first. Peppercue and Barleycorn mounted two rickety step-ladders and cut them off the tree, calling out the boys’ names in stentorian voices, while Baggersley trotted round in circles calling out instructions to Peppercue and Barleycorn, after the manner of those who while doing no work themselves see all the more clearly how it should be done. Paper and string strewed the floor and happy squeals greeted the appearance of knives, watches, whistles, blood-curdling books about Red Indians and boxes of those explosives which, when placed beneath the chairs of corpulent relations, go off with loud and satisfying reports … The Bishop always insisted upon this type of present, disregarding the complaints of the Dean and Lady Lavinia who maintained that they were in no way calculated to improve the morals of the dear boys. “No one,” said the Bishop, “wants to be bothered with morals at Christmas”; which the Dean and Lady Lavinia considered such an outrageous remark that they were careful not to repeat it … Delight mounted higher and higher, reaching the peak of ecstasy when the tree caught fire and Barleycorn fell off his step-ladder, Baggersley remarking with acid pleasure that he had said so all along.

Grandfather took advantage of the confusion and howls of joy that ensued to press little packets into the hands of his young grandchildren. He remembered from his own childhood how difficult it is to watch other children receiving presents when you do not get any yourself. You may have a toy-cupboard at home stocked with good things, you may be going to a party every day for a fortnight, but it does not make any difference, for in childhood there is no past and no future, but only the joy or desolation of the moment. The tight, polite smiles that Henrietta and Hugh Anthony were maintaining with difficulty changed in the twinkling of an eye into happy grins as knobbly parcels were slipped into their hot palms from behind … Surreptitiously they opened them … A tiny china teapot and a box of pink pistol-caps numerous enough to turn every day of the next fortnight into a fifth of November.

Looking over their shoulders they saw Grandfather standing with his back to them, gazing with an appearance of great innocence at a portrait of an eighteenth-century bishop with a white wig and sleeves like balloons … They chuckled.

The fire put out and Barleycorn smoothed down, they all went downstairs to the banqueting hall for tea.

The original banqueting hall, where kings and queens had feasted, was now a ruin standing out in the Palace grounds in the moonlight, but its name had been transferred to the sombre great room below the gallery, where damp stains disfigured the walls and where the wind always howled in the chimney.

Not that this worried the choirboys, for the Bishop’s cook had surpassed herself. They sat themselves down round the groaning table and they did not speak again.

But at the buffet at the far end of the room, where the grown-ups balanced delicate sandwiches and little iced cakes in their saucers, there was a polite hum of conversation. Extraordinary, thought Hugh Anthony and Henrietta, who had to-day to be perforce counted among them, how grown-ups talk when they eat. Don’t they want to taste their food? Don’t they want to follow it in imagination as it travels down that fascinating pink-lined lane to the larder below? Sometimes Henrietta tried to picture that larder. It had shelves, she thought, and a lot of gnomes called “digestive juices” ran about putting things to rights … Or sometimes, unfortunately, forgetting to.

“Please,” said Henrietta plaintively to Felicity, “could you hold my cup while I eat my cake? It’s so dreadfully difficult not sitting down.”

Felicity, who had finished her own tea, was most helpful. She held Henrietta’s cup in one hand and with the other she held the saucer below the cake so that Henrietta should not drop crumbs on the carpet.

“Shall I hold yours, Hugh Anthony?” asked Jocelyn, for Hugh Anthony’s cup of milk was slopping over into the saucer in the most perilous way.

“No, thank you,” said Hugh Anthony, and his eyes were very bright because he had just had a brilliant idea.

Putting it into immediate practice he placed himself and his cup behind the Archdeacon, who was holding forth to Mrs. Elphinstone about total abstinence. Now when the Archdeacon held forth he had a curious habit of stepping suddenly backwards when he reached his peroration. He did it in the pulpit, frightening everyone into fits lest he should fall over the edge and kill himself, and he did it on his own hearthrug so that in winter his visitors had to keep a sharp look-out and make a dash for it when his coat-tails caught the flames, and he did it now. “Temperance, my dear lady,” he said to Mrs. Elphinstone, “is the foundation stone of national welfare,” and stepped backwards on top of Hugh Anthony.

Everyone rushed to pick the poor child up. He was patted, soothed, kissed, and the milk that had spilled all over him was mopped up, though it was distressingly evident that his velvet suit was ruined.

The courage with which Hugh Anthony bore the pain of his trampled feet was much admired by everyone but Henrietta, for Henrietta, standing grave-eyed and aloof, knew quite well that he had done it on purpose.

[moonstruck-stormy]

Ice cream Masters!!!!! Yipieeeee!

[mr-barleycorn]

Barleycorn staring out its window. What is it thinking?

[waterlogged-detective]

I wanna see your interpretation of Mr Barleycorn please! 💗 thanks for your time!

I still need to play sskies haha

[the-fl-bat-spectrum]

No canon art :(

Remember to be respectful of other people’s headcanons even if they aren’t the same as yours or canon, and remember to take a break!

For more information on the chart

[obeyfeline]

vintage Sulka roundup

A roundup of vintage finds on the internet of stuff from Sulka and other places I write about in my book Swan Songs: Souvenirs of Paris Elegance, available through the link in my bio. 

Vintage vicuna from the pre-ban era

Crewneck and funnel-neck

A more normal cashmere sweater in a barleycorn knit with contrast collar and cuffs:

Enamel jockey hat cufflinks

Precious fripperies. I’ve posted pics of enameled Sulka ladybug or shamrock cufflinks before.

Belted cashmere overshirt with epaulettes. If this had been my size I would have been all over it.

1960s-1970s crazy pattern shirt. More interesting than what they ended up selling in the 1990s, or what is now being sold under the Sulka label on Mr Porter.

Jacquard-woven Sea Island cotton pajamas.

A 1970s-early 1980s polo shirt by Schiatti:

Ties and scarves:

all with the stupid diamond-tipped reinforcing stitch:

Incredible tasseling and monogramming:

The irregular spot pattern was a Sulka specialty:

Raoul Dufy for Charvet silk scarf:

Chavet crocogator belt:

Dunhill Tradition boxed alligator flask set. Handmade in Walthamstow England, in vanishingly small numbers.