#now hes Britain's white boy

[keepthedelta]

okay but I'm not over the brocedes unicycling and especially anthony having that photo. just, imagine you're anthony hamilton. your son is special and everyone thinks that their kid is special but yours actually is. he has an insane talent but karting and racing is so expensive, but he's so talented that you're willing to work four jobs to pay for it and he's willing to work so hard on the track to show that it's worth it. and this is britain so people are awful and racist but he beats everyone and you go over to italy where, ok, the people are still mostly awful and racist but for the first time your son actually makes a friend in this sport. and on paper it doesn't make sense, this kid is white and rich and the son of a world champion but he loves your son and your son loves him. they race together and destroy hotel rooms together and you drive them and a world champion around europe and see them win and win and win. and they grow up because that's what boys do, and they both win championships and make it to formula one. and all the work was worth it because your son becomes a world champion, and then he becomes world champion again. and the boys are teammates again but it isn't fun this time. there are no friendly competitions now. years go by and your son can't even say the boy's name, but he still says that karting (with him) was the best time of his life, still uses the tricks that the boy taught him. and then you're stood talking with this boy, all grown up, talking about your son. and all of that Stuff matters, of course it does, the championships and the teammates and the divorce, but it doesn't matter as much as the fact that once upon a time they were dumb thirteen year olds having competitions over unicycles as though that was ever cool, and your son was Happy.

[cherryslyce]

Amalfi Coast | Theodore Nott

Synopsis: The end of your years at Hogwarts brings about stirring changes: the unveiling of your betrothal to Theodore Nott and an all-expense getaway to Italy for alone time with your husband-to-be.

PAIRING: Theodore Nott x GN!Reader

WORD COUNT + NOTES: 4.5k. I am so weak for Theodore.

The shards of glimmering light that dance across the soft peaks of water distances away seem to speak to you as you drift into your thoughts. Crowded between cliff-hanging abodes and the frothing shore, you’ve never felt so insignificant until that moment. 

Your hand absentmindedly brushes against the fine grains of sand below you, the microscopic beads emanating a pleasant warmth against your palm. You hear a soft thud from beside you just as a comforting presence graces you, the uncomfortable stir of disorientation washing away with the drag of the waves. 

“The unit should be prepped soon. We can grab some food after Mitzy brings over our luggage.” Theodore’s smooth voice hums out, eyes clambering to drink in the sight of the sea as well. 

You smile softly at the mention of the boy’s house-elf, remembering how she had been keen to help you pack for the trip. Nodding, you unconsciously shift closer to the boy as you glance at him, “Sounds like a plan.” 

Theodore looks completely serene much to your confusion. A large part of you was grateful that Theodore was chosen to be your betrothed, but another chunk of your heart twinged painfully at the thought. It was no secret that Nott Sr. was a strict man, and you couldn’t help but spiral into a web of thoughts about how Theodore was likely forced into being with you. 

It had only been a few months since you both graduated from Hogwarts, but you distinctly recall how close Theodore was to Millicent Bulstrode. Your brain sifted through your memories of the girl, remembering her calculative eyes and pin-straight posture. 

You just hoped the girl wouldn’t hex you for swooping in and stealing her boyfriend. 

You and Theodore weren’t exactly close friends, but you both sought out each other’s company during exam season, enjoying the comfortable routine of silence that you both fell into during those days. Outside of the library, interactions with the boy dwindled into nods and occasional smiles. Despite the distance between you both during school, you held onto hope that your familiarity with one another would serve as a stepping stone towards a smooth relationship. 

Conversation with Theodore is sparse for the hours that follow, the both of you mulling over thoughts of pleasantries and faltering topics of chatter. The fervid wind settles the farther you trek from the shoreline, now teetering past assortments of clustered buildings, all mottled with bright colors. 

Your wand presses stiffly against your side as you tuck it into the waistband of your bottoms, concealing it from view as you both approach a swarm of people. Theodore keeps beside you, donning black sunglasses that keeps his searching gaze hidden as you both bask in the foreign environment. 

It was lively and bright, the antithesis to the perpetual gloom and blisters of humming that was encroached in every stone of Britain. White verandas and endless shrubbery adorned the collection of shops around you, catching your eyes every so often. 

“Here we are.” Theodore mutters, throwing you a small smile as your mouth drops into a vague o-shape. 

The restaurant is stretched open with white beams of wood streaming upward to a flat wooden ceiling, the entirety of the seating area is squared away by the side banisters instead of proper walls, letting in the cool wind and seaside view. Theodore steps forward to speak with the hostess, hand lifting up to tug off his sunglasses as a blanket of shade envelopes you both. 

You’re entranced by Theodore’s rapid-fire speaking, wondering if he had chosen Italian for his language lessons in order to strengthen his friendship with Blaise. With Theodore’s fluency and the restaurant’s expansive array of tables, you’re both seated in a matter of minutes. 

The speckless table cloth drapes past your legs like a waterfall, effectively providing a shield against the breeze as you take your spot across from Theodore. The boy plucks his menu up and shoots you an indecipherable look from above the booklet as you remain motionless, seeing as your elementary understanding of Italian begins and ends at Ciao and Grazie.

Theodore’s lips flicker up momentarily before he lays his menu down and shuffles it over to you, “Do you want pasta? Or salad? They also have pizza, if you prefer that.” 

Your lips split into a small smile of relief, a warmth blossoming in your chest as the stiff atmosphere around you both seems to wash away. Theodore reads off of the entire menu for you, eyes occasionally shifting to your concentrated face as you pedal between a few options.

When you finally decide on a dish, Theodore offers you a light hum and shining eyes, paralyzing you for a few moments. Perhaps, and to your relief, your relationship could work out after all. You just needed to clear the air between you both first. 

The meal continues on without a hitch, but you have to make a conscious effort to not stare at the boy in front of you when the sun begins to sink behind the basin of sea water. 

The swirls of orange and pink of the sky illuminate his sharp features, complementing his already striking complexion. A tamed buzzing of conversation wafts through the air, spurring you to word-vomit the thoughts that were plaguing you since your first joint dinner with Theodore and his father weeks before. 

“I’m sorry,” You begin, looking away from Theodore when he meets your gaze with furrowed eyebrows, “about our marriage.” 

Silence ensues after your vague words, and when you finally work up the courage to glance back at Theodore, confusion settles into the etches of your mind as you see his frown and penitent gaze. You had expected false platitudes of reassurance, or bitter resignation—hell, maybe anger—but certainly not the look he was giving you right now. 

Clearing your throat, you sit up and lean forward, “I mean, I know that you would rather not be betrothed to me, so I’m sorry. My parents are quite lenient people, so I should have fought against it since I know your heart belongs to someone else already.” 

“What?” Theodore wheezes out, reeling back to process your words. 

Feeling heat creep up your neck, you falter back with quiet words, “Maybe, if I had refused vehemently, my parents could have convinced your father to not force you. I just wanted to apologize because I don’t want any lingering awkwardness or expectations for each other.”

Before Theodore can respond, your waiter paces over, giving you a polite smile before turning to address Theodore. The boy in front of you distractedly answers the waiter, eyes flickering back to your rigid figure amidst his words. 

Once the waiter parts from your tableside, leaving behind a quaint black tray for your sum, Theodore seems to fall into a silent daze as he robotically composes himself and leaves the money on the tray. When he pushes his chair back, you follow suit, ready to play catch up if he swept away and down into the streets without you. 

To your muted surprise, Theodore stops by your side and holds out his hand for you to take. Hesitantly clasping his calloused hand in yours, you are only able to await his words with bated breath, distracting yourself by focusing on the feeling of his rings against your fingers. 

Theodore leads you yards away from the restaurant, only falling to a halt once you both reach a secluded area beside a blocked-off cliffside. The sound of crashing waves tangles into the air as Theodore’s eyes run around your face for a few moments. 

“Do you want to call this off?” Theodore whispers, eyes steely with resolution as his other hand moves to lightly grip your arm. 

You gape at his blunt words, swallowing thickly as your gaze falls to the ground, “If that’s what you want.” 

“But what do you want?” He mumbles, stepping closer to you as another chilly gust of wind flies around your unguarded figures. 

Peering back up to him, you frown before divulging, “I don’t want to call it off.” 

“Good. Me neither.” Theodore nods, eyes softening at your honesty. 

“But what about Millicent?” You mutter, head tilting with visible perplexion. The poignant reminder of her existence evokes a storm of doubts in your veins, and your head starts spinning with the culmination of the day’s events. 

Theodore cranes his head back to assess you as he plainly responds, “What about her?” 

This time, it’s your turn to survey his confused face with a mirrored look, “What? She’s your girlfriend? I can’t in good conscience do that to someone, arranged or not.” 

Theodore’s mouth parts as he stares at you, and for a moment you’re disconcerted by the thought that he perhaps only just remembered her, but then, the most remarkable thing happens—Theodore starts to chuckle. His shoulders quake faintly with every muffled sound, and after a few moments, he throws his head back to let it out toward the darkening sky. 

Before you have a moment to question the boy’s sanity, he turns back to you with a wide grin, “Is that what you were talking about earlier? You caught me from left field. I was worried that you were displeased because your heart belonged to someone already.” 

Seeing your inquiring eyes, he shuffles closer and shakes his head, “I’m not dating Millicent, silly one. Where’d you get that grand idea from?”

“You guys were always together, and all the rumors–” Your words come out borderline defensive, neck blazing from embarrassment. 

Theodore huffs and squeezes your arm, softly cutting you off from your spiel, “Just rumors. I wouldn’t have agreed to any sort of arrangement if I was with someone else, my father knows that much.” 

“Right, yeah. Sorry.” You nod, scratching at your neck to dispel the humiliation that would live on in your head until your last moments on Earth. 

“Silly.” Theodore hums, letting go of your arm to tap at your forehead, “Let’s head to our place before we freeze, yeah?” 

Your rental unit was quite spacious to your surprise, and you were almost too enraptured with touching every inch of furniture to notice that there was only one bed in the entire space. Almost. 

Theodore is cognizant of the same dilemma, clicking his tongue dryly as he murmurs quietly under his breath. 

“I can take the floor.” You speak up almost zealously, easily masking how the prospect of waking with a sore back was killing you on the inside. Theodore and you had barely started building a thin understanding for your relationship, and you’d be damned if a single bed would stir up tension again. 

Theodore swivels to look at you, “No need, we can share the bed. If you’re uncomfortable, I’ll take the floor.” His voice leaves little room for argument, and he runs a hand through his locks as he nods reassuringly at you. You’re touched by his consideration and understanding, glad that you weren’t in such a position with someone like Crabbe or Goyle, both of whom would likely grunt inaudibly and leave you to your ministrations. 

“Let’s share, then.” You concede, heart thrumming fervently in your chest. 

Theodore smiles softly at you and beckons you closer as he sits down on the bed, hand reaching out for you as you slowly tread forward. When you gently place your hand in his, he gives a faint tug, eyes darting down to the empty spot beside him. 

Once you’re snug on the plush mattress, you turn to him with a wry grin, “We’ve skipped pretty much every single conventional step to get here. From study partners to life partners.” 

“I suppose you’re right,” the corner of his mouth slants up, “from barely knowing my name to taking my surname, hm? Quite unorthodox.” 

Shaking your head, you flop back onto the bed, keenly aware of how Theodore tightens his hold on your hand as it begins to slip away. Peering up at him, you raise an eyebrow, “Who said I’m taking your last name, Nott? You’re taking mine.” 

“Hyphenating, it is.” He murmurs as his eyes trail toward the balcony ways off across the room. 

You chuckle and stare into the abyss of the dim ceiling, “Any excuse to have a ridiculously extensive name.” 

“Never as ridiculous as Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.” He muses, slowly lowering himself to lay beside you. 

A few tantalizing beats pass before your jumbled mind seems to take away any semblance of restraint from your mouth, “I never thought it would be you, to be frank.” 

“Yeah?” Theodore hums, head now turned towards you. 

Nodding, you run your free hand along the edge of the bed as you continue, “My parents had been considering Crabbe for a while. I mean, they know nothing about him, but I can just imagine how that dinner would have gone once they realized just who they were shipping me off to.” 

Theodore continues to study you, hand squeezing yours again before he mumbles, “I knew it’d be you.” 

Snapping your head to the side, your eyes widen at his hooded gaze, “Really?” 

“My father knew it too. That I wouldn’t have anyone but you.” His admission knocks the wind from your lungs, and you almost want to throttle yourself off the bed to ensure that you weren’t dreaming. 

“Yeah?” You ask dumbly, heart stuttering against your ribs. 

Theodore shifts to lean on his elbow, bringing his face closer to yours as he whispers, “Want to know a secret?” 

All you can do is nod, trying to blink away the dizziness coiling around your head from the close proximity. 

He hums and slowly retracts his hand, bringing a finger to trail the bedding beside your shoulder, “I was the one to ask your parents for permission to court you. Now, I’m going to wash up first, I promise I won’t be long.” 

Without a hitch, Theodore swiftly clambers off of the bed, leaving the mattress to gently recoil against your back as it expands to its original form. You’re only able to grapple for a coherent thought once the bathroom door shuts with a click, barring you from staring at Theodore in wonder. 

Once you hear the stream of the shower head emit from the bathroom, you slowly prop yourself up and trudge towards the balcony, swinging the glass doors open and allowing the whistling wind to zip through the newly exposed aperture. The biting breeze nips at your cheeks as you stare into the sky, surveying all the twinkling stars as you recount the day’s events. 

You aren’t exactly sure what you’re going to say to Theodore, or if you’re even going to be able to look him in the eyes once he emerges from the bathroom, but you supposed that the turn of events unfolded more pleasantly than you could have hoped.

The distant clamoring of partygoers ways away from the balcony lulls you into a loop of idle daydreams, and you aren’t sure how many minutes have passed since Theodore’s departure from your side, but the whirlwind of your elusive thoughts dissipates when a warm hand grazes your arm. 

“You alright? I’ve been calling your name for a bit now.” Theodore mumbles, eyes glazed with worry as he searches your blank expression. 

Blinking slowly, you nod and offer a faint smile, “Fine, just lost in my thoughts.” 

“It’s a bit chilly out here,” He glances to his right, evidently hearing the faint pulsing of music as well, “why don’t we head in?” 

“Yeah,” you whisper, smiling at him, “I’ll try not to wake you when I get out of the shower.” 

As you make your way to weave around the boy, body feeling weightless despite the fatigue drenching your muscles, you can feel his eyes following you until you’re swallowed by the shadows of the room. 

The numbing balm of the night’s wind melts away from your face as you peer up into the shower head. The swath of steam that swirls around your body, cloaking the mirrors and walls, seems to inhibit the taunts of your overactive brain. 

Your getaway would continue for another week before you’d begin wedding arrangements, already feeling the splintering headache emerging at the thought of sitting down and picking between a plethora of cloth samples. Unions between pureblood families were a big deal for the elite circle of families as the event would serve as the perfect opportunity for pretense and business transactions between different houses. 

When you crack the bathroom door open with a muffled pop, dismissing the rush of steam that flees hurriedly into the cool room, you vaguely make out the figure of Theodore propped up against the headboard. The hues of moonlight peek through the bare panes of your window, curtains swept aside, faintly illuminating the silhouette of the furniture. 

“Still up?” You whisper, padding over to delicately arrange yourself beside the boy. 

As you shuffle under the plush covers, dragging the edges under your arms, you turn to peer at Theodore’s profile, watching as his throat bobs down as he slowly turns to you. 

“Didn’t want to sleep without you.” He mutters, slowly sinking to lay down beside you. 

You suppress the tender smile threatening to peel across your face and nod, “I see. You’re not a restless sleeper, are you?”

“Are you?” He quietly intones, voice growing fainter as sleep begins to grip at his consciousness. 

“No, I’m not.” You hum, resisting the urge to sweep your fingers forward in search of his, “Goodnight, Theodore.” 

“Goodnight.” 

You both fall asleep facing one another, inches apart as the glow of the moonlight chases away the gulfs of darkness that slink in the corners of your room. It is in this position that your slumber is torn away from you mere hours later, moonlight now dispersing into small shards that nearly blend away against the white covers. 

The foggy film that clouds your senses and sight reel away as you hear a small grunt from beside you followed by incessant shifting. Blinking away your drowsiness, you slowly shift up to survey Theodore, slowly comprehending his distress. 

Theodore huffs out, a muffled groan blooming into the quiet atmosphere around you. Carefully reaching over, you shake the boy’s arm, eyebrows furrowing when he simply shifts again. 

“Theodore, hey,” You feebly call out, shaking his arm more frantically as he remains trapped in the desolate rapids of unconsciousness. 

Leaning down you bring your other hand to softly pat his cheek, you wait with bated breath as his ministrations quell before ceasing entirely. Eyes now accustomed to the veil of midnight darkness, you see his eyes slowly blink open, a light sigh escaping his lips as he begins to claw back into reality. 

“Hey, it’s alright, you’re alright,” You softly murmur, bringing your fingers up to gently card back his waves, any semblance of fatigue evaporating from your bones as you focus on comforting the boy. 

Theodore brings his hand up to yours, eyes beginning to sluggishly droop again, “Y/N?” 

“Hm?” You hum out, readjusting your position as sickly soreness jolts up your arm. 

“I guess I am a restless sleeper.” He mumbles, nudging against his pillow before he emits another sigh. His voice rumbles lethargically, and you sense that he is about to slip away into slumber again when he tightens his hold on your hand. 

“Hm. What’s up?” You whisper, moving to lay down as well. 

Theodore is silent for a few seconds before he tersely whispers back, voice nearly drowned out by the thumping of your heart in your ears, “Can I hold you?” 

You shift closer to the cocoon of warmth batting off of him, steadily bringing your arm to wrap around him, “Of course.” 

Theodore wraps his arms around you and drags you towards him, a content hum buzzing from his throat as he tucks you under his chin. For the few grand moments that pass afterward, you are left to contemplate the consequences your position would entail for when the sun rose, and you fervently hoped that no awkwardness would ensue. 

Your close proximity to Theodore allows you to hear the faint thumping of his heartbeat, now undeviating in its rhythm. Bringing your free hand forward, you tuck it in the nestle of warmth between your bodies, trying to conjure inklings of sleep as a dense pressure burrowed itself in your eyes. 

The lull of concentration fades into blind navigation in the crevices of your mind, and when your pulsing thoughts dwindle to incomprehensible echoes, slumber greets you once again.

When your mind blisters into stark clarity, it is with recognition of the orange hues flashing in your vision and the traces of aimless lines on your back. Your body instinctively pines for the cushion of bliss that mutely calls for you: a mixture of aftershave and pear. 

For a few moments, it is completely tranquil. Until you realize that your pillow had a heartbeat. 

The revelation is enough to jumpstart the discombobulated wires of your brain. Your eyes crack open to greet the rays of light that crowd your vision, an unpleasant stinging causing you to squint as you huff out. 

“Good morning.” Theodore’s voice is gravelly, barely above a whisper. 

“Hi Theodore.” You mumble out, remaining motionless against him. 

His chest vaguely rumbles and you feel him splay one his hands against your back, “Theo. Only my father and Blaise call me Theodore.” 

“Blaise?” You tiredly repeat, cheek squishing against his shirt. 

“At his insistence, honestly. He thinks it’s fun.” Theodore hums, and that reminder has your hazy brain blinking with a sudden memory. 

“Wait. Theodora, right?” You raise your head up, a wide grin plastered on your face as you remember the one night when Blaise dragged him away from your study routine using that nickname. 

Theodore blinks before he groans into the air, bringing one of his arms up to throw over his eyes as he grumbles, “Merlin, I was hoping you’d forget or even mishear that.”  

“Oh, I almost did, but Blaise’s ruckus was far more interesting than a Potions essay.” Theodore hums tiredly at the mention, and his reaction only spurs you on, “So, does he make it a habit to say Theodora, or is Dora better?” You say cheekily, shrugging innocently when Theodore peers down at you with a playful glare. 

“Enough about Blaise,” Theodore mumbles, poking your ribs with his fingers as he maneuvers to sit up, dragging you to lean into his side as he did so, “I have something planned for today.” 

“You’re being frighteningly vague, should I be worried?” You hum, muffling a low yawn. 

Theodore shakes his head and dryly huffs , “Actually, I was planning on testing a few levitating charms on you.” His fingers dance lightly against your back as his voice drops into a feathery tone, “Have some faith in me.” 

“I trust you.” You murmur, exhaling through your nose in amusement before you grow serious, “Anyway, did you sleep okay?” 

Theodore doesn’t answer you, and you slowly raise your eyes to meet his face in confusion, “Theo?” 

“Hm?” He hums distractedly, face craning closer to yours as he seems to almost stare through you. 

Your heart collapses into the void of your ribcage for a split second before it begins to thrust violently against your chest, spurring a sea of warmth up your neck and ears. Theodore’s eyes flicker across your face as his hands begin to absentmindedly draw patterns against your sides. 

You aren’t sure you’re breathing properly. Or at all. 

One of his hands trails up to your arm, sliding to rest on the junction between your neck and shoulder as he muses, “Before we get up and go on about our day, I have something for you.” 

Your eyebrows wrinkle at his words, eyes not straying away from his unwavering gaze. This time, it’s you who gives a small hum, patiently waiting for his next words. 

“Just a small gift,” He whispers, slowly slotting his other hand on the small of your back, “It’s been a long time coming, really.” 

His eyes drop down to your lips and that’s all you really need before you’re leaning towards him with anticipation, hands steadying themselves on his chest. Theodore’s lips part and he gazes at you for confirmation, jaw clenching imperceptibly as words become lost between you both. 

When you remain resolute, he swiftly connects his lips to yours, mouth moving feverishly against yours. His hands press against your body, keeping you grounded as he begins to lean over you, lips never ceasing in their frenzied dance against yours. 

Grasping the sides of his neck, you tug him impossibly closer to you as he hovers over you, one of his hands moving to run soothingly along your waist. 

A few more heated moments pass before the tug for air becomes too great to ignore, causing you to break away from him, head tilting to the side as your lungs tinge with a faint tightness. Theodore grunts at your escape, chasing after you as he tries to satiate his desire, only opting to leave heavy kisses against your cheek and jaw when you tap his neck. 

Closing your eyes, you bring your fingers to card through his hair as you attempt to halt the dizzying stars spinning across your eyelids. Amidst your fruitless efforts, a sudden tug has your eyes flying open, a bemused hum echoing through the air once you realize Theodore is guiding you to sit up. 

He remains silent as he glides down from the side of the bed, hand drifting to lace with yours as he pulls you to sit at the edge of the mattress. Reaching towards the bottom drawer of the white dresser, Theodore only briefly glances away as he fishes out a small velvet box. 

“Theo?” You mumble, eyes widening as he drops down on both of his knees. 

“Ring.” He answers quietly, deftly opening the box and pulling out a thin silver band. 

He drops kisses to your knees as he gazes up towards you, bringing one of his hands forward in muted questioning. Smiling softly, you place your left hand in his outstretched one, holding your breath when he slips the ring onto your ring finger with ease. 

His hand continues to hold yours, thumb rubbing against your skin as he stares at the band. 

“Thank you.” He finally says, lifting his face up to survey yours, his position leaving him at your complete mercy. 

Your hands instinctively reach out to cup his face, bringing him in for another kiss as a newfound contentment curls into your chest. Theodore remains on his knees as he leans forwards, hands chancing a light slide against your hips as he reciprocates your affection.  

“Fuck, how mad do you think everyone will be if we just eloped?” He grunts out before diving forward again to meet your lips. 

Pulling back with a small laugh, you shake your head, “My parents would have your head.” 

“I’m willing to pay that price, love.” He grins against your lips, nose nudging against yours. 

Patting his cheek, you narrow your eyes playfully, “Well I’m not, so behave.” 

“Yes, dear.”

masterlist

[mariiatrushartist]

Creator of the flat "Earth" and the Apostle of the Cat God: the most interesting facts from the life of Terry Pratchett

Dreamed of becoming an astronomer

As a child, the boy was very interested in astronomy and stars in general. In adulthood, he not only did not lose interest in this topic, but also built an observatory in his garden.

The first story and a typewriter for earned money

Terry's first work was written when he was 13 years old, and a year later it was published in a school magazine called The Hades Business. On this story, the future writer earned £14 and used them to buy his first typewriter.

The first published novel

In 1971, when Terry was only 23 years old, the world saw his first novel The Carpet People. It is a comic fantasy novel about a tribe of tiny people living on the carpet. When the writer became more famous, he decided to rewrite it by adding an updated text, original black and white illustrations and an exclusive story written when he was 17 years old

From journalism to electricity production

After the Three Mile Island nuclear disaster in March 1979, Pratchett left journalism to become a press officer for four nuclear power plants at the Central Electricity Production Council.

He lost in popularity only J.K. Rowling

In 1996, the Times declared Pratchett a best-selling author in the UK. He sold 70 million books worldwide and was the second most read author in Britain, second only to the J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series.

The award he was most proud of

It may surprise you, but most of all Pratchett was proud of the Carnegie Medal, which was awarded to his children's book The Amazing Maurice and His Raised Rodents. He got it in 2002.

Illness

At the peak of popularity, Pratchett was diagnosed with a severe form of Alzheimer's disease, posterior cortical atrophy. He had gradual degeneration of the cortex, the outer layer of the brain, on the back of the head. The disease leads to difficulties in reading, estimating distance, using tools and spelling. However, the disease did not stop Pratchett's success: in addition to continuing to write, he also became a patron of Alzheimer's Research UK and actively supported fundraising efforts and advocated raising awareness of the disease.

Own sword

The writer has always had an eccentric personality and imagination. Now that he became a knight, Terry needed the right sword he made himself from meteoric iron. The writer found a field with iron deposits near his home in Wiltshire, he himself dug up ore – 81 kilograms. Then he smelted iron ore using a homemade clay and hay furnace. A local blacksmith killed Pratchett's handmade iron rods into a silver-trimmed sword.

The last book

Pratchett's Alzheimer's disease has progressed. However, despite brain atrophy, he still continued to produce books. A few months before his death in March 2015, he finished his last novel about Discworld. Many Pratchett fans keep the book unread on their shelves in his honour.

There were 10 unfinished novels on the hard drive of his computer at the time of his death, but we will never know what they are about. According to the writer's last desire, Pratchett's unfinished works were destroyed. The hard drive was not only broken with a steam roller, but also passed through the stone crusher.

[meraki-yao]

RWRB Movie Analysis: Who I am and Who you want me to be

“For Christ Sake, Alex! For once! I wish you could see me for who I am and not who you want me to be!”

“Starting today, the world will know me for who I am, and not who you want me to be.”

Okay so let’s take a look at these two lines, shall we?

Henry views his own self as two facets: Prince Henry, and Henry Fox.

Prince Henry belongs to Britain. He is a servant of the crown. He has to prioritize the crown’s image, what the crown wants. The mindless ribbon cuttings, the convention and appearances, the hiding in the closet, it's what's demanded of Prince Henry. Prince Henry cannot pursue a relationship with a man because he has to maintain a “traditional royal image”. Prince Henry cannot be seen walking through Austin holding hands with Alex because “the nation will simply not accept a prince who is homosexual".

Henry Fox, is a romantic and a dreamer. He wants to be a writer and live in Paris. He called his first time with Alex "making love". He wore a white suit to a vacation, wowed at his boyfriend's family lake house even if he lives in a palace and jokes with his boyfriend's father. He plays volleyball and reads while lying in a hammock. He rants about literature, poetries and books. He watches Bake-off with his dog while eating Jaffa Cakes when he can't sleep. He does tequila shots and sings Queen in karaoke. He laughs when Alex splashes water all over him and kisses his shoulder.

The public, see Prince Henry.

Alex, sees both, but knows Henry Fox intimately. When you ask him to talk about Henry, he will think of Henry Fox.

So here's the thing.

Henry, is ultimately, both. He is the Prince of England's Hearts. He is also the boy who has been in love with Alex for years.

But Henry feels like one is more important than the other.

So in the Kensington confrontation, when Henry says “I wish you Could see me for who I am and not who you want me to be!"

"Who I am" refers to Prince Henry.

"Who you want me to be "refers to Henry Fox.

From Henry's perspective, in this scene, he's prioritizing Prince Henry. He thinks that he has to be Prince Henry first and foremost. That's why he's labelling that facet as "who he is", even though he has mentioned before that he doesn't want to be this image of the "perfect prince", that being Prince Henry requires him to hide pieces of himself and it hurts.

What he's saying here, is essentially Alex is not taking "Prince Henry" into considerations regarding their relationship, that he's being idealistic on the degree of freedom Henry has. He's saying that all Alex sees is Henry Fox, his private, true, personal side, that Henry, at that moment, thinks is less important than Prince Henry, which bless him, but is sort of true on Alex's part. Alex is so used to being with Henry Fox that he forgets about Prince Henry, which is why he talked about their future so casually with not much regards on Henry's part.

So this sentence can be rephrased as "I wish you could see all the burden I carry and how impossible it is for me to escape it, rather than just our happy moments together that are not meant to last.”

Now let's look at the Buckingham Confrontation, where the words are flipped: "Starting today, the world will know me for who I am, and not who you want me to be."

This time "Who I am" is Henry Fox, and "Who you want me to be" is Prince Henry, which I would say is the objective allocation of the two names.

This is Henry reclaiming his own identity and image. This is Henry pushing away the traditional, perfect, heterosexual “Prince Henry”, saying “That’s not who I am”, taking that title and merging it with bits of “Henry Fox”: the gay prince in love with FSOTUS, the romantic who writes poetry about his man’s body, the lover who encourages Alex when he loses his confidence.

There are parts of Henry Fox that they don’t show the public, that should be kept between him and his loved ones: the boy whose heart broke when his father died, the boy who struggles with self-worth and depression, the boy who likes grabbing his boyfriend’s hair. Honestly as a public figure, or anyone who interacts with a group of strangers, it’s completely normal to create a public persona that only shows parts of him.

The difference now is that he gets to decide what to show the public. Prince Henry is no longer a straight-up lie, rather than an incomplete version of Henry Fox. This is his identity to claim, and his image to build.

Now, Prince Henry and Henry Fox both belong to him.

Now, Henry George Edward James Hanover-Stuart Fox can write his own history.

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

one of my batfam hot takes is that alfred having a very kind and understanding grandfather-like role is a boring spin on the character and lacks a lot of nuance around his backstory.

like he is a classically trained british butler which means he very likely comes from a working class family. and like, as a working class brit myself, i sometimes find the kindly, well-mannered grandfather thing grating because, a lot of white, working class men his age are unfortunately not nice people. some of them are like my great grandad was a really great guy, but hes really the only one i know who is or was not awful.

because their generation werent as exactly raised with ideals about mental health and emotional regulation. a lot of them were traumatised due to ww2 either because they saw it firsthand when they were like 15, they were old enough to remember things like rationing and the blitz, and a lot of them lost their dads in the war.

i dont expect american writers to understand how much ww2 affected britain (modern britain is still so steeped in it, its insane) and that generation specifically, BUT id love to see that explored more with alfred. like depending on where he grew up, he would likely have been separated from his family during the blitz and sent off to the countryside like most of the kids in cities were, (this is how narnia starts) and like, a lot of them were horrifically abused or used as free labour. a lot of them also lost parents and never got to say goodbye to them. many came back to destroyed homes. some kids also remained in the city or their parents requested them back so theyd experience the blitz first hand and would know the sign of air raid siren meant they might die that night.

you can see how a lot of that generation were permanently scarred. and for a few decades now, alfred would have been part of that generation.

plus he was also a secret service officer which is just like more opportunities to be traumatised and more reason for him to not be this gentle old man whos in touch with his emotions.

and like, as a classically trained butler, he would likely be more reserved because you know, thats how he was trained. also british men that age would also likely be very hands off in regards to emotions.

but the biggest reason as to why the gentle, kind grandfather take doesnt really make sense is that he raised bruce wayne.

like bruce has a whole slew of emotional issues and problems, and obviously some of that is going to come from alfred raising him because you know, thats kinda how that works. i know a lot of batfam folks want bruce to be this great dad, so i guess their take on alfred fits that, but canonically, bruce wayne is an emotional mess and not the best father figure at the best of times.

you cannot look at that bruce wayne and tell me alfred did a good job.

listen, this shouldn't even be a hot take. it's just an opinion that differs from the most popular interpretation of Alfred as an endlessly giving grandmotherly old man.

the thing about Alfred is that more than anything you have to recognize that he's an enabler. and I love the man to pieces, but at absolute best he was extremely negligent in Bruce's upbringing, if not actively encouraging the world's worst coping mechanisms.

I hate to give Gotham credit for anything, especially when it comes to Alfred since I hate their Alfred, but the show was bang on in its insistence from day one that Alfred should not have been Bruce's primary guardian. it's painful to watch how often Alfred encourages Bruce to tough it out and suck it up, and it never really stops. in one of the latter seasons (four, I think) he hits Bruce hard enough to give him a black eye during an argument, and this is ultimately written as a situation in which Bruce needs to apologize to Alfred for being a bratty teenager, rather than Alfred owing Bruce an apology for hitting him when he's a grief-stricken teenage boy cracking under stress.

and like, listen, I understand there are Watsonian and Doylist layers to this. Alfred fundamentally can't have been a good enough guardian to stop Bruce from channeling his trauma into fursuit vigilantism, because then there's no story. I get it.

but jesus christ.

I don't think characterizations of Alfred as a stoic caregiver are wrong, but I do think people don't want to think about how he got there. when I see the aged Alfred patching up Bruce's wounds and nagging him to eat, or doing his best to offer advice to the kids who have gotten mixed up in Bruce's crusade, I see a man who realized a long time ago that he dropped the fucking ball and has dedicated his life to doing as much damage control as possible. okay, so, completely failed step one (raise a well-adjusted child). can we at least make sure that this basket case adult man doesn't go completely over the edge? can we make sure he doesn't become a killer? can we encourage him to take off the mask and be Bruce Wayne sometimes? can we keep the children safe?

I do think Alfred loves all of them, for whatever its worth. his care for Bruce is real, that is his son, the Batgirls and Robins are his extended family. he'll cook their uneaten meals and clean the entire, massive house himself and stitch them up every night forever. he would die for them. hell, he'd kill for them. he loves them. but none of that means he raised Bruce right.

that's kind of the thing I like most about the Bats: they all care so, so much. but the way they love is terrible.

[khihi]

NO UR LITERALLY BRITISH IM SO SORRY

This is why I cannot be shouting go white boy go on tumblr dot com 😭

AGDJDSKSLS NO JED PLEASE DONT APOLOGISE IT'S SO FUNNY TO ME

I'm gonna to start a Käärijä-is-British conspiracy theory actually here's my proof:

Complains about the railways

CCC is the perfect Bri'ish blackout binge drinking song

Always talking about how he can't wait to leave his country and go somewhere sunny like Thailand and then it inevitably rains when he's finally on holiday

Has the cringe english whiteboy rizz in pics from when he was like a teen/younger adult

Finland isn't real so he has to be from somewhere else, why not Britain

Ignore his english skills

that's all i got right now

[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: It's about ethics

Stephen King: oh boy this is embarrassing Poe: what's that? King: well, see, we kinda King: accidentally King: agreed to let this nazi a story Poe: oh boy that is a pickle King: yeah its a real whoopsie doodle

Poe: did we already tell him yes? King: yeah Poe: well criminy Poe: not much we can do then Poe: that'd be like going back on a pinkie swear King: yeah it'd be like King: kinda awkward Poe: who was in charge of the paperwork Poe: was it howard

David A Riley: Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this the tale of the nazi supermen who are our superiors Riley: look, i'm a big fan of howard there Riley: not of his writing so much Riley: mostly just his racism

Riley: what if some dusky kids turned into big scary monsters and killed a nice unassuming white person? Riley: what about that?? Riley: [sitting on chair backwards] i know it sounds like science fiction but actually this scenario is playing out everyday right here in Britain

Riley: the blacks and the jews are going to make the full english breakfast illegal, you know Lovecraft: i-is that true?? King: ok you've had enough for tonight howard Riley: and let me tell you what the hoodie scum are doing to the soil

King: listen david some of these ideas are a little King: umm King: they're a little Barker: they suck Barker: they suck ass King: yes thank you clive King: i think that says it all, really

Riley: i am being silenced! King: we really don't think we should have actual nazis here Riley: YOU ALL SAID I COULD Riley: oh oh now you're going back on your word!!! Riley: you know what that is???? Riley: UNETHICAL Riley: this is all about ethics in campfire storytelling

King: yeah i think we kinda goofed letting a nazi in Riley: you let howard stay here King: well, howard's just howard King: he's a lovable archie bunker kinda racist Lovecraft: it's true, i am

King: see the thing with howard is August Derleth: I'LL tell you the thing with howard Derleth: he is only as racist as the average man of his time Derleth: he didn't, like, run for office as an actual National Front candidate Derleth: [turning to audience] you can google that

Riley: wow, so apparently just because i'm a literal nazi who literally ran for office as a nazi candidate Riley: who wants to eradicate asians and jews Riley: suddenly I'm not welcome here? Riley: wow Riley: just wow

Riley: that's fine, i don't need you anyway Riley: i'll always be welcome in the pages of the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction Barker: yeah you sure about that pal? Barker: feel like that might be a mistake Riley: NO Riley: IT IS NOT A MISTAKE Riley: SHUT UP

[panelshowsource]

I'm from Australia and grew up with BBC and British TV, but there are still references that take me by surprise. For example, you would believe the "Mitchell Brothers" were real celebrities and ran the entire UK with how many references are made to them, especially across panel shows. Do you experience this? I often /understand/ why certain references, like popular soaps, are, indeed, popular, but I'm still surprised by just how much they're talked about!

omg this is HILARIOUS and YES!!!

i think this will be very funny for any of my uk & ireland followers to read? hahaha

i get asked all the time whether i understand the cultural references on panel shows and in standup (i do!) — but no one has ever asked me if i'm surprised by them! but YES. the best example i can think of is i swear to gawd there was a period of the late 2000s/early 2010s (?) when it felt like you couldn't watch a single episode of any panel show and not hear a noel edmonds joke. noel edmonds. noel edmonds. do you understand how absolutely meaningless that name is to an american like me? but omg i've heard 10000000000000 noel edmonds jokes/references in my day — and it DID surprise me just how much he was on people's minds! and, like you, i get it: he's super famous and he's a good punchline. but still! him and omg fuckin mick hucknall. why. why. why. why is the british light entertainment industry so obsessed with mick hucknall and making jokes about mick hucknall and references to mick hucknall. again, a name that means nothing to americans. so yes very funny to me, as a foreigner, how of all the very very famous people to reference and joke about these are some of the ones that get it the most!

so without further ado i tried to list the british cultural references that i hear the most + that also have a tinge of that "every comedian in britain thinking about pat sharp at all times and has a joke about him at the ready" feeling hahaha

series: coronation street, eastenders, springwatch, crimewatch, doctor who, blue peter, only fools and horses, mrs brown's boys

music: mick hucknall/simply red, the pretenders (it's always "you look like both of the pretenders"), noddy holder/slade, ronan keating, robbie williams/take that, blue, JLS, (there are obv groups like five and s club 7 but they’re not referenced nearly as much,) chesney hawkes

people: the chuckle brothers, eamonn holmes, terry wogan, janet street-porter, moira stuart, jeremy clarkson, noel edmonds, pat sharp (i thought pat sharp was a character on eastenders for about 10 years but that's pat butcher, who is also referenced constantly), john leslie, parky

there are obvious plenty more culturally specific people, places, and things that are referenced and discussed, and it's worth mentioning a lot of this is coming from middle-aged white people, but sheeeeesh... noel edmonds!!! maybe i just notice them now? bc i'm still kinda surprised i'm hearing janet street-porter jokes in 2023?

but i love it! i hope this post makes sense hahaha

[drarryspecificrecsdaily]

2023.12.23

Complete fics posted on AO3 this day

1. how your hands feel (in a place that's not my dreams) by pædica [M, 1k]

►Draco's tired and Harry has her girlfriend around.

2. Patented Daydream by @xx-thedarklord-xx [E, 17k]

►[...] Harry was going murder Fred and George and blame it on Ron.

3. A Soft Place to Land by @drarrily-we-row-along [M, 1k]

►Sometimes Draco just wanted to fight. There was something burning under his breastbone, an ache that didn't feel like there was any way to mend it apart from fighting or fucking. Why couldn't his boyfriend understand that?

4. wrapped in silk (bathed in white) by xander_76 [E, 2k]

►Harry's a little bit obsessed with Draco's sleepwear

---

Fest/Exchange

1. Murder in St Mungo’s by Anonymous [E, 80k]

►[...] Bodies were popping up dead all across Great Britain. Nothing connected them, no eyewitnesses, no motive, and not a single suspect in sight. Junior Auror Harry Potter was not given the cases nor asked to help, but that wasn’t going to stop him from getting to the bottom of it. Even if he had to work with the Ministry’s least favourite employee, Draco Malfoy. ★ H/D Erised 2023 | @hd-erised

2. Reach Toward by Anonymous [T, 4k]

►Harry goes to fetch potions ingredients from Snape - which is normal. What is much less normal is the little grey-eyed boy playing in the room, who is apparently Malfoy's son. Now that Harry knows Scorpius exists, he wants to help him. ★ Harry/Draco Owlpost 2023 | @hdowlpost

3. Stunning by SlightlyMighty [T, 1k]   *typo

►Harry is a nervous ball of stress, but ready to make his intentions known. ★ Fanatical Fam Fic Exchange 2023

[badass-at-fandoming]

Is Beckett meant to be a poc (in vtmb)? I think so based on his facial features and his skin being a light shade of brown. But he was born in Britain during the 1700s-1600s which makes being non-white a lot less likely (though there were poc even back then).

This is an interesting question, @chinesegal! Thank you for your patience with me answering it. I was traveling, but now I'm back!

When I look at Beckett in Bloodlines, I interpret him as a white British man. But a lot can change depending on what mods one uses to make the game work. For example, this Beckett...

...looks much less pale than this Beckett:

One must also factor in Bloodlines' poor lighting. As any visual artist trying to figure out Sebastian LaCroix's hair color will tell you, the lighting in VTMB is a terrible, mercurial beast. The dingy lighting certainly aides the grimy, uncertain atmosphere, but poor fan artists struggle.

The last sticky point I can think of is how all the Kindred characters are supposed to have a "deathly pallor," especially if they have lower Humanity. Deathly pallor can muck up skin tone wonderfully. I think Strauss would be the best example. He's an older Kindred (LA by Night states he was at the Convention of Thorns in 1493) and made a gargoyle (which involves torture), so he's definitely on the lower end of the Humanity scale. According to VtM's lore, Strauss has trouble maintaining a lively, human appearance. Some fans interpret him as white and often point to his white voice actor, Jim Ward. Others remark on Strauss' resemblance to Morpheus from The Matrix Trilogy, cite the deathly pallor lore, and interpret him as a Black man with graying skin. As in, Strauss looks closer to what a Black man's corpse would look like. The deathly pallor factor allows for this interpretation, and in the gap can nicely fit Cuthbert Beckett. He's an Elder Kindred and has had periods of low Humanity. Maybe he's brown and has been through the wringer.

VtM has a tenuous relationship with history, but if you want to check in with it, real life history doesn't obstruct an interpretation of Beckett as Black or brown. British people have had black or brown skin since forever, as you referenced. The oldest Englishman, Mesolithic era Cheddar man's skin is possibly darker than the reconstruction suggests. Ya gotta remember that white skin came to be because people weren't getting enough Vitamin D. If Beckett is descended from the indigenous Celtic Britons (unlikely but possible), his ancestors might not have been malnourished and lived somewhere the sun could penetrate the mists of Avalon.

So like, given all the above, you can definitely argue that Beckett's a Black or brown British guy. Whatever floats your boat.

That wasn't exactly your question, however. You asked if Beckett's meant to be a person of color or white. This implies you want to know the devs' original intention with the game, which I guess at being Beckett as a white man.

Beckett has been described as white in past White Wolf publications. Or rather, not described, because white is default skin tone in so many works, very unfortunately. In the Victorian Trilogy, much is made of Halim Bey, Theo Bell, and Hesha Ruhadze's black skin, but Beckett's skin tone gets no comment. He's "a long-haired man" with a "wolfish grin one might imagine on a privateer from a past age," (The Wounded King, pg 123-125). Someone describes him as "a pauper's version of Buffalo Bill Cody," (197). When his lover Emma disrobes him, the text notes "his feline pupil slits [and] amber irises," (pg 204). Special attention is paid to Beckett's hands: "dark hair, slick like sable covered the back of his hand, fading to a more human-seeming growth on his forearms" and "His fingers were longer than a man's should be, and the nails were hard and thick like a dog's," (ibid). In Year of the Scarab Trilogy's Land of the Dead, he describes himself with "lean, muscular physique [with] round smoked glasses [hinting] at a pretty boy slumming," (pg 101). By the absence of skin tone description, by the unfortunate reality that white skin is seen as default and therefore unworthy of comment, we can infer that Beckett is white. That's to say nothing of the Vampire: the Masquerade - Beckett comic, which depicts him as white. I wouldn't give the VTMB developers the grace or credit to suddenly deter from this character history.

After all, these are the same devs that failed to come up with a story with Chinese people that wasn't Yellow Peril drivel, created a white PC with "locs," declined to brown Nines' skin, and made Skelter imply that Black Americans make up their own oppression. Just like, all of Chinatown is hard for Chinese and Japanese players to get through. Even by 2004 standards, it's real shitty. With these other missteps, it's hard to imagine they'd have the creativity to re-design Beckett as brown or Black. I think they meant him to be interpreted as white.

But you don't have to! Death to the authors! In your fan art, fan casts, picrew, fanfic, chronicles etc, he can be brown, Black, indigenous, or whatever ethnicity bees your knees. You create the Beckett reality in your Beckett-loving head.

Thank you again for the ask, and I hope the essay made the wait worth it!

[homomenhommes]

THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … February 15

1748 – The English philosopher, jurist, economist, and political scientist Jeremy Bentham (d.1832) argued for a tolerant attitude toward homosexuality in a series of papers first published in full in 1985.

He was the most notable law reformer the English-speaking world has ever produced; in this role, his influence extended not only to Britain and the United States but also to France, Spain, and Latin America. Several of the emerging republics of South and Central America consulted him in drawing up their constitutions and law codes. In the Hispanic world, he was hailed as "el legislador del mundo."

Among his all-but -illegible unpublished papers were hundreds of pages, written at intervals over half a century, which make a contribution to what we would today call "gay studies." Bentham did not dare to publish any of them during his lifetime. Though a fragment of twenty-two pages appeared in print in 1931, no comprehensive account of the scope and significance of this impressive body of materials was published until 1985.

Bentham's primary interest in homosexuality arose in connection with law reform. In his day, men convicted under the English "buggery" statute were regularly hanged, a punishment public opinion enthusiastically applauded in England long after executions had ceased in the rest of Europe.

Bentham's task as reformer was made difficult not just by the force of English prejudice, but also by the absolute taboo on public discussion of homosexuality. In law books and in parliamentary debate, homosexual behavior was referred to stereotypically by the Latin formula, "peccatum illud horribile, inter Christianos non nominandum"—"that horrible crime not to be named among Christians." Bentham candidly admits in his notes the extreme fear he felt at the idea of making public his liberal opinions on the subject.

Bentham regarded prejudice against homosexuals simply as an irrational hatred and antipathy. It is one of the distinctions of his later writings (from 1814 on) that he identifies what we now call homophobia and directs his efforts to analyzing it.

He had of course no word that is exactly equivalent to the modern term homosexual. He often employs "paederast," sometimes in its original sense of a lover of boys, but often also to mean an adult male who is sexually involved with another man, as in modern French usage; in this latter sense, it approximates closely to "homosexual."

1923 – Adolfo Faustino Sardiña (d.2021), professionally known as Adolfo, was a Cuban-born American fashion designer who started out as a milliner in the 1950s. While chief designer for the wholesale milliners Emme, he won the Coty Award and the Neiman Marcus Fashion Award. In 1963 he set up his own salon in New York, firstly as a milliner, and then focusing on clothing. He retired from fashion design in 1993.

Adolfo Sardiña was born in Cárdenas, Cuba. His mother was Irish; his father Spanish. He attended the St Ignacio de Loyola Jesuit School in Havana and served in the Cuban Army. In 1948 Adolfo immigrated to New York.

As his mother had died in childbirth, Adolfo was brought up by an aunt who enjoyed wearing French haute couture, and encouraged her nephew to pursue fashion design. With his aunt's help, Adolfo joined Cristóbal Balenciaga as an apprentice milliner. He worked at Balenciaga from 1950–52.

In 1953 Adolfo joined the New York-based wholesale millinery company Emme as their chief designer. In the summer of 1957, to further his skills, he served an unpaid apprenticeship with Coco Chanel's New York hat salon. Adolfo would later admit that he "never enjoyed making hats."

With financial help from Bill Blass, Adolfo opened his first salon in New York in 1963, where he met many of the customers who would become his patrons when he gave up millinery to focus on clothing. He had met the Duchess of Windsor by 1965, through whom he met regular customers Betsy Bloomingdale, Babe Paley and Nancy Reagan. After Mainbocher retired, one of his highest-profile clients, C. Z. Guest, came to Adolfo to make her clothes instead. Adolfo's clothes were designed to complement his hats, which the designer saw as an optional accessory rather than a wardrobe essential. During the 1980s, his creations were worn in the hit TV series "Miami Vice", the fashion-defining show for the decade.

In 1993, at the age of 60, (based on a disputed birth year of 1933) Adolfo decided to retire from fashion design and rely on the income from his licensing agreements with various manufacturers.

His partner, Edward C. Perry, died in 1993. Adolfo died on November 27, 2021, at the age of 98.

1965 – On February 15, 1965, the Maple Leaf Flag, our national flag, was raised for the first time on Parliament Hill. Canada was just two years away from centennial celebrations when the maple leaf flag was made official by Royal Proclamation. In 1996, February 15 was declared National Flag of Canada Day and has been observed every year since.

February 15, 2015, marks the 50th anniversary of the National Flag of Canada. This special Flag Day is the perfect opportunity to learn more about how our flag was created and what it means to us.

After the First World War and again after the Second World War, the Government of Canada discussed the importance of our country having its own flag. Attempts to adopt a specific design repeatedly failed as consensus could not be reached.

In 1964, the Government made the creation of a distinctive Canadian flag a priority as the 1967 centennial celebration of Confederation was approaching. When Parliament could not reach agreement on the design, the task of finding a national flag was given to an all-party Parliamentary committee.

It was the single leaf, red and white design that the Committee recommended to Parliament. The motion was passed to adopt this design as the National Flag of Canada with a vote of 163 to 78 on December 15, 1964.

The winning flag was selected for the following reasons:

The simplicity of the design that made it easily recognizable.

Its use of Canada’s official national colours.

The maple leaf had become a symbol of Canadian pride and national identity.

Canadian troops as well as Canadian athletes had already used the maple leaf as an emblem on their uniforms when representing Canada abroad.

1968 – Richard Blanco is an American poet, public speaker, author and civil engineer. He is the fifth poet to read at a United States presidential inauguration, having read for Barack Obama's second inauguration. He is the first immigrant, the first Latino, the first openly gay person and the youngest person to be the U.S. inaugural poet.

Blanco, born in Madrid on February 15, 1968, immigrated as an infant with his Cuban exile family to Miami, and was raised and educated there. He earned a B.S. from Florida International University in Civil Engineering in 1991 and his Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing in 1997, where he studied with Campbell McGrath.

Since 1999, he has traveled and lived in Guatemala and Brazil. He taught at Georgetown University, American University, Central Connecticut State University, and Writer's Center.

He explored his Cuban heritage in his early works and his role as a gay man in Cuban-American culture in Looking for the Gulf Motel (2012). He explained: "It's trying to understand how I fit between negotiating the world, between being mainstream gay and being Cuban gay." According to Time magazine, he "views the more conservative, hard-line exile cohort of his parents' generation ... with a skeptical eye."

His work has appeared in The Nation, Ploughshares, Indiana Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, TriQuarterly Review, New England Review, and Americas Review.On January 8, 2013, he was named the inaugural poet for Barack Obama's second inauguration, the fifth person to play that role. He was the first immigrant, first Latino, and first gay person to be the inaugural poet. He was also the youngest. He was asked to compose three poems from which inauguration officials selected the one he would read. After reading "One Today," he said to his mother: "Well, Mom, I think we're finally American." The poem he presented, "One Today", was called "a humble, modest poem, one presented to a national audience as a gift of comradeship, and in the context of political, pop, and media culture, a quiet assertion that poetry deserves its place in our thoughts on this one day, and every day."

He and his partner split their time between Bethel, Maine and Boston, MA. In the poem "Queer Theory, According to My Grandmother," he described how his grandmother warned him as a young boy: "For God's sake, never pee sitting down ... /I've seen you" and "Don't stare at The Six-Million-Dollar Man./I've seen you." and "Never dance alone in your room."

1989 – A Los Angeles jury awards Rock Hudson's ex-lover, Marc Christian $21.75 million in damages for the emotional distress he claims to have suffered upon learning that Hudson had AIDS. The award is later reduced to $5.5 million.

1999 – Australian diplomat Stephen Brady and his partner Peter Stephens were the world’s first openly gay ambassadorial couple. Accompanied by Stephens, Brady presented his credentials as Australian Ambassador to Denmark, to Queen Margrethe II on February  15,1999.

Today's Gay Wisdom:

Susan B. Anthony

[{(o)}]|[{(o)}]|[{(o)}]|[{(o)}]| [{(o)}]|[{(o)}]

We assert the province of government to be to secure the people in the enjoyment of their unalienable rights. We throw to the winds the old dogma that governments can give rights. Susan B. Anthony

Cautious, careful people, always casting about to preserve their reputation and social standing, never can bring about a reform. Those who are really in earnest must be willing to be anything or nothing in the world's estimation. - Susan B. Anthony, "On the Campaign for Divorce Law Reform" (1860)

The one distinct feature of our Association has been the right of the individual opinion for every member. We have been beset at every step with the cry that somebody was injuring the cause by the expression of some sentiments that differed with those held by the majority of mankind. The religious persecution of the ages has been done under what was claimed to be the command of God. I distrust those people who know so well what God wants them to do to their fellows, because it always coincides with their own desires. - Susan B. Anthony

Woman must not depend upon the protection of man, but must be taught to protect herself. - Susan B. Anthony, Speech in San Francisco (July 1871)

The only chance women have for justice in this country is to violate the law, as I have done, and as I shall continue to do. - Susan B. Anthony

[evita-shelby]

Paper fucking Moon

Or this au where John Egan is stringing along both my oc, Diane from my peaky blinders/masters of the air crossover and @precious-little-scoundrel 's Lana Tierney/Julie Jean Turner from her series, Dear John.

I am afraid i might make you guys hate John for this one shot sorry

Cw: cheating, irresponsible drinking, mentions of a hangover. Slight bashing of eurocentrinc beauty standards and some internalized racism

(A/n: Jack Nelson is the character James Frecheville (Bill Veal)plays in Peaky Blinders who is based off on Joseph P Kennedy sr and in this universe is him)

“Oh, come on, let me see! I let you read my last letter to Janey Dogs, Bucky.” The dark-haired girl somehow managed to wrest the letter from his hands. She had managed to read a name, Jean, before Bucky swiped it out of her hands.

She had gotten it back, making use of her smaller size against his giant frame as they tried not to tumble out of his bed and onto the floor. The witch had read it then, in its entirety and felt her heart break in a way it hadn’t done before.

Diane has always had the misfortune of falling hard and fast for someone. From her best friend since she was five, Oswald Mosely, Britain's leading facsist’s son ---who hated his dad’s ideology fiercely--- one summer, a girl she met during her time at Oxford, Tom Bennett in Manchester in 1939 and now John Egan from Wisconsin.

It always ends badly; Di has never been lucky when it comes to love.

Especially something that hadn’t been intended as serious. Only a paper moon, she reminds herself.

A paper fucking moon, she confirms when she reads the salacious letter to Julie Jean Turner, alias Lana Tierney, who is the perfect white girl with blonde hair, big tits and two blue eyes. As always Diane’s unconventional looks and mixed blood pales against the quintessential white woman.

“So, I’m only here to pass the time then?” she doesn’t mean to sound hurt by the things she read in the letter to Julie Jean Turner, but she does because once again Di had been fucked over by her stupid heart. “Women now, as beautiful and charming and smart as they are, they do just to pass the time, but you are different.”

Same shit he’d said to her when it stopped feeling like just fooling around and he started to believe what she saw in the cards. When they sang Paper Moons together before Regensburg and he came back with the moon locket just as she had said he would.

“Di, I’m sorry, I —” he can’t seem to even find the words to justify or even explain himself as the nurse hastily dressed and left before he could stop her.

“Only a paper fucking moon, isn’t it?” she’s never felt more pathetic in her life as she resolves to forget John fucking Egan while pretending she is stronger than she looks. “Fuck me for thinking this was gonna be different. Fuck me for thinking you loved me.”

And what better to get over a guy by getting absolutely hammered and under his single friend.

Bill Veal looked like Jack Nelson in his younger years, back when he was merely a gangster businessman and not the American Ambassador to England. Di did always find Jack hot when she was a teenager and Veal was too good of a man to hurt her. He is nearly always of Egan’s left at the pub and would make it very uncomfortable for her now ex-fling.

Doesn’t work as she had hoped, between the sexy little number she sings and the drinks, she finds herself stabbing at Egan however she can until he confronts her outside of it. Bill knew better than to get caught up in their shit and turned her down but not before saying he wouldn’t do that to Bucky.

She’d sought out another, some nameless soldier who’s gonna die before the week is over, and John had pulled the boy off her by the scruff of his neck as if the man had any right to her anymore.

“Mhmm, angry aren’t you, daddy?” she stands on her tiptoes as if to kiss him, she hates him and herself and even that sad little twat across the sea. “Angry your little fuck toy found out she was just that, your dirty secret who can’t satisfy you like the fantasy of a white girl can?”

Because that was what hurt more, that when he had her, living, breathing and real beside him, he was writing this stranger who he’d only seen once and getting off dreaming of her. It fucking sickened her to know he had been lying to her since the beginning.

“You weren’t a toy to me; I should’ve been upfront with you sooner and her as well. Shouldn’t have led her on, never should’ve written that letter before I left for Regensburg, Di.” At least he knew he had fucked it all up.

He looks sorry, she knows he feels sorry too, but she can’t forgive him. Why forgive him when she won’t ever trust him again?

“I loved you; you know. And you weren’t man enough to tell me the fucking truth!” she shouts at him, tosses the locket in her pocket at him and leaves like the pathetic little girl she feels.

Diane is glad she won’t remember this tomorrow; sure she might as well kiss her job goodbye but at least she isn’t John’s stupid gypsy girl who was the last to know he had someone else.

But she can’t sleep, she’s tired of crying, of thinking about how much she hates everyone now.

The latest in her string of bad decisions tonight brings her to her little locker where her stationary is. Not the normal one for friends and family, but the one with her dad’s company that styles her as Miss Diane E. Shelby of Shelby Co. for when she writes to the Princess of Wales as her loyal pen pal.

The last Di remembers doing is writing:

“Dear Miss Julie Jean Turner…”

And now reading the botched drafts of the letter she tried to write, she is glad she never finished it.

She had gone off about how she met and started her relationship with John, how Winston fucking Churchill got her the post here, how she knows Tierney’s life is shit with lurid detail, and worse the two Buck special a few weeks ago.

These are all the words of a drunk and hurt pathetic girl who’s insecure about her looks, height, lack of breasts and having mismatched eyes. Its barely legible, her drunk self isn’t the damnably charming and classy daughter of a Member of Parliament who went to Oxford.

It's a good thing she didn’t write it all, by the looks of it. The address on the ruined envelope said Arrow House, the young witch wouldn’t hear the end of it if there had been a reply sent to her parents before it got to her.

“Sent your letters to the post before you woke up, the matron in charge wants to speak with you.” The nurse who sleeps next to her handed her a glass of water and aspirin as Diane shuts her eyes as her hangover is worsened by a fucking vision.

Usually, she can get those under control, keep them from affecting her so much, but this one of Lana fucking Tierney receiving a messy letter addressed to her by Miss Diane Shelby of Arrow House, Warwickshire has her tossing her head into her hands as she retched in a bucket by her bed.

What had she done?

What had she written?

“Oh, fuck. Oh, God, what the fuck did I write in it?”

Dear Miss Julie Jean Turner,

Do not worry I will not reveal your true name nor the nature of your letters to John, I am not like that no matter how much I wish I was. I could ruin your career and life but the torrid abuse your mother and hollywood dole out to you is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemies. Hell I think you might thank me if I tanked your career now before it drains you of life.

It might surprise you to hear why I write to you, but I am sure you already know about the other girl our good major has strung along while writing to you. I was one of such girls he told she was the only one. Different from the rest, all that bullshit he tells you too.

I loved him, I am sure you do to, but it was all a paper fucking moon in a cardboard sky. I knew sex was all he wanted that night, and yet I fell for him, just as you did in his letters. Thought he was different, that maybe he felt like I did because that is what he told me to mu fucking face when he said it should’ve been a ring and not a locket.

But it fucking wasn’t, because he writes to you about all the filthy things he wants to do to you while not even bothering to say its not many girls. That it was one girl singular who he's been with since mere days after sending you that first letter. Before you ask, he didn’t tell me, I know this shit and so much more because God fucking cursed me with visions that didn’t tell me about you.

But of course, no man can resist you. You who are deemed perfect with your big teats, your blonde hair and perfect white skin, meanwhile me with my meager breasts, different colored eyes and tan skin am deemed nothing special, a toy for him to pass the time. As if I already wasn’t singled out for my foreign mother and romani father.

I let him fulfill his fantasy of fucking me and Buck for his birthday, did he tell you that? Did he ever tell you how he liked it when I wore the fleece for him, how he brought me back a locket from Algeria because he claimed he was falling in love with me? Does he tell you how I held him together and let him cry his heart out after missions that go badly? Does he tell you that Paper Moon is our song because we sang it together the first night and now it’s on my picture he takes with himself on his missions?

He sure as hell didn’t tell me he hides yours in his boot, that he gets off to the idea of you despite having me by him. He wasn’t man enough to tell either of us the truth, and here I am writing to you to tell you he’s not the vulgar charming yank we thought he was.

This whole experience has me relieved there is a whole ocean and social hierarchy that won’t have us cross paths anytime soon. So sorry for ruining the image you have of Egan, fuck knows you have very little going for you, but unlike him I at least have the balls to tell you the truth.

You can have him if you want, Miss Turner, he’d be a step up from the current men you have now.

I don’t forgive infidelity, but I don’t know of you are of the same mind.

So terribly sorry for this, I have drunk enough to kill a horse to nurse my broken heart and no longer give a shit about anything.

Yours truly,

Diane Elizabeth Shelby, alias Lady Di

P.S. feel free to tell Marjorie Spencer her fiancé is a lying hypocrite who covered for Bucky this entire time.

P.P.S. if you want to be free of shackles, I know a few people on your side of the pond who can help you with that.

[justrainandcoffee]

Vendetta is not over (Luca Changretta x fem!oc)

Part 1: Ada Shelby.

And there's only two left.

Masterlist - Prologue

Summary: Almost 25 years ago, a black woman visited the Garrison. She was Luca Changretta's wife. Arthur Shelby remember that day very well because from that moment he lived his days thinking about her and the promise of death. He knew that she wasn't lying. Those black eyes... No matter what Tommy says. Vendetta is coming for them. Killed, one by one. And the first one is his sister Ada.

Warnings: Murder.|| Finn died in the second world war.

Words: 2.5k

1950

Mr. Changretta for his men. Just The Musician for the outsiders. That was his nickname, because the young man was a talented saxophonist. His mother, people said, was an extraordinary singer. Both passionate about jazz and blues. When he was a kid and accompanied her to her shows he always wanted to play an instrument and at the age of nine, his mother bought him his first saxophone and took classes with a prestigious friend of hers. Over a decade later the kid, now a man, was still playing music as a hobby.

His work was one very different.

The Musician's slender fingers, touched his sax the same way he pulled the trigger. With extraordinary precision.

"Don't give these bastards a second chance, Fabrizio."

"No, Mr. Changretta."

"Good boy, Fabrizio."

The Musician let out a sight before lit a cigarette. The lighter illuminated his face a brief second. His new white shirt was the only thing visible in that almost dark room. His skin was dark, same as his mother, he's tall -really tall- and thin. He never knew his father, but his mother always said to him that Luca was equally elegant as he was.

The Musician had a mission.

Kill the Shelbys.

One was dead. Sadly. The less important. The youngest one perished in war. His source in England told him that the news were devastated for the once numerous clan.

The Musician had three names now. Ada Thorne, Thomas Shelby and especially: Arthur Shelby.

His mother was against of killing a woman, but it just happened that Ada Thorne wasn't just a woman. She was the head of the Shelby company. And despite she was over 50 years old, Ada Thorne was dangerous like her brothers.

The Musician knew that her son was now living in France. Karl Thorne was a collage teacher but had no contact with his mother. His half sister was there in New York, married to a man and pregnant of her first child. Elizabeth Younger was a beautiful black woman a bit younger than him.

As far as the Musician knew, John Shelby's children were dispersed around Great Britain, minding their own business. Raised by Esme Lee, the once kids, grew up far away from the Shelbys business. Same as Billy Shelby, Arthur's son, who was now a priest something that Linda was proud about.

The cigarette smoke helped to create a mysterious atmosphere around him. Augustus Caesar Changretta, also known as, The Musician, smiled.

He had to go home. His wife was waiting for him. His beautiful, beautiful… Elizabeth Younger.

He loved her. She's sweet and tender. For her, he was just a saxophonist. A saxophonist named Caesar Young, his mother's last name. 'Ces', for her.

Little Elizabeth knew, that her husband was about to kill her mother, Ada Thorne.

The war is part of the past. For almost five years now.

Arthur left the cemetery. Finn Shelby didn't survive the battle. Being too young between 1914 and 1918, the boy didn't know about the horrors that him, Tommy and John had to witnessed.

"He was forced to kill for the Peaky Blinders, it's the same" his mind said to him.

Arthur tried to ignore that voice. He didn't expected another war two decades later, but humanity never learn. So, Finn went to fight for his country. Like millions of men. Like many other millions, Finn returned inside a coffin.

Of five Shelby siblings only three remained alive. He saw his face reflected on a window. He was old now. Finn was a still a young man. Poor Mary and the kids.

Lizzie left Tommy, Linda left him, Esme and Mary left the family. Freddie died ages ago. Love and Shelby apparently weren't compatible.

Arthur planned to go to London to see Ada. Maybe the next day, now he needed to rest.

On the corner of the street, he saw a young handsome black man. He was playing the saxophone for some pennies. He was really good.

The blood of Luca Changretta will chase you.

Those words returned to his mind. Changretta's wife warned them about a black man, Luca's son, seeking to revenge his father. Adelina was her name? Alina?

Aveline.

Aveline Changretta. The tall and beautiful black woman. The one who swore that Vendetta wasn't over.

For a moment the saxophonist and Arthur stared at each other. If it wasn't because he was playing the instrument, Arthur could've sworn that the young man was smirking.

_

"It was him, brother. It was him."

Arthur was in front of Tommy. Both men now had grey hair and wrinkles on their faces. Arthur was 62 years old now and Thomas, 60.

"You don't know that, Arthur. World is full of black men."

"I fookin' know! Why don't ya believe me?"

"You've been paranoid about a black kid the last 20 years or more, Arthur. Nothing happened, eh? We're still here. People always threatened us, no one succeeded."

"No one of those were a black woman with cold eyes talking about Changretta like that, either. Tommy…"

"Arthur, stop! I'm busy! That life it's part of our past. Women are impulsive, maybe she forgot. Maybe she married another man and have other kids. When back then I sent people to investigate, they found nothing. So, calm down!"

"Ya are underestimating this, Tom. Don't tell me I didn't warn ya. I'm goin' to visit Ada tomorrow."

"Ok. Maybe a a little trip will help you to think something different. London is full of black men, don't think that evry single one of them is his son."

Arthur didn't respond. He knew that Tommy was pretending that nothing of his past happened. He was a member of the parliament and wanted to be Prime Minister. He was a busy man. But the things they did… Arthur left his brother's office and went to the streets again. That corner where he saw the saxophonist, was now empty.

"I wish I'd be there with you," Elizabeth said. "I miss England. Isn't a coincidence that you have the opportunity to go there, Ces?"

The Musician was in his hotel bedroom speaking with his wife by phone. On the table was a gun and several bullets.

"It's a coincidence, my dear. But planes aren't safe for pregnant women. The air pressure…but I'll be back soon."

"Will you go to visit mom? I can call her and tell her about it."

"I don't know if I'll have time, Liz. But if I can, I'm going to pay a visit to her. I need to know my mother-in-law, sooner or later, after all."

"She's nice, Ces. People say that she's severe and some fear her, but she's nice. Don't ask Karl, tho. Their relationship is quite different."

"I'm sure of it. I'm going to sleep, Liz. It's late here. Love you."

"Bye, Ces. Rest well."

He hanged the phone and stared at his reflection on the mirror.

"I'm already planning to visit your mother, my dear," he thought.

It happened that the first time visiting his mother-in-law, it was going to be the last time, too.

The Musician smiled.

Arthur went to London the next day as he had planned. Good thing about cars now that they increased their speed considerably. Their old cars from decades ago had nothing to do with those made after the second war.

God bless the 50s.

London was the same as ever. Chaotic, noisy, polluted. People barely paying attention at those in front of their noses. Men reading newspapers sitting in benches, women walking their dogs, kids running…

Ada lived in a new house. This one was smallest than the previous one considering that she lived alone there. No one of her children were there anymore. Sweet Elizabeth even was pregnant. When Arthur knew the good news was extremely surprised. Where time went? Ada was about to be grandmother? How old was he, then?

Arthur knocked on her door and his sister opened. He always had a soft spot for her, she was still the little girl who was born in that old house in Watery Lane.

Arthur also noticed how small was his family now. There was a time where it was easy to mistake Karl and John's kids when all of them were running around. Arthur didn't know where they were. Fuck, he didn't even know where his son was, only he was a priest.

All of them put distance between them and their fathers. And mother.

Who could blame them? They killed. They tortured.

"Arthur!" Ada's voice brought him back again to reality.

"Ada."

"Get in. I just finished a call with Tommy. Same as ever."

"Yes. I know. He's just too old now to change."

"Talk to me about that," she said closing the door behind her.

Arthur never noticed that a black car was following him from the moment he left Birmingham. He never never noticed that a young man was standing in front of Ada's house. Neither did she. Far away in time were those days where she was hyper alert about everything and everyone around her around her.

The Musician felt his heart beating fast. But he was a patient man. If his mother was capable of waiting 25 years for this moment, he could wait a couple of hours.

.

"Are you sure?" Ada asked when at night Arthur was ready to leave her house after spending there the whole afternoon.

"Yeah. I need few drinks and then I'm going back home. Good to see ya, Ada."

"Same, Arthur. Take care right? Don't do nothing stupid."

"I'll be fine," he said hugging her for the last time.

One more hour passed. Arthur was in a pub very similar to the Garrison he owned once. The tv there was showing a contest show. Three men and a woman were participating. But he wasn't paying attention, he was thinking about other things.

"The blood of Luca Changretta will chase you."

Why was he so obsessed with it?

The black saxophonist. He couldn't stop thinking about him, even when he had seen plenty of street musicians before.

Aveline Changretta was in his mind. Smiling at him. And so was Luca. He could see the Italian man so clear like he was right in front of his eyes.

Vendetta.

Ada was in her car. She was looking for some papers she had forgotten inside it. The street was empty but the lights inside the people's houses were on. Families at that time used to enjoy tv programmes or they just were reunited to listen to the radio.

"Ada Thorne?"

A deep male voice made her shiver. And Ada was a woman who feared nothing. Through the opposite car window he could see a black man wearing a hat. He was smartly dress.

"Can I help you?" Under her car seat was a gun. She just needed to extend her arm and grabbed it.

"No. I'm just here because my father was killed by your brothers, long time ago. I just wanted tell you why I'm going to kill you…"

.

A woman occupied the seat next to his in that pub and asked for a Martini. Arthur didn't look at her, until her black hand brushed his. Arthur looked at her and his heart stopped.

"Hello, Mr. Shelby. So long… how are you?"

"The fook are ya' doing here?"

"Enjoying the night, like any other person."

Aveline smiled but Arthur didn't. She looked older, clearly the time passed for everyone, but she was still beautiful. Arthur remembered that she was tall but not that tall. Her lips were red as her dress. A white fur coat was over her shoulders.

"How life treated you, Mr. Shelby?"

Arthur didn't respond. He was staring at her, trying to read her thoughts, but Aveline was just smiling.

"I'm good," she continued "I kept singing, I learnt to play the piano… I raised my child…"

.

Bang. Bang

Two shots and Ada Thorne was part of the past now. She had time to grabbed her gun, but The Musician was faster.

He put a match in the fuel tank. The car started to burn immediately. When the neighbours could understand what was going on and go out, The Musician wasn't there anymore. But they saw a shadow.

In that street, in front of that white house, a car was burning and inside it was the only Shelby sister. Dead.

.

"It's a beautiful night, Mr. Shelby," Aveline said. "In other times, I used to go out and sing in front of a bonfire. By the way, Arthur… how is your sister Ada?"

Her smile was tremulous. Arthur stood up immediately. His brain was screaming Ada's name.

"Fook ya! Fook ya, ya bitch!"

No one listened to the conversation. The only certain thing was that people at the bar just saw a white man yelling at a black woman sitting there.

Aveline looked at Arthur ran out. There was a ghost of smile on her face.

Next day was a nightmare. Tommy went to London as soon as he knew what happened.

Police was asking them about the night before. Tommy was far way. But Arthur… As far as the police knew, Arthur was the last person who saw her alive.

"I didn't kill my fookin' sister!"

"Easy, Mr. Shelby. No one is blaming you," the detective in front of him was a black man in his forties. "You say a black woman is behind this?"

"She is! She fooking is!"

"But you don't have any proof. And witnesses say that you yelled at black woman last night."

"Are ya implying that I'm a fooking racist?! My sister is dead and ya say I'm a racist!!" Arthur stood up abruptly.

"I didn't say it. And please calm down or I'm going to arrest you."

"Fook ya," he said once last time.

One hour later, the detective ended the questions and finally they let him go. Still, he was a suspect.

Tommy was at Ada's house when Arthur returned. As always, his brother didn't express any emotions and that was what Arthur found more annoying. Their sister had been killed like a dog, or worse, and he was there cold as ice.

"What do you want me to do, eh? Scream at a police officer? Yell at God? To throw a tantrum?"

"I fookin told ya! I fookin told ya! The Changrettas! I saw her fookin last night! And now Ada's dead!"

"I heard you insulted a black woman. It's the only thing I know."

"You too? Ya fookin' too!! It was her, Tom! It was his wife!"

Tommy lit a cigarette and sat down in Ada's sofa. She was in the morgue now. Once the autopsy was over, police will give them her body.

"I called the cemetery," Tommy said "we're going to bury her in a good spot. There are trees there."

Arthur was crying.

"After the funeral I'm going to make some calls and see if there's a place where Mrs. Young is staying. Hard, considering her last name is quite common."

Tommy stood up again and patted his brother shoulder before going to Ada's office searching one of her bottles of whiskey.

Alone in that room, the man made of ice, cried too.

.

Very few people went to her funeral, three days later. Karl's flight landed that very day and for the first time in years he saw his uncles. Neither of them talked to each other and after it, Karl left England this time forever.

Police didn't have any news and Arthur was still the main suspect, but they didn't have any proof. And the black woman Arthur talked about was nowhere to be found.

Tommy knew he needed to focus but he was tired. The last person who deserved to die was Ada. She wasn't part of the business like the rest of the Shelbys. But her last name…

A vinyl record was over his table when Thomas Shelby arrived from the cemetery. Nothing but the silence received him. His mind was still processing the death of his sister. Tommy could read the legend:

"Mafia Records. Black Hand vol I"

There was a short message next to it "listen to me."

Tommy put the vinyl on his record player.

He could hear a soft music and a female voice humming. Then, she started singing. Her voice was indeed beautiful… except for the lyrics:

"Thomas Shelby, Thomas Shelby… are you there?

Thomas Shelby, Thomas Shelby… you're next."

[aurumacadicus]

There are still a couple weeks left to read Iron Widow, but we’re voting for our next book now so we have plenty of time to get it for the first day of reading on October thirtieth! Book summaries are under the cut! Each new title is in bold for clarity.

If you’d like to join the book club, now or for the next book, feel free to send me an ask and I’ll give you the link to our Discord!

The Amulet of Samarkand by Jonathan Stroud

Nathaniel is a boy magician-in-training, sold to the government by his birth parents at the age of five and sent to live as an apprentice to a master. Powerful magicians rule Britain, and its empire, and Nathaniel is told his is the “ultimate sacrifice” for a “noble destiny.”

If leaving his parents and erasing his past life isn’t tough enough, Nathaniel’s master, Arthur Underwood, is a cold, condescending, and cruel middle-ranking magician in the Ministry of Internal Affairs. The boy’s only saving grace is the master’s wife, Martha Underwood, who shows him genuine affection that he rewards with fierce devotion. Nathaniel gets along tolerably well over the years in the Underwood household until the summer before his eleventh birthday. Everything changes when he is publicly humiliated by the ruthless magician Simon Lovelace and betrayed by his cowardly master who does not defend him.

Nathaniel vows revenge. In a Faustian fever, he devours magical texts and hones his magic skills, all the while trying to appear subservient to his master. When he musters the strength to summon the 5,000-year-old djinni Bartimaeus to avenge Lovelace by stealing the powerful Amulet of Samarkand, the boy magician plunges into a situation more dangerous and deadly than anything he could ever imagine.

A Darker Shade of Magic by V. E. Schwab

Kell is one of the last Antari—magicians with a rare, coveted ability to travel between parallel Londons; Red, Grey, White, and, once upon a time, Black.

Kell was raised in Arnes—Red London—and officially serves the Maresh Empire as an ambassador, traveling between the frequent bloody regime changes in White London and the court of George III in the dullest of Londons, the one without any magic left to see.

Unofficially, Kell is a smuggler, servicing people willing to pay for even the smallest glimpses of a world they’ll never see. It’s a defiant hobby with dangerous consequences, which Kell is now seeing firsthand.

After an exchange goes awry, Kell escapes to Grey London and runs into Delilah Bard, a cut-purse with lofty aspirations. She first robs him, then saves him from a deadly enemy, and finally forces Kell to spirit her to another world for a proper adventure.

Now perilous magic is afoot, and treachery lurks at every turn. To save all of the worlds, they’ll first need to stay alive.

The Thursday Murder Club by Richard Osman

In a peaceful retirement village, four unlikely friends meet up once a week to investigate unsolved murders.

But when a brutal killing takes place on their very doorstep, the Thursday Murder Club finds themselves in the middle of their first live case. Elizabeth, Joyce, Ibrahim, and Ron might be pushing eighty but they still have a few tricks up their sleeves.

Can our unorthodox but brilliant gang catch the killer before it’s too late?

Just Like Home by Sarah Gailey

“Come home.” Vera’s mother called and Vera obeyed. In spite of their long estrangement, in spite of the memories – she’s come back to the home of a serial killer. Back to face the love she had for her father and the bodies he buried there.

Coming home is hard enough for Vera, and to make things worse, she and her mother aren’t alone. A parasitic artist has moved into the guest house out back, and is slowly stripping Vera’s childhood for spare parts. He insists that he isn’t the one leaving notes around the house in her father’s handwriting… but who else could it possibly be?

There are secrets yet undiscovered in the foundations of the notorious Crowder House. Vera must face them, and find out for herself just how deep the rot goes.

The Girl in the Letter by Emily Gunnis

A heartbreaking letter. A girl locked away. A mystery to be solved.

1956. When Ivy Jenkins falls pregnant she is sent in disgrace to St Margaret’s, a dark, brooding house for unmarried mothers. Her baby is adopted against her will. Ivy will never leave.

Present day. Samantha Harper is a journalist desperate for a break. When she stumbles on a letter from the past, the contents shock and move her. The letter is from a young mother, begging to be rescued from St Margaret’s. Before it is too late.

Sam is pulled into the tragic story and discovers a spate of unexplained deaths surrounding the woman and her child. With St Margaret’s set for demolition, Sam has only hours to piece together a sixty-year-old mystery before the truth, which lies disturbingly close to home, is lost forever…

Read her letter. Remember her story…

Cinder by Melissa Meyer

Humans and androids crowd the raucous streets of New Beijing. A deadly plague ravages the population. From space, a ruthless Lunar people watch, waiting to make their move. No one knows that Earth’s fate hinges on one girl. . . . Cinder, a gifted mechanic, is a cyborg. She’s a second-class citizen with a mysterious past, reviled by her stepmother and blamed for her stepsister’s illness. But when her life becomes intertwined with the handsome Prince Kai’s, she suddenly finds herself at the center of an intergalactic struggle, and a forbidden attraction. Caught between duty and freedom, loyalty and betrayal, she must uncover secrets about her past in order to protect her world’s future.

[british-revolution]

Jimmy Sime, 'Toffs and Toughs'

It's actually a nice picture, but it's hopelessly posed. Also, the title is made-up, and the only person in it who is still alive (one of the boys on the right) no longer wishes to be associated with it for the simple reason that he isn't and never was a "tough".

This picture has been produced again and again over the years by Marxists (both the ideological and the de facto sort), who hate Britain and hate tradition, as some sort of piece of killer evidence that Britain has (or had, before the Second World War) some sort of terrible "class system".

In actual fact, yes, this picture is hopelessly posed, and the only difference between the two sets of boys is that those on the left had parents who were rich enough to send them to Harrow* and the others, were pupils at the local Church of England school who had take the afternoon off to earn a bob or two by helping out at Lord's Cricket Ground. And far from being "toughs" they were perfectly respectable, working-class English lads who all went on to live long, full and (compared with those of the two Harrow boys) happy lives.

Again, the only real difference nowadays (because I don't think the school uniform at Harrow has changed very much) would be that the boys on the right would be of a different race.

And that of course is the main way in which Britain is now a more divided society than it has ever been before - just not in the way the latter-day Marxists of the media Establishment would like us to think.

So, leaving aside that nowadays the boys on the right would be just as likely to be beaten up for being "posh" (not to mention English and white) as the boys on the left would have been back then, the photograph is hopelessly posed and the title itself is both misleading and probably no older than 2004.

In fact the boys on the right are not "toughs" but pupils at a local Church of England school. They'd taken the day off school for a trip to the dentist and then decided to earn some easy money by helping out at the Eton-Harrow cricket match that was taking place at Lord's that afternoon. Sime has clearly, er, solicited their aid for his photograph (presumably for a small fee). And given that nice young Anglican boys would generally have been discouraged from walking around with their hands in their pockets, he's presumably also instructed them to adopt the poses their holding to look as if they're quietly masturbating. The two Harrovian* boys though just happened to be standing at the gate at the time waiting to be collected by one of their parents, and by all accounts they were persuaded to pose for the camera with neither their parents' consent nor any financial emolument.

The picture is of course well known in England, and a good example of indigenous English leftist propaganda - that is to say the lies we like to tell ourselves. It was first published in the 10th July 1937 edition of the News Chronicle, a leftist newspaper that later merged with The Daily Mail (which of course by modern standards isn't even considered leftist). The screechy agitprop caption read 'Every picture tells a story'.

The real "story" of the photograph - of the tragic fates of the two "toff" boys and of the long, happy, normal lives of the "toughs" - is now freely available on line thanks to dear old Wikipedia.

*Not Etonians, as countless hopeless American editors have stated, as if it were true.

(via Altogether Intact)

[wen-kexing-apologist]

Bengiyo's Queer Cinema Syllabus

For those who are not aware, I have decided to run the gauntlet of @bengiyo’s Queer Cinema Syllabus and have officially started Unit 2: Race, Disability, and Class. The films in Unit 2 are: The Way He Looks (2014), Being 17 (2016), Naz and Maalik (2015), The Obituary of Tunde Johnson (2019), Margarita With a Straw (2014), My Beautiful Laundrette (1985), Brother to Brother (2004), and Beautiful Thing (1996)

Today I will be writing about

My Beautiful Laundrette (1985) dir. Stephen Frears

[Run Time: 1:37, Available- Amazon, Hulu, Language: English]

Summary: “An ambitious Pakistani Briton and his white boyfriend strive for success and hope when they open a glamorous laundromat.” (from IMDB)

Cast: * Daniel Day-Lewis as Johnny * Gordon Warnecke as Omar

___

Hmm. Okay so, before I get too far in to this, I feel like this film was the hardest one for me to follow from a plot standpoint (so far). There were a lot of little things happening that took a bit for me to really understand, and that caused some challenges in how I engaged with this film. I will admit at this point that this was a movie I probably need more historical context for (ie some of the political commentary in the film, the state of Britain at the point in which this film was made, etc.) but my brain is fried from life stuff, and I do not have the energy to do that research right now. 

gif by @itsmyfriendisaac

Fundamentally, I do think there is something extremely interesting in the role reversals here of the Pakistani immigrant family being the richer, more successful characters, compared to the white people in the film. And this makes sense because what I was able to get through the movie is the racism that came out of Pakistani immigrants moving to Britain, establishing lives, and then becoming the scapegoats for the suffering of poor white people (when obviously they are not the actual problem). 

Omar comes alive at the thought of getting to make something out of his life, rather than just be a caretaker for his father. A father who has become a victim to the racism and vitriol he has witnessed in Britain. A man who gave compassion, advice, care to young white boys only to see them march against him when they grew up. 

I loved the visual commentary about how women can be forgotten, every time that Nasser’s wife walked by a room, quiet, unnoticed, and soaking in all this information about Omar, Tania, and Nasser’s affair. 

I did love the visual commentary around ever looming danger. This standstill that Johnny’s old crew came to with Johnny, Omar, and the laundrette. A show of numbers, a threat of violence, that never triggered because there was no reason to do so. Johnny still had power and influence over his white friends, and that kept them quiet. But they loom. They are an ever present danger that Omar just ignores. Omar and Johnny continue to live their lives, build out the laundrette, try to achieve success despite the ever present danger. Which is as strong as a visual metaphor you can get towards existing as a part of one or more oppressed groups. 

I like that fundamentally, Omar did all of this to show his Dad that he could be successful. Because he wanted to show his father that everything he’d heard said about him by the white boys he went to school with, and by Britain were wrong. That he was successful, and he had white people working for him. And how that is only revealed when Omar and Johnny have done the work of selling coke, refurbishing the entire place, and then opening it. I like that Omar’s father does not consider his son opening this laundrette as a success, because he wants Omar to be educated. Because he understands the importance of education, and how a lack of education makes people susceptible to propaganda. I also appreciate that Omar was spared from hearing that. 

I love that Omar and Johnny’s feelings for eachother are never really disguised. Like, if you are queer, you can see from the second they are reunited that those two have almost certainly fucked before. But that good old fashioned heteronormativity is what really seems to shield them from suspicion by most people (besides Tania it seems). 

And for as brutal of a beating as it was, I did genuinely enjoy the scene both for the commentary around how no one really is ever safe. That once your former in-group decides you are now part of the out-group, you are no longer safe. And further, that Omar very adamantly, casually, and happily took care of Johnny and treated his wounds and did not let him leave because he does love Johnny. I love that the film ends with the two of them in the laundrette, with Omar kissing the back of Johnny’s neck, in front of a couple shattered windows. Why? Because for me, it speaks volumes about how Omar views his relationship to Johnny and the world. He treats Johnny rather than worrying about his laundrette, because he loves Johnny, and Johnny is hurt. The windows can be replaced. 

gif by @oscarskirt

For/By/About 

By and About 

The writer of the film is bisexual, and the main characters are queer, which puts it in a By and About Queers category. I am on the fence about the For Queer people, because again, with most of the films in Unit 2, I feel like the Race, Disability, and Class aspects of the film are more of the central voice. For My Beautiful Laundrette, the race and class aspects seem like the heavier hitters, but the reason I’m on the fence is because there are some aspects of Johnny and Omar’s relationship that aren’t verbalized that I feel like may only be picked up on (easily) by a queer audience. 

Favorite Scene 

gif by @eriklehnsherryes

I really loved the scene where Johnny and Omar are fucking in the back room while Nessan and Rachel are dancing inside the laundrette. I appreciated that it felt like it was used to highlight the legitimacy of both of their relationships/love for one another. And that both fucking (and spitting champagne in to Omar’s mouth) could be presented in a way that felt romantic because it was paralleled to a couple dancing lovingly together. 

Favorite Quote

“We must all have knowledge if we are to see what is being done to whom in this country” 

A quote said by Omar’s dad to Johnny. I like it because it addresses what I think is the core of this film. And it shows in very few words, why he ended up this way, why he wants Omar to go to college, and where his ideology and life experience lies. 

Score

8/10 

I think this film falls to the classic blunder of trying to say too many things in too short of a time. As a result, we only get glimpses in to characters, and it is harder for me to see and understand their motivations.