#tin chelsea

[anamelessfool]

A Young Nihil & Jocasta & Kid Terzo Drabble (wc 1900)

Nihil returns from a tour with an even colder reception than usual. But he's not one to worry. He gets by with a little help from his friends. Tags: Domestic Fluff, Found Family, Platonic Bonds, No Plot Really Just Me Sorta Waffling Around, The Most Basic German You'll Ever Read In Your Life, If You Read The Most Recent Violence and Gentleness Chapter This Hits Harder, Our Loveable Fuckup

I keep thinking my latest work is the most self-indulgent thing I ever make, and then this happens. Dedicated to @saintbowie who asked me "What was the worst gift Jocasta has ever received?" and I thought about it for a long while. Also @historian-crown who said "Yes, this is exactly what I'd say if I got a gift that bad" and helped me out. Thanks. @ghuleh-recs thanks for catching up on your reading too haha

1971

Ministry HQ

It felt like there were less and less Siblings out on the Ministry portico every time Nihil came back from a gig. He liked to assume the best and so he decided life around HQ was oftentimes too busy for an official welcome of the Head of the Satanic Church of the Void. For one thing, he knew Secondo’s mother Rebecca would not be out there. At this point in their relationship they communicated solely through written memos on formal letterhead. Sister Imperator, the Dark Mother, would oftentimes scowl out the window at him from her office but even she hadn't bothered this time.

Nihil’s ghouls exchanged shrugs while they stood alone on the gravel drive, then marched in near unison through the front door. At least somebody left it unlocked.

The ghouls filed into the empty foyer, and quickly lined the perimeter with trunks and instrument cases. A certain restlessness came over Nihil as he watched them wordlessly stack their things around him, building up the walls. If they were summoned by him, if they were his servitors and constructs then they had an attunement to his emotions. He had a swell time this tour circut. So why were they making themselves so busy? Why with every trunk that rolled in did he feel the ties that bound them to his Will go slack?

Jet lag, obviously.

“You uh…wanna play some records up in my rooms? Wonder if my Ethio Jazz record I wanted came in…”

Rigor Ghoul, Papa’s head ghoul and keyboardist, crossed his huge arms. He was kind, but honest. Sometimes a bit too honest for his summoner’s liking. NO. WE CAN'T. GHOUL BUSINESS.

“Right,” chuckled Nihil. “Well, enjoy.”

Rigor gave him a noble nod, a polite clap on the shoulder, then led the rest of the ghouls up the stairs to their Roost. Nihil decided to abandon the towers of luggage in search for some sort of interaction, but the halls rang impressively hollow as his Chelsea boots clicked along the marble.

At last one of his flock emerged from a side hallway, balancing a basket of laundry in her arms and shuffling with determination over to the washer. Nihil grinned expectantly, and the sibling did a quick bob of her head over the pile of linens before sidestepping and scuttling away. Papa Nihil rubbed his jaw, considering.

Damn man, when Sister Imperator said you were down you really were down.

There was some friendly chatter from the common room, at least. It was two voices he recognized, two people he actually looked forward to seeing. By the empty fireplace, posed amidst a chaos of creativity, was his Protégée Papessa-Elect Jocasta and his youngest son Terzo. Two beings that didn’t hastily find something to be busy with when he approached.

“Oh, welcome! Welcome back Papa!” Jocasta waved from her place on the carpet. Terzo lounged beside her, legs twisted in an impossible sitting position as he picked colored pencils from a tin. The whole floor was scattered with old birthday cards and magazine cuttings. A glue brush planted across its pot dripped glue on the carpet in slow syrupy strands.

“A yellow dress would look good for this one,” she suggested to Terzo. She herself wore a pretty polyester suit of bright orange with a matching scarf to hold up her golden hair. Terzo was working on an obvious recreation of her look for one of the paper dolls in his collection.

“You're a sight for sore eyes, doll,” Nihil leered. Jocasta threw him a wry wink, the whitened Infernal Eye in her skull a weird comfort for him to see after a few weeks on the road.

What he first thought could be a possible fling with an exotic woman in a bar became something completely different, something more. She wandered over to the stage and said she was inspired. He had inspired her. His work. His art.

For once the devil in Nihil didn't raise its head and sniff the air. He couldn't switch on that flirty little part of himself as he looked at her in that half dark New York club. Staring down at her from the stage, a foot and a half above her so she had to strain her neck to really look in his eyes when she confessed. He couldn't touch her. Not when she was that small below him. Not when her red eyes wept black smears.

“It's my first night here,” she had said, and more tears washed the black down her cheeks. Her voice was dark, thick with an accent that she struggled to suppress. “It's my first night here and want to follow you.”

What could he possibly say to that? His mouth stretched into a dopey smile as he brought out a hand to her. She took it. “Just say yes, babe.”

He brought his attention back to the present. Jocasta smiled at him. After a day's travel with masked silent ghouls it was the first smile he'd seen. “And how was the flight?”

“Oh not too bad, gonna sleep it off later,” he said. “You cats having fun?”

Jocasta was his odd daughter, his right hand. She knew so much already but was always eager for more. Always striving in a way that scared him a little. He had a tough time on the road before joining the Church, and he could sense that hungry drive from anywhere. But he had buried it deep long ago.

And then Sister had chosen her. Chosen her for his Protegee. Or, the Void did, in all the strange and unearthly ways it whispered to the Dark Mother. Nihil had watched her endure the Rite of Construct that he himself had blotted from his mind except for the occasional nightmare. They've suffered. They've fucked up. They survived. So whenever he looked at the dead-alive eye in her skull above her smirking lips a protective feeling came over him, a tide of true responsibility. It was a feeling that brought up memories of Primo. Primo, a few seconds old, in his arms.

Primo…wherever you are…

“Where's Secondo, now?” Nihil asked.

“He did not want to play paper dolls with us,” said Jo, exchanging a nod with Terzo.

Secondo had been cold and bitter about Terzo ever since the lad’s unexpected arrival. “I was on tour of Europe..what's a few souvenirs?” Nihil had joked, once and only once and never ever again, to Secondo’s mother.

No matter, Secondo had been adjusting to his new role…for almost two years. He'd come around. Brothers always do, right? And like all of Nihil’s dark concerning considerations, it passed over him as quickly as a brisk summertime cloud. His mouth creaked back into a smile. “Right on,” he said, and sat cross-legged on the ground with as much grace as his bandy legs would allow.

“Oh, hi,” said Terzo. He was cutting out a pre-printed red dress for the dolls propped in their cigar box; a two-dimensional hot tub party. He bit his lip, his big green eyes blazing with intensity. He constantly tripped over himself but if there was a challenge he'd give it his all. Every little nuanced divot of the paper dress's puffed sleeves needed to be freed with the most precision a six year old with safety scissors could obtain.

“I got you a present here, my boy.” Nihil waggled his eyebrows at his son. “In Canada they got all different types of candy, yanno. I heard this one was the best.”

Terzo took the brightly colored candy bar from his father’s hands, but frowned as he bent it in a way that shouldn't be possible. Right. Nihil winced.

“Er…must have got too hot— Just throw that in the fridge, it’ll be fine,” suggested Nihil. Terzo continued to squish the melted remains trapped in the wrapper, mesmerized.

Jo laughed and for a moment everything was groovy until a realization hit him like a freight train. Gifts. He forgot one for her. His very own protégée. His long fingers drummed on his knees as he added, “Oh, and uh— I got something for you too of course, uh—” He launched himself into a scour of his sport coat, his face getting hot with shame. Luckily he never really thought to ever clear out his pockets, which meant that there was a dragon’s hoard of hotel matchbooks, used saxophone reeds and phone numbers scribbled onto bar napkins. And a gift for Jocasta, if he tried and wished hard enough.

“Jesas— no, no you did not have to get me anything, please don't worry, I'm perfectly fine!” No, it wasn’t fine at all.

Shit. “Haha no I had to, yanno— you're like uh…like uh…” The only person other than Terzo that smiles at me anymore. “Gimmie a minute, it's in here somewhere!”

His fingers closed around their prize. Something in the pocket close to his heart. Of course. He always came out on top. The power of keeping it cool triumphs once again. He drew it from his sport coat in a theatrical sweep, presenting it to his ward with a rubbery open-mouthed smile of victory.

It was a pen he got from some businessman sitting next to him on the PanAm flight that liked his style. A photo of a blonde with big hair and sultry eyes leered from the side of it. The pen when turned downward dropped the woman’s black dress and left nothing to the imagination. Jocasta let out a little squeak through her nose that Nihil decided came from a place of amused approval. Terzo silently considered the pen and then his own paper doll collection.

“Oh, it’s…” Jocasta’s mouth cracked into a fiendish grin as she played with the pen in her hands, muttering something under her breath.

“Deppatta,” Terzo parroted.

Jocasta’s eyes widened, the smile fading in mock solemnity. She leaned close, squinting. “No no it's not that— now listen… Du. De-pehr-ter. Faster. Du Depperter.”

“Du Depperter.”

Jocasta clapped her hands and Terzo brightened. “Yes, that’s it!”

“Du Depperter! Du Depperter!” The two of them began a spirited chant. Terzo choked and howled and doubled over, laughing. Jocasta joined in, wiping her eye.

“Yeah, exactly, right on,” Nihil chuckled, albeit a bit bashfully. I really should learn German, he thought to himself. Maybe tomorrow. Got plenty of time now. Until the next gig.

Jocasta wrapped an arm around him, giving him a quick peck across the cheek. “I love it though, I really do love it. Thank you.”

“Oh, good!” And he didn't have to worry about anything ever again, until there was something else to worry about. Nihil craned over Terzo’s project. “And what we making today, sport?”

Terzo presented a homemade paper doll from the cigar box. She had a red-lipped smirk and raven hair. Green eyes to match his own. Nihil remembered vaguely this particular one was his son’s favorite. “She needs roller skates.”

“Course she does, all the cool chicks need skates,” said Nihil, gesturing for some supplies. Terzo dropped some crayons and a scrap of old birthday card in his father’s hands. “I saw some real hot ones on a girl in Venice Beach once.”

Jo gave him a nudge and a wink. “Let me know if you need a pen.”

My Fic List | Other Nihil HC Stuff (AO3)

Du Depperter: "You idiot" (affectionate)

[acquariusgb]

During the pandemic, when our frenetic travel schedules came to a sudden stop, we spent more days and nights together than we had in decades. We put together puzzles of all sizes and degrees of difficulty with our family. Chelsea and Bill were, by far, the most prolific. My favorites were the Zen puzzles with wooden pieces. For a time during COVID, Chelsea, Marc, and the kids moved in next door so we could all be together in a “pod.” Bill and I loved it. Many mornings before eight a.m. our grandchildren came over to play or eat breakfast. It was sacred time. No Zooms, no calls. Just family. At home we’re not Mr. President and Madam Secretary, we are Pop Pop and Grandma. There’s nothing better. We spent our secluded days playing countless games of hide-and-seek or Tiger, which consisted of Bill or me pretending to be a tiger pursuing Charlotte and Aidan. We spent long summer afternoons in our pool, introducing Jasper to the water and watching his brother and sister gain confidence as swimmers. Water fights and dunking contests kept us all laughing. We even produced our backyard version of The Wizard of Oz. I searched online for a much-abridged children’s version of the script, ordered costumes, and convinced everybody to participate. Charlotte played Dorothy with her family Yorkie, named Soren, playing Toto. Aidan was the Scarecrow; Bill, the Lion; Chelsea, Glinda the Good Witch; Marc, the Wizard; and little Jasper, a flying monkey. Other friends in our pod played the Tin Man and the Wicked Witch. I was (no surprise) the director. It went off without a hitch but closed after only one performance.

Something Lost, Something Gained - Hillary rodham Clinton

[darklydeliciousdesires]

London Will Burn - A Sean Wallace/OFC Story.

I couldn't wait to share this with you, besties. Here, have the first chapter! I know that Sean is pretty niche as he doesn't seem to have all too huge a fandom, but if I can garner a few readers, and you guys could help me out by reblogging this, I would be very appreciative. Commentary is very welcome, as usual, so yes, dive on in and hopefully enjoy! If you like it enough, you can have chapter two sooner rather than later, too :)

The story begins seven years in the past, but will then run semi-canon to the Gangs of London plot and timeframe.

Tag list - In the comments, please DM to be added/removed

Words - 3,826

Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Minors DNI.

May 24th, 2016. 

Coffee, the financial times and resounding quiet. These were the defining components needed for Finn Wallace to begin each day within the spatial surroundings of his corner office, the floor to ceiling windows offering the widest view of the city he ruled over with an iron fist.  

“Mr Wallace, please. Sir...”  

The words of Minnie, his secretary, delivered outside of his office with mildly pleading desperation tore his attention from fastidiously studying the FTSE 100, Finn looking out from above the pink sheets of paper. He witnessed her scurrying along, her eyes pleading while trying to match the long strides of his son as he approached. “You know your father doesn’t like to be bothered...” 

...between the hours of eight and nine. He needed a full hour with nothing but a newspaper and a good supply of anything that came from Whittard of Chelsea prior to starting his day. His son had other ideas that morning, though.  

Placing his coffee down, he lifted his chin as Sean strode through the doors, a heap of paperwork within his grasp.  

“One print off of the e-contract signed late last night by Kevin Cavanagh, and one verbal assurance that the vessels may port within his dock space for the original agreed amount.” The paperwork hit the desk so hard, it was almost splashed in coffee, Sean looking thoroughly pleased with himself. As he should, his father thought. Kevin had been extremely tricky in this, his son’s first solo deal for the company. 

Reaching for the contract, Finn could scarcely believe it, but there it was. K. Cavanagh. Signed, sealed and delivered. “How the fuck did you swing that, boyo?” 

Kevin Cavanagh had shown himself to be a rather large thorn in the side of the Wallace empire for weeks, the investor digging his heels in over their proposed deal, an influx of two hundred million sterling into the company’s legitimate holdings to fund the proposed apartment complex they wished to build, and a grant of passage for boats containing large shipments of heroin porting from Pakistan to enter his docks.  

The terms and conditions set by Sean had been made clear, but having the upper hand in it all, Kevin had gone back on their proposed arrangement out of sheer greed. It had not gone down well at all. Especially since Finn considered Kevin to be a long-standing friend as well as a business associate. He wasn’t about to involve himself, though. It was Sean’s deal, and he had to learn in going it alone, friend or not. 

In their world, though, alliance and friendship were subject to change at any given moment. Friendships aside, Sean had been advised by his father to do whatever it took to secure the deal by the required deadline, which had passed at midnight the night before. 

Looking upon his son expectantly, Finn was under no illusion over Sean’s self-satisfied pride in his achievement. His poise did not slip, though. Not even for a second. “I have my ways, all of them effective.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “How?”  

His son smirked, the same bloody smirk he’d had since he was three, back when he’d usually hoodwinked his mother into the offering of a second reach into the biscuit tin. “If you knew that, then you’d know as much as me.” 

Finn felt himself losing patience at his allusivity, but couldn’t quite keep the grin from spreading across his face. “Wiley little shit.”  

He chuckled, checking his watch. “I have a meeting to get to. Lunch at The Strand, 1pm? I have a table booked. See you then.” 

“If I’m late, order my usual.” Looking over the contract once again, Finn rested his chin upon the pinch of his thumb and forefinger. If he’d gotten a result without them having to yield to Kevin, it surely didn’t matter how Sean had procured the deal.  

As time would tell, though, it would.  

Striding from the building, Sean climbed into the waiting car, ready to be whisked across London for a viewing on another apartment complex currently under construction. It would take up most of his morning, but such was the nature of his role within the company. Build big, reap big, remain on top. 

Leaning back against the plush leather upholstery within the black Mercedes, Sean winced, feeling the soreness that remained from his weekend of sexual hedonism. Clawed scratches marking the freckled alabaster of his back from his shoulders right to the rounded muscles of his arse had certainly felt good at the time, but now the scabbed wounds stung and itched.  

That itching sting was experienced internally, too, a rolling wave of cold discomfort washing over his insides once again. Guilt. Maybe even a little remorse. Who’d have thought it? Certainly not him. He had previously considered those emotions to be completely superfluous, with a nature such as his, and most definitely not when his actions had reaped such rewards.  

Sean was, if nothing else, completely ruthless in the pursuit of attainment.  

His go to in attaining a desired result didn’t always equal the exertion of moral turpitude, but in this instance it very much had. There was no going back on it either. He had struck out, used his bargaining chip of blackmail and garnered the desired results. At twenty-five years old, he’d thought himself perhaps above the actions he’d resorted to, considering his bartering and negotiation skills to be proficient enough.  

They hadn’t been.  

However, Sean knew that blackmailing Kevin Cavanagh into agreement by threatening to upload a video to the internet of himself fucking his eighteen-year-old daughter would work like a charm in securing a signature, and it had.  

He’d understandably been beyond livid with him, after receiving an edited version of the hour-long filming, showing just enough for Kevin to know that Catherine would be subjected to great personal embarrassment and emotional anguish if he didn’t comply.  

With his arm figuratively bent up his back, he had agreed, the money immediately transferred, and the contract signed the evening before, once he and his wife had returned from their weekend away. Kevin had also struck a permanent black mark against the son of his old friend, knowing that Finn likely had no part in the blackmail. As chillingly cutthroat as he could be, it wasn’t his style. Words would be had, though, and Sean knew he likely had that coming to him sooner or later.  

Just as he would when Catherine caught up with him. He highly doubted Kevin wouldn’t tell her. 

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone, placing his earbuds in and locating the video he had promised to delete. He’d been hesitant there, not because he intended to nefariously make good on his threat and upload it anyway, he had no cause to. The reason behind his stalling was much more complex, and not one he was in a hurry to admit. Not even to himself.  

Hearing her sweet moans as he watched himself on the screen, face buried between her legs, a jolt ran right through him. He could almost still taste the sweet honey of her cunt on his tongue, feel her skin against his, and with a shift in his seat, experience her nails clawing at his back.  

It was only ever meant to happen once. Once had led to an entire weekend, and there it was again, the unpleasant sting rolling through his guts as he closed his eyes and remembered it. Remembered her.  

Her... her. 

It was only ever meant to happen once... 

St Augustine’s Grammar School for Girls was one of the most exclusive private Catholic schools in the entirety of London. For an eye watering yearly fee, it boasted unsurpassed examination results, a sterling OFSTED record, and much to the fury of the young ladies within its prestigious halls, a strict code for uniform. A black skirt to the knee, high black socks, a white shirt and a navy blazer and tie.  

Even the students attending the adjoining sixth form college had to still adhere, much to their loathing. For Catherine Cavanagh, as soon as she was out of the front gates with her friends, adjustments were made.  

Her neatly pleated skirt was rolled over a few times to hitch it up, her folded over socks pulled up until they came over the knee, her blazer and tie stuffed into her bag and her shirt undone to reveal a little of the black lace bra she wore beneath, as well as being knotted at the waist. She liked to show off some of what she had. 

Lashings of smoky black eyeliner were applied, her lips liberally glossed and her shoulder length blonde waves all shook free of their ponytail prison before she sauntered away, ready for a coffee with her friends, of whom also made similar adjustments to their own uniforms. They were young women at eighteen, all mildly incensed that they still had to stick to the rules of their frigidly stalwart school.  

Catherine, or Rin as she preferred to be called, was far from frigid.  

“Oi darlin’! Fancy gettin’ in the back of me van and lettin’ me give ya one, eh?” 

Ugh. Builders. The worst of the worst for shouting pervy obscenities from the open window of a slowed down Ford Transit. She immediately rolled her eyes. “No thanks, but I fancy giving you this.” Raising her middle finger, her confident smirk grew, her friends cheering on her usual chutzpah.   

“Fuck you, then! Little slag!” 

Rin snorted. “You wish, mate.”  

“I don’t get it,” Rashida, her bestie mused, fiddling with her necklace as she cocked her head. “He wanted to shag you five seconds ago, and now you’re a slag because you didn’t take him up on his offer?” Her face was a picture of bemused disgust as she barked a laugh. “Wanker.” 

“Yeah, sums him up. Right, let’s hit the coffee house. I’m fucking gasping for something strong, hot and foamy.” 

Their friend Carly couldn’t help but pipe up, laughing at her own joke before she’d even spoken it aloud. “What, you want the big fella from Game of Thrones in a bubble bath? What’s his name?” 

“Tormund,” Rin confirmed, her eyes dreamy. “You know I’m weak as fuck for a redhead!”  

While the prospect of Kristofer Hivju, the actor who played the aforementioned character awaiting her in a bubble bath was preferred, it was a double shot cappuccino she needed most at that moment. After a day of hard studying for her ongoing A Levels, Rin needed the coffee like air. For no other reason than to stay awake for the duration of her journey home.  

She wouldn’t be driving, though. Yet to pass her test, she would simply call for a driver in the employment of her father to collect her when she was ready. Being rich certainly had its perks. Entering the coffee shop a ten-minute walk from the school gates, she paid for her order and stood back to wait, sensing someone behind her before a familiar voice spoke into her ear. 

“I am unsure whether your mother would approve of that skirt, young lady.”  

Turning, her eyes widened. “Bloody hell! Hello!” It had been at least five years since she’d seen Sean Wallace other than fleeting moments in passing, the last proper time being when he was home from university in his final year. The occasion had been when her parents had thrown a garden party for her father’s friends and closest business associates, plus their families.  

“How are you, darling?” He drawled smoothly, kissing her cheek as they exchanged a brief hug. “It’s been a bloody age.” Looking down upon her, his gaze was nothing but clearly appreciative, thinking just what a beautiful young woman she’d become. In fact, beautiful was an understatement; she was an absolute knock out.  

In any other circumstance, Catherine Cavanagh would be his perfect match. She came from a similar family, steeped in criminality and staggeringly wealthy, with the best education money could buy, just as he himself had received. They were cut from the exact same cloth, she and Sean. This was not an exercise in procuring the perfect match long-term, though. Far from it.  

“It has, I was just thinking that myself,” she confirmed as they parted, feeling a little flustered. Oh, how she’d always fancied the arse off Sean. She might have been extremely confident for an elder teen, much more woman than girl in that respect, but still. Sean was the bloody holy grail as far as she was concerned. “As for me, up to my eyes in all things A Levels, only two more exams left and then its fingers crossed I do well enough to take the provisional place I’ve been offered at LSE.” 

He remembered that the London School of Economics had been her long-term goal from the last time he’d spoken to her at length, back when she was just a kid of thirteen. “I remember you telling me, yes. Forgive me, but I forget just what it is you were aiming for?” 

A flutter delighted her insides at that, how he hadn’t forgotten her desires to attend LSE when it had been so long since they’d last talked in depth. She’d thought he’d merely been entertaining her thirteen-year-old self and her long-winded plans for her future, but no. He’d actually listened. Then again, he was always very attentive when engaging with someone, no matter who they were. “BSc in mathematics, statistics and business.”  

“I bet your father is very proud,” he commented, Rin turning to pick up her coffee.  

“Well, I suppose he will be if I actually pull it off and attain the necessary grades. It’ll stand me in good stead for taking over the family business too, when he eventually retires.” They were birds of a feather in that respect, both primed to one day sit at the helm of their respective family empires. “Speaking of which, how are things with you? You’re doing very well at the Wallace Corporation, according to dad.” 

“Your father is correct, I am.” He was still very sure of himself. Anyone else would call it arrogance, but Sean was merely infectiously confident. He knew what he wanted, and he went right after it, Rin completely oblivious to the fact that his cool blue eyes were directly focused upon his present target. “Long hours and probably less pay than I should be garnering, but I must confess to be doing rather well for myself. Especially considering I have only been there just over four years.” 

They eventually became so lost in their catch-up chatter that Rin completely failed to realise that her friends had moved to a table, turning to see them wave at her. The looks on their faces spoke volumes. 

“I’ll be there in a sec,” she assured them, praying Carly didn’t open her mouth. No such luck. 

“No, no,” the girl herself chirped right on cue, waving her hands gently in Rin’s direction. “You stay there with your fancy man; we’ll be over here when you’re ready!” 

“Oh, shit off!” she chided, feeling her cheeks burn. Turning to Sean, she shook her head. “They’re embarrassing as fuck.” 

“I can’t say I’m embarrassed, being labelled as your fancy man.” Pulling out a seat, he gestured to it with a flirtatious smile, ensuring her heart virtually catapulted against her ribcage. She definitely blushed furiously at that. Ahh, it was almost too easy, but then again Sean’s charm was legendarily flawless. Being well spoken, powerful, and as dangerous as he was gorgeous didn’t hurt either.  

A red-haired bad boy in a Balmain suit. If Rin had a type at all in this world, it was Sean Wallace. And boy, how the man himself saw that loud and clear.  

“So, I hear your parents are away in France right now?” 

“Yes,” Rin confirmed, the smidgen of envy in her voice clear. How she would have loved a long weekend in the French Alps skiing, too. “They’ll be hurtling down a mountain right now, while I’m stuck here in dreary London, slogging my guts out all in the name of revision.” 

He smirked, picking up his espresso and sipping it. Sean liked his coffee one way; strong and black. “Ah, but you do get Mulford Hall all to yourself for the weekend. Quite the party palace, one would assume.” 

She crinkled her nose, shaking her head. “The staff will grass me up if I even so much as open a can of cider with more than four friends in attendance. Mother dearest likes to keep her fucking tabs on me.” Rin didn’t dislike her mother, but it was no secret that she was daddy’s girl through and through. If he had his way, he’d have arranged for the antiques to be removed from banquet hall and allowed she and her friends run wild. Diane was not quite so lenient.  

Yes. A banquet hall. The Cavanagh’s were truly that wealthy, to have such in their fifteen-bedroom, eighteen-bathroom, sprawling abode located in Westminster, just around the corner from Hyde Park. Half of their sprawling gardens backed onto the park itself, in fact.  

Mostly, Mulford Hall was used as a successful wedding and events venue, half of the house sectioned off as a private family residence and inaccessible to the public, also being a historical location of interest for tourists. It had been in her family for centuries, gifted to one of her ancestors, the very first Lord Mulford by King Charles I. Now with no elder male heir and her grandparents having passed on, it remained in the family by the residing Lady Mulford, her mother. 

“I suppose the little ones would have plenty to say, even if the staff did keep schtum.” Oh yes, Sean was correct there. Her younger brother and sisters would likely relish in telling on her to their parents. Keeping secrets that did not directly benefit them was not in the interests of your average twelve, ten and nine year old children. “I mean, if they could even hear the sounds of partying. Does your mother not keep them in a turret or similar?” 

She snorted laughing into her coffee, spraying a fine mist of foam from the large cup, “Shut up, you shit. You know we’re not that grand.” Suddenly, she felt the cold wave of discomfort when he frowned, wondering if she’d pushed it a little in calling him a shit, even in tease. After all, they did not know each other beyond the boundaries of acquaintance. It was their parents who were friends, not them.  

He then reached, wiping a fleck of foam from her cheek, the corners of his mouth upturning as he watched her blush, leaning across the table. “It takes a brave person to refer to me as a shit.” 

Regaining her confidence, she licked her top lip, shrugging lightly. “Or a gobby little twat such as myself.” 

She was a pistol. He enjoyed that perhaps more than he should have. He laughed softly through his nose, sipping his coffee again as she continued. “I actually have the place to myself, staff aside. The nanny has taken the little terrors to Legoland for the weekend, and there aren’t any weddings on, so I’m enjoying pottering around the old pile in my pants.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “Just your pants?” 

“I like to give the gardeners something nice to look at.” 

God, and how nice her body was, he wagered, his eyes sweeping her momentarily. “I bet you do.”  

Lust. Lust delivered from behind full, long auburn lashes tinged with gold, eyes that burned like cool fire as he stared her dead in the eye, Rin feeling as if she was caught in a searchlight she could not avoid. Not that she’d want to. Being illuminated by the desire of Sean Wallace was something she’d only ever fantasised about as a girl. As a young woman, acting upon it now seemed within her grasp. 

And grasp for it she would. “You’re thinking about me in nothing but my pants, aren’t you?”  

Playful, yet direct. He liked that, liked that she was so easily wandering right into the jaws of his trap with such little effort. “I am.”  

She leaned closer, watching him retrieve a packet of mints from his pocket, placing one into his mouth. The way he so effortlessly pressed the white disc onto his tongue made her shiver, imagining the skill a mouth that clever and effortlessly cool might possess. He offered the packet, but she shook her head, the strongness of Trebor’s finest too much for her delicate tastebuds. “What else are you thinking?” 

He mirrored her, leaning near, eyes fixed unblinkingly as he ran his fingertip in a circle over the back of her hand. It was an action that made every single hair upon her arm stand on end. “I’m thinking that the next thing I want on my tongue is you.”  

Fireworks exploded in her chest and gut, a fizz of excitement glittering. Unexpected afternoon sex; it was a proposal most definitely to her liking. “Where’s closer, mine or yours?” 

“Mine,” he confirmed, rising from his seat as he pulled out his phone. “Westminster is a fucking ball ache of a drive at this time in the day.”  

He wasn’t wrong. While Sean called his driver, giving him the name of the coffee shop, Rin made a phone motion to her friends while mouthing ‘I’ll call later’, Rashida and Carly looking as alert as two meerkats keeping the watch at seeing their friend leave with the handsome young mystery man.  

Rashida couldn’t help the joke she made. It was too uncanny. “Little slag.” 

“Love you too, you knob.” Leaving to the sound of her friend's laughter, Rin joined Sean at the side of the curb, only waiting a few moments for the sleek, black Mercedes to pull up before them. He opened the door for her, Rin sliding in and moving across so he didn’t have to walk around, Sean climbing in and shutting the door with a soft clunk.  

“Home please, Tony.” he spoke to the driver, his eyes remaining ahead. She turned slightly to view him, feeling somewhat uneasy when he didn’t return her glance. Dropping her gaze, her thoughts began to race a little, jumping slightly when after a few moments, she felt his hand press to her thigh.  

It was a plan of effortless execution, Sean tracking her movements from afar for a few days prior, learning her daily routine. It truly had been as simple as turning up at her regular coffee shop prior to her usual time of arrival, turning on the charm and reaping the rewards. Leaning close, his beard tickled her earlobe, sending a thrill right through her. “I can’t wait to put my mouth between these fantastic legs of yours.”  

Neither could she.

[synestheticwanderings]

Turncoat

Resigning was the right thing to do. He knew it in his bones. Still, it felt like he had just cut off his own hand.

Quill Kipps tries to find his way in the world after his Talent fades.

Written for Lockwood & Co. Angst Week 2023 Day 7: Use Your Senses talents | darkness | silence

part of the tin soldier series

1. Shedding

Quill ground his teeth as he filled out the forms on his desk. He had waited one month, then two, before filing to transfer Kat Godwin and Bobby Vernon off his team. Despite his promotion after their work on the Chelsea Outbreak, Quill could see the writing on the wall: the cases they were assigned were less and less prestigious, a waste of the two agents’ respective talents. The Dagenham slaughterhouse case had been a bloody joke, but it was the Rotherhithe sewage works that was really the final straw. It was a shame. They worked well together. But Bobby would be fine wherever he went, and his research skills needed to be put to use on real cases. He worried more about Kat, who was getting older and needed a supervisor who could shepherd her through the transition. But she still had some time left. She deserved cases that actually utilised her Listening.

Running a hand through his hair, he sighed and leaned back in his chair. He knew he was being disciplined, and why; Fittes didn’t take kindly to those who didn’t fall in line. But after Ned’s death, after the deaths of so many agents, it wasn’t even a choice to follow Lockwood & Co. into Aickmere’s. He was grateful that Carlyle had stuck her neck out for them, cajoled Tony into teaming up again. There’s no way either team would have survived alone. And they did more than survive—they succeeded. They found the source and stopped the Outbreak. He had done his job and done it well. He’d do it again. But it didn’t mean that Kat and Bobby had to go down with him. He did the right thing then and he was doing the right thing now, letting them move on without him.

So why did it all feel like shit?

Read the rest on Ao3

[sliebman10]

Seven Sentence Sunday

I saw an open tag from @mrsmungus and thought I'd jump in.

Snippet from my Kanera Barkeoff AU:

“Hera is a pilot who bakes in her spare time. Her specialty is difficult landings and Chelsea buns."

It was Bread Week, and Hera’s brioche was proofing nicely in the warming drawer. She was in good shape, she thought as *the host* called out “You’re halfway through, halfway through.” She could see some of the others, most notably Ezra, starting to panic as the time ticked down. 

There was a crash that startled everyone as a tin bowl at Ezra’s station landed on the ground, spilling some of the contents. “Oh no!” he squawked. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Kanan, who was a few stations over, went over to Ezra and started talking softly to him. Ezra listened intently to whatever Kanan said, nodded, squared his shoulders, and went back to work.

Open tag for anyone who's interested!

[consanguinitatum]

For One Night Only: David at the RSC Fringe Festival (oh, and one other thing he probably didn't do...)

For today's post in "obscure things David Tennant did way back when," we'll need to travel back in time to the late 1990s. It was a busy time for David. By May 1997, he'd just wrapped up his first Royal Shakespeare Company repertory season (in which he simultaneously played Touchstone in As You Like It, Jack Lane in The Herbal Bed, and Alexander Hamilton in The General From America). This set of three plays had begun their runs in Stratford in early- to mid 1996; they then transferred over to London's Barbican Theatre, where they had ended their runs by mid-1997.

Programmes for The Herbal Bed, As You Like It, and The General From America

Next on David's theatre agenda was the role of Mickey in Hurlyburly (a play I've talked about before) which ran at the Queen's Theatre in London from August to November 1997. He then performed a one-off staged reading of Derek Jarman's Blue at the Chelsea Arts Theare on 16 November 1997 (which, by the way, is another little-known DT performance I want to explore!)

That was it for 1997, theatre-wise.

Then, beginning in March of 1998 - as I've explored previously - he began his run as Moon and Brindsley Miller in The Real Inspector Hound/Black Comedy. This double bill ran first at the Yvonne Arnaud Theatre in Surrey and then in London, first at the Richmond Theatre and then at the Comedy Theatre. That play finally wrapped in August 1998.

But a month before wrapping The Real Inspector Hound/Black Comedy, David had popped over to Stratford to do something interesting, something that's the focus of this thread. It was called For One Night Only, and - as it says on the tin - it was, indeed, for one night only!

First, though? A little history!

Around 1990, the RSC began to hold an annual summer festival called the Royal Shakespeare Company Fringe Festival. Intended as a showcase for RSC talent, it included a mix of events: short plays, devised pieces, stand-up comedy, concerts, etc., as well as new works making their Stratford debut. The festival lasted two weeks and saw actors, directors, stage managers, musicians and staff all taking part in more than 25 events. All the events were either on Sundays, or timed around RSC productions, so audiences could go see fringe shows after seeing the actors perform in their usual RSC roles.

Most of the events for 1998's festival took place in a specially adapted 100-seat rehearsal room at the RSC's 'alternative' theatre, The Other Place. But not all of them. Their opening night event - on Sunday, 19 July - was to take place at the Swan Theatre.

That opening night event? For One Night Only!

Starring Desmond Barrit, Emma Handy, and Amanda Harris as well as David, the launch event cost £4-£12 and began at 7:30 pm. It was called a "curtain raiser" as well as "aptly-named."

And just what was it about? Well, um....I know it was organized and compiled by its star, Desmond Barrit...and that it was supposed to take its audience on a journey through the theatre. These articles say so.

But that's about all I know. I wish I had more details.

I am, however, supremely lucky to own a piece of ephemera about this one night only event.

Here's the front and back of my For One Night Only flyer, and as I'm sure you'll notice, it promises "an evening of theatrical prose and poetry...and a little gossip!"

Great. Could you tell us a bit more, thanks?

While researching For One Night Only, I came across something else of interest, which I thought for a moment David might have been involved in - an event staged nine days before For One Night Only. But after researching this event in more detail, I don't think he was involved, after all. Such a shame, really. He would've been perfect!

On Friday, 10 July 1998, at 1 pm in the afternoon, some Royal Shakespeare Company members got together to do a fund raiser and preview of the upcoming Fringe in the forecourt of the Other Place. Called a Sonnetathon, this three-hour event featured various RSC members reading all 154 of Shakespeare's sonnets!

Now a Sonnetathon would've been right up David's alley, am I right? He'd have loved it! But I'm about 99% certain he wasn't there - and here's why. That Friday night at 7:30 pm, David was onstage in The Real Inspector Hound/Black Comedy at the Comedy Theatre in London, that's why!

But here's why I say 99%. It's not impossible to imagine he got up early that Friday (after doing a show the night before) and took the train in to Stratford to do the Sonnetathon - wrapped it up by 4pm, then hopped on another train back to London in time to make the 7:30 curtain up for The Real Inspector Hound/Black Comedy.

But you have to admit, it seems unlikely.

But The Real Inspector Hound/Black Comedy wasn't showing on Sunday, 19 July 1998, so David was able to get to Stratford and go onstage as part of 'For One Night Only' to open the Fringe...and then get back to London in time to go onstage once more the following night.

So now you know what I know about For One Night Only.

Of course I'll keep looking for more!

[penroseparticle]

Penrose Song of the Day, Day 39: London Calling by The Clash

So I used to scorekeep hockey games a lot. Like a lot a lot. There was a period of time where I could make about 400 bucks a week scorekeeping games on the weekends. I ran the scoreboard, the reporting to Gamesheet (A scorekeeping app), kept a paper scoresheet, and did the music. It was a lot of work to run all 4 of those things at once! Especially if a game got busy.

I've done house level, Travel level, AA and AAA, Really everything. At a certain point you learn the scoreboard machine. You learn when to click what buttons when which whistles blow and you start to get almost mechanical. Like an automaton that reacts to specific noises. And the thing is that no matter how great or badly I did at scorekeeping, no one ever mentioned it after. I could royally fuck up putting the score on the board and I would still get called back the next week to do the clock. Parents notoriously hate working the scoreboard- they just want to watch their kid and get in fights with the refs. Easy money. I charged 60 bucks a game and they forked it over gladly (Hockey parents don't care man. They're paying 8k for the season anyways sometimes. House is like 2k, travel can be way more with hotels, airfare, etc. It's an expensive sport. What's an extra 60 bucks a season to not have to sit in the box and freeze while missing Timmy score a goal.)

What I CONSISTENTLY got praise for was the music I played.

Now I think I have good taste, but I'm not like. Special. Most people have similar tastes, everyone's on the bell curve of "can tell a song is good" vs. "Carrying tunes in tin buckets". It's helped by the fact that some things are kind of obliged- certain songs are, for lack of a better word, required (For instance, Chelsea Dagger by The Fratellis is a Chicago Goal song. So if you are doing hockey music in Chicago, you ARE including that song no matter what. Period). So building a good playlist isn't that hard. A little The Alan Parson's Project to kick the games off. Some Chumbawumba for after a tough hit. The Hockey Song because this is Youth Hockey.

The mainstay of the list, for better or worse, is a classic rock/arena rock/current pop mix. It's what people expect, it's what I mostly have to deliver. Pearl Jam, Dave Matthews Band, Huey Lewis and the News, Duran Duran, One Republic, that kind of thing. It's consistently a crowd pleasing list, and it's gotta have energy, be recognizable, and be something that people will want to hear possibly twice over a hockey game. The original playlist was something like 50-60 songs. I thought that would be enough, because I am stupid. Turns out hockey games have 30-50% of their game time with the clock stopped- as in, the times when someone would typically play music to fill dead air. So I added more songs. Put on some Rush because I'm catering to the Dad demo. Putting Imagine Dragons and Boss Beat music in its natural habitat (Don't look at me like that, I've been to sporting events, these songs are made for this). Some pop girlies because I like sports, but I'm still gay. Kesha. Lady Gaga's Bad Romance (permissible due to it surviving in the zeitgeist, etc.).

And then I got... weird with it. One of the first goal songs I ever used was Otherworld. As in, the boss music for when you fight Jecht in Final Fantasy X. VGR's Electronic Amp-Up of Mii Channel features prominently and is a huge crowdpleaser with the 25-45 crowd. Baby Shark exists for when I want to annoy people. Megolovania is on it for god's sake. If it sounds good and is a little Easter egg for someone listening, trust and believe that I put that song on the list.

People loved it. Every game, without fail, between 1 and 3 people would find me after to compliment the music. The playlist was good! I named it "18U no vursing" and have used it for about 6-7 years now.

The problem with making a good playlist is that you have to constantly top yourself. I wanted to make the list better. Have more fun with it, include more jokes, more clever remixes and mashes. Things that people would like.

What made that easy was something so simple I almost overlooked it. People already told me what they would like. There's a reason arena rock, classic rock, and pop music are the bog standard. It's what works for the medium and what people like to listen to.

There's such a thing as getting too in the weeds, too obscure. You gotta remember your audience, your goals, and your scope. I wasn't debuting hot new artists (ok I was sometimes). I was playing music for people during their kid's sport. And so I readjusted my scope. The playlist grew. A few indie picks, the gags that worked (Mii Channel, Baby Shark, Electronic music with a hidden secret, etc.), but mostly pop and rock and that's all.

I'll let you in on the secret for why my hockey playlist got so good and why people started to love it so much. I'll tell you the secret to making any list popular. I started getting suggestions.

And I listened to them.

The first song I added to the playlist due to a suggestion was London Calling. I like The Clash, but there's billions of songs out there, I hadn't thought to put them on yet. But a ref skated up to me during stoppage of play and said "Hey do you have The Clash on there?" and I realized I didn't. I added it mid-game and played it between the 2nd and 3rd periods.

He thanked me after the game.

A couple weeks later I was asked if I had the soundtrack for Slap Shot on there. I started playing Maxine Nightingale, Leo Sayer, the works. The guys had a hoot and were laughing and smiling between periods.

I noticed that refs were a little nicer when I flubbed the scoreboard if I was playing songs they requested.

I asked one of my teams if they had a specific warmup song they wanted me to play. They were delighted to tell me it was Levels by Avicii. I played it every game to kick things off. Another team told me it was Welcome to DC by Mambo Sauce. A third said Welcome to the Jungle.

The playlist grew. It's 400 songs long now. Like a full 24 hours straight.

I don't scorekeep as much now. But I think I'll keep building the playlist, thanks.

~~~~~~~~

Scorekeeping was nice, but playing the music was the part that made it fun. It's made me realize one thing about myself- If Radio DJ was still a job in a way that was meaningful or mattered, I would want that job. I would probably kill for that job, actually. Listening to callers tell me they missed Chappell Roan could I please play Good Luck Babe. Or telling me that their dad's favorite song was Mr. Blue Sky so thank you so much for playing it. Girls having me play Before He Cheats for their dick ex-boyfriend. Wishing people Happy Pride with an hour mix of queer artitst. Having call in time so people could just chat.

I kind of am doing that here, and now, but in slow, painstakingly written, long-form music recommendations. I like making playlists. I love getting music dialogue going with my followers. I like discovering new music, and talking about it with people here. I am slowly, surely, working the same muscles I would need to do exactly that job, just quietly and in my own personal little corner of the world.

You know I have a discord server I made? I haven't added anyone to it, and I probably won't do anything with it. Yet. It's called Radio Waystation. Let me just link the only post I've made in there so far:

"This is for playing your music and sharing it- I might set up a radio rotation but. Essentially I want to use voicechat to let us showcase our music to each other when we want to. Dynamically- You can run a prepared playlist for your radio time, you can do a Q&A or ~Call In~ time. You can actively Disc Jockey. You just have to share your sounds to other people. Your radio time, your rules- you can acquiesce to people's tastes, you can troll people, you can play the sound of silence. You can play the same song over and over. You can express yourself. And sometimes people will say THAT SUCKS and not enjoy your presentation, but ultimately your time is yours alone. (no tolerance of intolerance loophole bullshit- you know what kind of shit will get you pulled off the air, don't be a dirtbag). Workshop a song, get help putting ikea together. But I hope you play some music."

Hey I'm nothing if not consistent.

I now know that's a lot more complicated due to how Spotify and Discord interact, and whether it's strictly speaking legal (I am intimately familiar with music licensing requirements due to my past job, thanks). But I think it's something worth figuring out someday. Someday soon, I think. I want to make my radio station.

Not a lot of today's writeup was about the song, unfortunately. And that's a bit of a shame, because again- I like The Clash. 1970's English Punk Rock had some bangers, babes, and London Calling is like. one of the greats. A recognizeable guitar part, a truly bangin bassline leading in, and just the most moshable, jumpable lyric delivery. You need to be standing pressed against the stage screaming this stuff out with Joe Strummer.

Listen I don't need to defend The Clash bigger nerds than I have done so for far longer than I've been alive. But hey. It's music I love. And as always- You could be dead right now. Go listen to something that you love.

[musette22]

Ok minnie: imagine you had to choose!

Who would you ship more:

Bucky and Chris

Or Sebastian and Steve

Oh noooooooo, why would you do this to meeee 😭😂 This is SO hard, oh my god... Part of me wants to be like "I'm sorry, I'm a monoshipper so I cannot" but I also don't want to be a spoilsport lol, so ummm, let me think...

God, that's tricky. Especially because there are so many "versions" of these boys, you know? Frat boy Chris, Seb in his Chelsea days, prewar Bucky, Nomad Steve, "daddy" Chris with his glasses, fluffy professor Seb, winter soldier Bucky, beefy TFA Steve etc. etc. Some of those would go better with specific versions than with other specific version imo, if you know what I mean 😅

But generally speaking, I *think* I'm going to have to go with Bucky and Chris, purely because Chris and Steve are quite similar in certain ways? Both kind and big-hearted, both kind of introverted in some ways and not at all in others, they both draw and they're both concerned with the state of the world and try to do their bit, and they're both guys who feel things very deeply, to name just a few things. So I think Bucky could care for Chris too, though he could never love anyone the way he loves Steve, obviously. Bucky and Steve are soulmates, after all!

Having said all that, I think Steve would get incredibly flustered around Sebastian because he's just so very pretty and sweet, which in itself could also be pretty cute! But at the end of the day, I think the best solution would just get all four of them together like in the sound of rain on tin by luninosity, for instance 😉

[justforbooks]

Michael Caine wears two watches: an analogue for the time and an Apple for everything else. It even knows his pulse, he says, impressed. Right now, it’s telling him his flat is 26C: warm enough for his wife, Shakira, to pour iced coffee into his flask, but not hot enough for those balcony doors to be open: “It’s blowing a bloody gale in here!”

I slide them shut slightly. Is that OK? A bit more. Enough? Bit more. I close them completely. He’s happy now.

Caine lives in Chelsea Harbour: posh 80s condos and Princess Diana’s gym. He likes the security and tolerates the helicopters. His London penthouse has caramel carpets, 360-degree views, two Oscars and 5,000 photos of his grandchildren.

Below us lies Battersea Bridge, tide low, shore glittering. No, he shudders, he’s never mudlarked. Why not? After all, his first novel, out in November, is about binmen who find uranium down at the dump. “Well,” he says darkly, “other people do things and it goes all right. I do them and bad things happen.”

He looks at me. We’re waiting for his co-star, John Standing, who is stuck in traffic. Caine is a big man with whom to make small talk. It’s not just that your brain short-circuits each time he speaks (Michael Caine?!?!), it’s that at 90, he’s still 6ft 2in, undiminished and simply intimidating.

In 1987, he gave an acting masterclass in which he revealed the secret to being forceful on screen was a) don’t blink and b) mascara. It works face-to-face, too. The first one, anyway.

During the Blitz, says Caine, he watched the city get flattened from his dormer in Camberwell; from here, he’s seen it rise up again. He loves new-build and soft furnishings with the passion of a man raised in an attic with no hot water, one outdoor loo and rickets. Every time a bomb fell, the mattresses doiiinged. “Me and my brother would laugh all through the bleedin’ air raids!”

An update: Standing will be here shortly. I praise the pot-plants and Caine mourns his garden. He was evacuated to Berkshire, where he was fed a tin of pilchards a day and locked in a cupboard for the weekends, and then to rural Norfolk, where he discovered a love of horticulture – later energetically indulged at his own places in Oxfordshire and Surrey.

Less so in Hollywood. He sold up there after someone told him that if he wanted to grow daffodils he’d need to put the bulbs in the fridge for a fortnight. “That was it! Final straw!” But did he do it? “Oh yeah. It worked.”

In comes Standing, 89 but nimble as a debutante, all polish and apologies. They settle down, discuss the weather and a window is discreetly opened. Caine goggles at my iPad, which he mistakes for a phone: “Blimey, that’s a big one!”

The Great Escaper is brilliant, I say. Caine is surprised I’ve seen it, let alone enjoyed it. Didn’t he? “Yeah. But I’ve had films where I liked it but other people didn’t agree with me.”

No wonder it tempted them from retirement: meaty roles dry up as you approach 100. Caine plays Bernard Jordan, a real-life Royal Navy veteran who made headlines in 2014 when he travelled alone from his care home in Hove, East Sussex, to Normandy for the 70th D-day anniversary. The film – flintier than you might think, and very moving – fictionalises a friendship with Arthur, a former RAF pilot (Standing) he meets on the ferry.

Both actors did national service in Berlin after the war; Caine was then drafted to Korea – “a bugger”, he says (his memoir suggests this is understatement). “When we got there they said: the Chinese have just sent a million troops. What? But they were just young kids and old men to take all our ammunition. You shoot at them and then the real fighters come. And that was the Chinese in a nutshell.”

In the film, the pair make a pilgrimage to the war cemetery at Bayeux in Normandy. “What a waste,” cries Bernard as the camera zooms out to show the rows and rows of headstones. Caine doesn’t agree. “You had to have full cemeteries because you’d had to fight the German army, which was not a load of idiots. And the Germans had to be stopped.”

And Korea? Well, communism is “perfectly frightful”, says Standing. Caine nods. “It doesn’t take care of the working class quite the way they say. My father was a fishmonger in Billingsgate, so I knew when I saw the communists, they had no idea what it was all about. Do any working-class people want to live in North Korea?”

They both think national service should be reintroduced. “It gives you a whole new realisation of life,” says Caine. “I notice how different young people are today. They’re so free with everything. Military training makes you think about helping other people. My grandsons – all they do is play football.” (Still, he adds later, they’re also “incredible, unbelievable, and they worry about other people – which is handy”.)

Standing chips in: one of his daughters is “a bit woke” and cautions him about getting cancelled. “It’s horrible! We’re not allowed to say anything. I loathe it. My God, you’re not allowed to have mother-in-law jokes! It’s sort of barking.”

Then again, “things were far less complicated” 70 years ago. He smiles benignly. “Your telephone alone is the most complex thing anybody’s ever dreamed of. You’ve got all the information you ever want. You can chat to Henry VIII. Have you seen the man made of wood and iron playing the most immaculate game of ping-pong and thrashing the ordinary Briton at the other end?”

I haven’t. Caine confesses some concern over robots – that’s partly what his novel, a thriller, is about. “But I’m 90. I don’t worry about the future. I worry if I’m gonna make it to lunch.”

Caine and Standing first met on another hot day, in the summer of 1976, shooting another war movie, The Eagle Has Landed. Caine played a Nazi eager to assassinate Churchill; Standing a rather flaky vicar. Memories of the shoot seem thin on the ground, but they agree moviemaking hasn’t changed much.

“I make my own world,” says Caine. “And if they employ me, they gotta leave me to do it my way. Otherwise I screw it up. And even if I do it my way, I screw it up as well.”

They both chuckle. “Michael, darling!” says Standing.

Have they changed?

Standing sighs. “We’re just so bloody old.”

“And we’re still here,” says Caine.

“Which is incredible! All my mates are brown bread.”

“Oh, mine and all. Sean Connery, Roger Moore. Everybody’s dead. It’s amazing.”

How does that feel?

“Lonely,” says Caine. “I had dinner last night here with eight women. Shakira gets ’em. I don’t get ’em. They’re the wives of my friends. I’m often sitting with a table full of widows.”

Standing empathises. “Hundreds of women round one all the time. And you sit there thinking: give us a break! Ask me something, anything you like!”

Caine nods. “Ask me a question about football! But I’m perfectly happy with all the girls. I love them.”

Again: consult his memoir for more details, but this is putting it mildly. Caine spent the 50s, 60s and early 70s hoovering up hotties across the continents, pausing only for relationships with Natalie Wood and Nancy Sinatra and to refuel on vodka with Terence Stamp and Peter O’Toole.

So when he says he was tired of bachelor life by 1972, you can believe it – he must have been exhausted. He had a night in, saw a Maxwell House ad on telly and resolved to fly to Brazil the next morning to marry the woman with the maracas. No need, said a pal: she was Indian, not Brazilian, and lived on the Fulham Road in west London.

This is one of Caine’s regular chatshow yarns and he duly does it for us today: “I tracked her down! Incredible!” Caine is a bit of an anecdote jukebox – tales triggered by the briefest mention of Cary or Larry or Frank – but with material like his, it’s hard to object. Though charming, he also dominates conversation in general – about which Standing is a gent. Does he miss the 60s? “I don’t miss it, but I love having done it. I used to get into trouble all over the place.”

He and Shakira have been married more than 50 years. Ageing is less awful, he advises, “if you’re married to someone really beautiful who doesn’t grow old. I wake up every morning and there she is!” It’s true: Shakira, 76, does seem preternaturally patient and gorgeous. “What is great about her is that she’s very bright. She was the secretary in the … I forget which country she comes from [Shakira was born in British Guiana, now Guyana], but she was the secretary of the American embassy, so she’s a great secretary for me. She runs everything. It’s unbelievable.”

At the heart of The Great Escaper is another enduring marriage, between Bernie and Irene, played by Glenda Jackson in her final film. She and Caine first worked together 48 years ago. “She was very young and pretty,” he says. “Very attractive. Bloody good actress. But a left-wing socialist and I’m all for making money because I come from a very poor background.” They never talked politics – bit busy making the movies. He saw her five days before she died in June: “She seemed fine.” He’s relieved it was quick.

Bernie and Irene are a devoted couple who, though the film doesn’t discuss it, didn’t have children. Might that have changed their dynamic? “Oh, tremendously,” says Caine. “You don’t have any other separate thing to talk about. You talk about each other. And you don’t have to judge how people feel about someone else. Only you.”

It’s a sharp insight, particularly given that he’s personally “always had children around me like wildfire”. His eldest daughter, Dominique, was born when he was 23, during a brief marriage to the actor Patricia Haines; he and Shakira have another daughter, Natasha. Picking up his eldest grandson from the school is, Shakira tells me later, the highlight of his week. “I love kids,” he says, a bit wistfully.

Standing murmurs agreement. He’s also been married for yonks. The secret, he says, is “laughing with each other”.

Caine is less on-message: “Don’t argue. Don’t try to prove it with arguments or a row. Let ’em do it.”

“Women are No 1 anyway,” says Standing.

“It’s the only place you can get babies,” nods Caine.

“But I gotta say this, Michael: have you seen what women do now?” says Standing. A dramatic pause. He’s a West End veteran, light comedies a specialty. “Cage fighting!” He turns to me. “What possessed your sex to do something like that? For men to cage fight is unthinkable. For women – boom, boom, boom, on each other’s faces! Deranged! But that’s modern life.”

Has Caine seen that? “Oh yeah,” he says blithely. “On television.” And? “I was stunned.” Why? “I wouldn’t do that to anyone. Even if I didn’t like them. I’d just knock ’em out and walk away.”

The real theme of The Great Escaper is – perhaps not one for the poster – that the only escape from old age is death. Yet Caine and Standing continue to produce work that will live on after they’re gone. Caine wrote his first novel bedridden during lockdown, and is now writing a second. Standing is a professional painter. They have six children between them. Are any of these enterprises better or worse as stabs at immortality? There’s only really one, says Caine: “Kindness.” And maybe Alfie. And The Muppet Christmas Carol.

“Michael, darling,” says Standing, “I said to someone the other day: ‘Have you heard of Peter O’Toole?’ She said: ‘Well, I know the name.’ Once you are dead, you are dead. You think of Bogart! But young people only know Goose. What’s he called? Gosling. Big names in the theatre – Gielgud – mean nothing.”

That craft and that class is history, they reckon. When I ask Caine who today’s version of him is, he agrees there isn’t one.

“Because you don’t get young people now who are that far back in society. That had to come forward in great leaps. I think my type of person is extinct. I can’t think of anybody who had a life like mine.”

It wasn’t just the poverty, he says, it was Korea and then, six months later, malaria (he nearly died). “And so it never stopped, you know? Until it did.”

And yet it sort of hasn’t. Caine remains an icon of a time and an energy that feel increasingly exotic. He still calls himself working class and frets over any potential betrayal of his roots. The fate of his brother, Stanley, troubles him. “He just stood there and watched me become a millionaire when he didn’t even have a job. I turned him into someone who couldn’t move. I should have gone and moved him.”

Once, Caine was shopping for a sofa and Stanley – who’d been awol for a while – appeared as part of the team lugging it in from the back. “I grabbed him. I said, ‘You are outta here.’ Oh, it was terrible. I didn’t know where he was.

“He became an alcoholic. So I bought him two houses: one to live in and one to rent so he could have some money to buy some booze.” Caine’s eyes are rheumy. “He’s three years younger than me. And he’s been dead for five years.”

There was an older brother, too, David, born with severe epilepsy and confined to an institution. Caine only found out about him after their mother’s death – though she had visited David secretly each week. Caine then made him as comfortable as possible. His mother spent her final years living in one of the houses he’d bought her with a carer and her two young sons, “who loved my mum like a grandma. I was very happy with that. I did everything for everybody. So that’s it. I’m sitting here, I’ve done it. I can’t do any more.”

The Great Escaper has been widely described as Caine’s final film, just as Harry Brown was in 2009, and then – 24 films later – Best Sellers in 2021. It’s not. He’s shooting another in January: “It’s about someone who is so famous I’d never heard of him. Charles, Charles …”

“ … Darwin,” says Standing.

“Yeah. I play Charles Darwin. And that’ll be it. I won’t do another one after.”

He’s sure?

“No! But the point is, can you do it? Can you remember all the lines? I’ve got used to not working and staying in bed till 11am and staying out late at night. I love it.”

In The Great Escaper, Jackson has a line about life being fun when you’re young, but once you hit her age, “you’re basically buggered”. Present company queers that pitch. “Oh blimey,” says Caine. “I have a great time.” Standing nods. His one concession to old age has been to give up tap-dancing – though you suspect he might oblige in an emergency.

Neither man can think of a single instance in which they’ve been ill-treated because of their age.

“Nobody patronises me,” says Caine.

“We don’t look like we need help,” says Standing.

In Caine’s case, that’s not entirely true. His skin is smooth, his cheeks full – “I’m very lucky the whole face has not collapsed” – and The Great Escaper showcases them with loads of fantastic closeups. Yet he does use a walker and wheelchair. Never had qualms about being seen with them, he says. “Nope. It’s my life and I do what I want.”

“I think you are bloody brave,” says Standing. “Michael, man-to-man, it was an admirable thing to say: ‘Bollocks, I will do the film’, in spite of all those things.’”

I think he’s right. For someone with an image as familiar – and cultivated – as Caine’s, to visibly concede frailty feels courageous. It’s a shame, I say, that “mobility issues” were given as the reason the Queen didn’t attend various events near the end – as if being seen in a wheelchair was inconceivable.

Caine opts not to criticise the Queen. Instead he cues up the story of the first time they met, at a dinner, when she asked him to tell her a joke. He couldn’t think of a clean one. “She pointed to the man on her other side and said: ‘I’m gonna talk to him now. In five minutes I’ll be back and I want a joke.’”

I don’t know what I’d imagined Michael Caine’s Queen impression to sound like, but it’s definitely a lot more mobster. That was quite frightening, I tell him, once he’s finished the joke (long, about a chicken). Does he see any similarities between them?

“I think everyone sees a similarity between themselves and the Queen.”

Even Standing, an actual baronet, demurs at that one. But the fact Caine believes it adds weight to the idea they do share something – the ability, perhaps, to unsettle others through their presence alone. The Great Escaper taps that, too. Bernie prompts in people – Arthur included – profound reckonings, without really trying. Can Caine relate?

“I don’t know,” he says. “A bit, probably, yes. But it could be quite unpleasant. I don’t do things that are unpleasant.”

But you feel you have that power?

“Yeah, oh yeah.”

And what’s that like?

He grins. “Great.”

Our time is up. Caine checks his watch. “28C,” he says, “and that’s with the bloody windows open.”

© 2024 Guardian News, Catherine Shoard

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[newtonsheffield]

I LOVE the dynamics throwing the Grand Sharmas into Lavender Haze creates! How did they react to Kate becoming a tattoo artist? Were they among her first clients? Does Anthony make Poppy an actually good cup of chai the first time the Grands visit Kate and Anthony's after they move in together? I see a montage of Anthony practicing making chai for weeks and weeks, and Kate has to be his taste tester. She's gentle but somehow brutally honest at the same time.

Anthony is stressed at being trusted to host brunch with Kate at his house, which she just moved into. He has seen that tin of tea he brought be offered to him exclusively for months now, and he is determined that Poppy Sharma is going to have a cup of tea in his home and he's going to like it.

He's hidden his signed Chelsea jersey and he's promised Kate she can sit on his face whenever she wants, he'll be at her beck and call, wherever, whenever, so long as she pretends it doesn't exist.

But he is determined that he be able to make the perfect cup of chai. He's going to do it. Kate's agreed to taste test it and it... gets off to a bit of a rocky start.

He was so proud, he'd made his chai selection, he took it home and brewed it and placed it in front of Kate who looked dubiously at it, and in hindsight, that should have been his first clue. He nudged her forward,

"Take a sip."

She raised the cup to her lips, took the world's smallest sip, cleared her throat and set it back in her saucer.

"What do you think? It's good right?" Kate took his hand, pressing it against her boobs. "What are you doing?"

"I feel like this will lessen the sting of what I'm about to say." She sighed, clearly searching for the right words "I love that you want to embrace this aspect of my culture to make my grandad happy."

"It's that bad?" Anthony said, his heart sinking in his chest.

"I don't know who lied to you, baby boy, but that isn't chai."

Anthony groaned, "Really? They said it was good in the store."

Kate sighed, "I will go with you tomorrow, and we will find my Poppy's favourite tea, and I will show you how to make it, okay?"

He followed Kate the next day, into a tiny store down a street he'd never been down in his entire life and bought whatever Kate told him. He practiced and practiced until Kate took a sip and smiled,

"Perfect."

"Really?"

"Really." She kissed his forehead, taking her cup with her. "I love you."

"Yes!" Anthony crowed after her, "I love you too!"

He was ready. It took everything in him not to jump on Mr Sharma the moment he walked through the front door.

"He waited, he feels, a respectable 45 seconds.

"You've a lovely home, Anthony."

"Can I make you a cup of chai?!"

Kate's grandfather blinked back at him a little stunned before he said, "I think I'll have some juice today."

Anthony felt disappointment swirl in his chest as he turned back towards the refrigerator, searching for the orange juice instead.

"Poppy." Kate sighed, kissing her grandfather's cheek. "Can you please have a cup of chai? Anthony's been practising for you and he's too embarrassed to say it."

[nofatclips]

Clouds by Joni Mitchell

Tin Angel

Chelsea Morning

I Don't Know Where I Stand

That Song About the Midway

Roses Blue

The Gallery

I Think I Understand

Songs to Aging Children Come

The Fiddle and the Drum

Both Sides, Now

[lapsang-and-earlgrey]

Q: No, no, no, Tanner isn't a Cinnamon Roll too good for this world he's a good dependable British Chelsea Bun

or how Tnner got his nickname

Everyone knows Q and his minions love memes as much as they love sweet and sticky treats there is even a round-robin email group specifically for sharing them so it should have surprised no one when Q was heard in unhushed tones telling the whole of Q Branch " No, no, no Tanner isn't a cinnamon roll he's a good dependable British Chelsea Bun. If a few days later several boxes turquoise boxes of Fitzbillies' Chelsea buns arrived from Cambridge and a certain chief of staff was seen wiping sticky kisses from his blushing cheeks they were after all one of young Q's favourites when he was a precociously young Cambridge undergrad recipe beneath the cut

For the dough 200ml 3/4cup plus 2 tbsp Milk 60g/4Tbsp+1tsp butter 450g/1lb/3+2//3 cups plain /all-purpose flour 2 tbsp caster /fine sugar 5g quick yeast/1 sachet 1 egg, lightly beaten Zest of 1 unwaxed lemon 1 tsp mixed spice/pumpkin spice 1 tsp salt

For the filling: 30g2 tbsp +1 tsp butter, slightly softened 35g soft brown sugar 100g currants (small raisins will do at a pinch)

For the glaze: 2 tbsp caster sugar 1 tbsp milk 2 tbsp demerara sugar (optional)

For the dough Heat the milk and the butter until blood warm if you can stick your little finger in and it feels neither hot nor cold that's about right add the sachet of yeast and set aside

Put the flour, salt, and sugar n a large bowl and whisk to combine add the milk yeast, and beaten egg and stir until it forms a soft dough/

now add the lemon zest and mixed spice and mix again

Turn the dough out onto a clean surface and knead for about 10 minutes / about 5 if you are using a stand mixer with a dough hook the dough should be smooth and elastic. Cover and put in a warm place for one to two hours or until it has doubled in size.

knock back the dough and turn it out onto a floured surface roll the dough out until you have a rectangle that is approximately 25cm by 35 cm or 10 by 14 inches. working with the longer sides toward you smear the softened butter over the surface of the dough sprinkling the sugar and currents over the top.

roll the dough from the edge furthest away from you keeping the roll as tight as possible.

cut the dough into nine even pieces and place them swirl-side up into a greased 27cm square or 10-11 inch tin spacing the rolls out so they have room to prove cover and prove for 30-45 minutes

Pre-heat the oven to 200C (180C fan)/390F/gas 6 and bake the buns for 20-30 minutes covering with foil if the currents start to burn

For the glaze heat the milk in the same pan or bowl you used to melt the butter stir in the sugar until it dissolves. Brush the glaze onto the buns as soon as they come out of the oven optionally sprinkle the demerara sugar on top. leave to cool before devouring with a nice cup of Earl Grey

[longeyelashedtragedy]

hopefully you do not associate yourself with abramovic 🤢

i'm sad to inform you that we see each other at our monthly (((jewish))) meetings

for real though, i think this ask is kind of funny because people who know me apart from public tumblr know that p*tin is one of my most sincerely behated public figures. in that case, oligarchs who associated with him are also not exactly my favorite people in the world. some might have been more complicit than others, but it's not really my place to like, rank russian oligarchs.

however, the fact that a fuckin russian oligarch is a huge part of franko's chelsea story is fascinating, and the way franko writes about him in his book is impossible to ignore or avoid shitposting about. luckily, the lampardverse is fiction! (or is it...)

[nguoiyeuthebongda]

Arsenal vs Chelsea，1 trận đấu quan trọng

Vài ngày gần đây không có cập nhật mới, vì biên tập viên đã bị ốm, không thể tiếp tục nữa, hy vọng mọi người thông cảm. Trận đấu đầu tiên mà chúng tôi mang đến cho mọi người khi trở lại hôm nay là một trận đấu quan trọng, Ngoại hạng Anh - Arsenal vs Chelsea, hãy cùng nhau xem xem sẽ có những pha lôi kéo thế nào giữa hai đội.

Arsenal

Arsenal Football Club, với nhiều danh hiệu, đã giành được 13 lần vô địch Premier League và 14 lần vô địch FA Cup.

Mặc dù đội bóng gần đây đã có những biến động trong phong độ, nhưng trong trận đấu trước đó, họ đã giành chiến thắng 2-0 trước đội bóng Wolverhampton Wanderers trên sân khách, thành công đảo ngược cảm giác chán chường sau ba trận không thắng liên tiếp.

Khả năng phòng ngự của Arsenal luôn nhận được sự khen ngợi, trong 15 trận đấu chính thức gần đây, họ chỉ thủng lưới 9 bàn, trong đó có 8 trận giữ sạch lưới, cho thấy sự ổn định và sức mạnh của họ ở phần phòng ngự.

Sân nhà của Arsenal còn được xem là một vũ khí quan trọng, trong 16 trận đấu tại Premier League mùa này, họ đã có thành tích 12 chiến thắng, 2 hòa và 2 thua, tỷ lệ thắng lên đến 75%, sự ưu thế trên sân nhà như vậy đủ để khiến bất kỳ đối thủ nào cũng phải e ngại.

Trong lịch sử các cuộc đối đầu, Arsenal đã chiếm ưu thế trong 5 trận gần nhất, với 3 chiến thắng, 1 hòa và 1 thua, điều này không nghi ngờ sẽ làm tăng thêm niềm tin cho họ.

Chelsea

Chelsea Football Club đã ghi dấu ấn vĩ đại trong lịch sử bóng đá Anh, với tổng cộng 6 lần vô địch Premier League, 8 lần vô địch FA Cup, và 5 lần vô địch League Cup.

Thậm chí, họ còn có thành tích xuất sắc trên sân chơi châu Âu, với 2 lần vô địch Champions League và 2 lần vô địch Europa League.

Phong độ gần đây của đội bóng này đầy mạnh mẽ, trong 15 trận đấu chính thức gần nhất, có tới 13 trận ít nhất ghi được 2 bàn thắng, và 12 trận ít nhất ghi được 3 bàn thắng, thể hiện sức mạnh mạnh mẽ ở mặt tấn công.

Mặc dù trong trận đấu gần nhất tại FA Cup trên sân khách, họ đã thất bại 0-1 trước Manchester City, chấm dứt chuỗi 12 trận liên tiếp ghi bàn trong mọi giải đấu, nhưng đội bóng vẫn duy trì sự cống hiến và nhiệt huyết trong mỗi trận đấu.

Tuy nhiên, chúng ta cũng cần chú ý đến vấn đề phòng ngự của Chelsea, với 27 bàn thua trong 15 trận đấu chính thức gần đây, trung bình 1.8 bàn thua mỗi trận.

Phân tích toàn diện

Arsenal đang thi đấu trên sân nhà và sẽ tận dụng lợi thế của hàng phòng ngự vững chắc cùng với không khí sân nhà để tìm kiếm chiến thắng. Đối với Chelsea, họ cần điều chỉnh chiến thuật phòng ngự, giảm thiểu số bàn thua và thể hiện sức mạnh tấn công của mình.

Dựa vào lịch sử các trận đối đầu, Arsenal đã có ưu thế trong những trận đấu trước đó và nhận được nhiều sự ủng hộ. Vì vậy, tôi cho rằng Arsenal có cơ hội lớn hơn để giành chiến thắng trong trận đấu này.

[podtudo]

• podtudo de hoje com @h4nagaki !

bom dia, boa tarde ou boa noite tudinhos do perfil! no podtudo de hoje, trouxemos a ilustre presença do ekki, @h4nagaki ! sentem-se que lá vem tudo e mais um pouco!

1. Nos conte um pouco sobre você, tudinho da vez! Faça uma pequena biografia sua para nós.

R: olá!! eu me chamo ekki mas vc pode me chamar de rae ou reese, eu tenho 16 anos e meus pronomes são ele/dele, eu sou isfj, tenho tdah e sou aroace awoo, meus animais favoritos são gatos e águas-vivas!! eu sou um pouco (médio muito) obcecado com X a marca da morte, livros, pearl, skz, enhypen, my chemical romance, deftones, hyperpop e mistski (preciso de terapia)

2. O que ou quem te incentivou a postar esses posts maravilhosos do seu blog? Adoro!

R: onwtt obrigado por achar isso **risos 😈😈** brincadeiras a parte, começou qnd eu decidi entrar pro anitwt (pior fase da minha vida depois dessa recwente), eu via algumas layouts de anime e decidi fazer, e depois conheci os mb's da xi4ngling e da bajizitos que me inspiraram a começar aqui!!

3. O fav também tem favs fora do tumblr? Se sim, nos conte tudo sobre eles!

R: acho q essa lista poderia ter uma escada pq meu coração é igual de mae, PORÉM os meus principais são (no mundo do kpop): leeknow, soobin, jungwon, mark, jeongin, yeonjun, wonjun, mingyu, chaewon e soyeon,, fora do mundo do kpop são: beabadoobee, jenna ortega, mia goth e andrew garfield

4. E sobre músicas, curte? Adoraria saber sobre as suas preferidas.

R: as que eu provavelmente mais escuto são: kill bill (sza), oui oui marie (chelsea wolf), goodbye, my danish sweetheart (mitski), helena (my chemical romance), i don’t love you (my chemical romance), not for sale (enhypen), any (stray kids), dark dream (e'last) e pra variar  hang 'em high (my chemical romance)

5. Tem inspirações aqui ou fora do aplicativo? Nos conte sobre também!

R: aqui no mini queride tumblr sao @sachly @fshione @tiansmo @oikawazitos @emocatts xi4ngling e bajizitos!! (que nao usam mais)

6. E vamos de um top 5, seus maiores favs da edição icônica do tumblr!

R: hmmmmmm todos sao euuu 💋💋 mentira nao sou narcisista psicose assim

1° @fshione meu amor

2° @m-jng

3° @oikawazitos

4° @emocatts

5° @v6mpcat

7. Poderia explicar mais sobre seu estilo de post? É tudo muito lindo e a curiosa que me habita quer saber tudo sobre essas maravilhas.

R: olha, eu nao mantenho um estilo eu acho? eu acho q seria focado em "grunge"? na vdd eu sempre gosto de mudar meu estilo de post e explorar coisas novas :D

8. E na sua vida pessoal, tem hobbies? Uma lenda como você com certeza deve curtir fazer algo.

R: meus hobbies principais sao, ler, jogar (enstars principalmente), assistir filmes, me arrumar e brincar com os meus cachorros

9. Indique alguns blogs fenômenais para os telespectadores!

R: todos os citados anteriormente sao os que eu mais gosto!! mas óbvio q tem uns q eu particularmente acho q mereciam UM grande reconhecimento, como

@soulmateszedits @luffyttaro @yongblock @gojy @waterrr meu lindinho e so

10. Tem alguma pauta para os seus haters sem senso? Nos diga algo sobre esses sem noção aqui!

R: nunca sofri hate ate pq eu sou tao desocupado q nem briga eu causo gracas a Deus 🙏🏻🙏🏻, minha mensagem pra eles são, vão cuidar da vida de vcs pqp bando de desocupado inuteis lixosos a valeria almeida simplesmente existindo faz mais coisas q vcs q nao tem outra coisa pra fazer q nao ser xingar os outros por puro prazer, vao trabalhar assistir jogar transr sla porra so cuidem da vida de vcs, acho q vcs nao gostariam de ouvir coisas ruins direcionadas a vcs por puro entretenimento próprio pq entretenimento alheio e ver vcs sendo xingados até o talo 💋

11. E por último, alguma situação constrangedora que já passou, todo mito de verdade já passou por uma dessas, não é? Vai ser incrível escutar alguma história de sua vida.

R: foi ano passado mas eu deito a cabeça do travesseiro e lembro disso até hj, eu fui no cinema ver o show do nct com minha amiga, e no site nao tinha absolutamente nenhum ser humano na sala, provavelmente so nos dois, eu falo muito muito baixo, só q nesse dia o cao diabo 666 satanas me atiçou e mandou eu falar alto, ai eu lindamente falei "nossa tem ngm aqui acho q so a gente q é esquisito", e tinham 2 meninas e 1 menino na sala e eu quase caí da escada indo sentar 👎🏻 valeu a pena ter passado vergonha mas eu sinto q aquelas pessoas vao fzr uma macumba pra mim

Agradeço sua presença ilustre aqui no podtudo!!! Volte sempre lenda, a Nayara a qualquer momento estará de braços abertos a você!

dep: eu que agradeço!!! foi bem divertido participar e escrever minhas doidices maluquices kahsksmsksks obrigado ano por ter me recomendado, e obrigado a vc nayara por ter sido doce e gentil comigo 1 bjo pra qm quiser nao queiram nao gosto de contato humano /j /srs

[arthistoryanimalia]

For #FishyFriday:

Dish, c.1880 Designed by William Frend De Morgan (English, 1839-1917) Made by William De Morgan Pottery (Chelsea, London, 1872-1881) tin-glazed earthenware Art Institute of Chicago

“The artists associated with the British Arts and Crafts movement responded to machine production in various ways. While designers like William Arthur Smith Benson--whose brass and copper wall sconces are displayed at left--embraced the machine as an efficient way to produce good design for the masses, the two designers represented in this vitrine, William Frend De Morgan and Charles Robert Ashbee, held fast to the idea of handwork and cooperative, guild-based production.

Like much of De Morgan's work, this plate incorporates a pastiche of Near Eastern motifs and luster decoration, a technique used in ninth-century Egypt, Persia (now Iran), and Syria.”