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sweet-child-of-night · 19 days

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A murder mystery where every character beleives themself responsible for the death and try to cover it up

A veil of dust motes danced in the pale shaft of sunlight that pierced the high, arched windows of the Hemlock Library. The air, usually pregnant with the musky scent of aged paper and forgotten lore, now hung heavy with a different kind of weight, thick enough to steal Harold’s breath. It wasn't the usual hushed silence that normally accompanied the turning of aged pages. This silence was a living thing, pressing down on him with the weight of a thousand untold secrets.

In the heart of the vast room, sprawled amidst the lush chaos of antique bookshelves, lay Mr. Granville, the esteemed head librarian. His once imposing frame now resembled a discarded marionette, his usually crisp white shirt marred by a grotesque bloom of crimson that blossomed across his chest.

Harold's heart, a frantic bird trapped in his ribcage, hammered a chaotic rhythm against his trembling bones. Each solemn tick of the grandfather clock resonated like a death knell in the oppressive silence. A wave of nausea washed over him, a sickening counterpoint to the chilling certainty that bloomed in his gut. A cold sweat prickled on his brow. Had he done this? The memory of his earlier confrontation with Mr. Granville – his voice rising in frustration, fueled by a potent combination of anger and cheap sherry, over a missing first edition – played on an endless loop in his mind. It was his fault. completely and utterly his. a harsh discord against the backdrop of this grim tableau.

A strangled sob shattered the oppressive silence of harold’s thoughts, as jarring as a gunshot in a cathedral. Miss Penelope Featherstone, the mousy cataloguer, huddled in a corner, her tear-streaked face a mask of abject terror. Her eyes, red-rimmed and overflowing, darted between Mr. Granville's lifeless form and a porcelain vase clutched tightly to her chest. A delicate spiderweb of cracks marred its once pristine surface.

“Oh dear, oh dear," she whimpered, her voice barely a whisper that seemed to echo in the vast chamber. "It was an accident, it was dark, I swear! I didn't mean to…",

Her voice trailed off, lost in a choked gasp that spoke volumes of the horror that had unfolded. Across the room, perched precariously on a ladder amidst a sea of ancient tomes, stood Professor Finch. His spectacles, askew on his nose, offered a distorted view of the scene below. He clutched a leather-bound grimoire to his chest, his face a canvas of bloodless terror.

"I… I overheard your argument, Mr. Pinkerton," he stammered, his finger raised against harold but his face glued to ground, his voice a mere tremor that reverberated through the silence. "I thought… I thought dropping this on your head would silence you and might stop the commotion…but he pushed you..”

The scene was ludicrous, a tragicomedy played out in the grand theater of the Hemlock Library. A petty argument that escalated with the fumbling grace of a drunken walrus, a vase attacked in dark, a book mis-aimed . And yet, here they were, three unlikely conspirators, bound together by a shared, horrifying secret

Suddenly, the library door creaked open, a shaft of golden light slicing through the gloom. In walked Mrs. Higgins, the formidable cleaning lady. Her gaze, sharp as a hawk's, swept over the tableau. Her lips pursed into a disapproving line that could curdle milk. "Goodness gracious," she tut-tutted, her voice laced with a knowingness that sent shivers down Harold's spine. "Looks like someone spilled something red on Mr. Granville. And what's Miss Featherstone doing with a broken vase? Clumsy, aren't we?"

Her words hung heavy in the air, a silent accusation. Then, Mrs. Higgins shuffled closer, leaning in conspiratorially. Her voice, a low rasp, sent a cold sweat prickling across Harold's skin. "Don't you worry, dears," she rasped. "I won't say a word. After all, we all have something to hide, don't we?"

#asks #murder story #murder mystery?

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nordleuchten · 10 months

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did georges have any friends in america, i know he was trying to stay undercover but since he stayed with the hamiltons a bit he had philip who was in close age, and other kids in the hamilton house that georges could’ve talked to. i’m very interested in georges but I can’t seem to really find anything about his stay in america besides the letters with washington and hamilton♥️

Dear Anon,

thank you for the question. I really like to see all the interest that Georges received lately on this blog!

While it is true that Georges (born December 24, 1779) was quite close in age to Philip Hamilton (born January 22, 1782) I do not believe that were that close. I have never seen any source, letters for example, that suggested that the two were close. Georges stayed only a short time with the Hamilton’s and his and Philip’s friendship therefor would have to develop quickly. I am not an expert on the Hamilton’s, so somebody correct me if I am wrong, but I believe that Philip was during this time quite busy with his studies and he and his younger brother Alexander Hamilton jr. only spend the weekends with their family. If I am correct, Georges would have little interaction with the two oldest boys. He himself was busy continuing his studies and was overall in a dark state of mind. Georges, still almost a child, had gone through a series of life-changing events and did not seem to be in the mood to socialize or to find new friends. Even if he forged meaningful connections with the Hamilton children, they did not make him feel better. Hamilton wrote on December 24, 1795 to George Washington:

Young La Fayette appears melancholy and has grown thin. A letter lately received from his mother which speaks of something which she wishes him to mention to you (as I learn from his preceptor) has quickened his sensibility and increased his regret. If I am satisfied that the present state of things is likely to occasion a durable gloom, endangering the health & in some sort the mind of the young man (…).

“From Alexander Hamilton to George Washington, 24 December 1795,” Founders Online, National Archives, [Original source: The Papers of Alexander Hamilton, vol. 19, July 1795 – December 1795, ed. Harold C. Syrett. New York: Columbia University Press, 1973, pp. 514–515.] (06/28/2023)

When Georges came to live with his godfather George Washington, he seemed to have formed a close bond with Elizabeth “Eliza” Parke Custis Law and Eleanor “Nelly” Parke Custis Lewis. The two sisters were the children of John Parke Custis, Martha Washingtons only surviving son and George Washingtons adopted son. The relationship with Nelly appears to have been especially close.

Eleanor Parke Custis Lewis wrote on January 26, 1825, to her friend Elizabeth Bordley Gibson:

Georges has had a beautiful engraving of his father, a proof copy of the fine painting, framed for me. I shall bring it home soon – only two were sent from France, the Genl had presented one to Commodore [illegible], & this, George was resolved no one but me should have, & that no one but himself should present it. You may judge how precious it will be to me [paper torn] I know of his family, [paper torn] more attached I feel to them all. [paper torn] [illegible] love George dearly, indeed no one could see him, & listen to him, as we do here, & not love, esteem & respect him. The world are unacquainted with half his excellence & estimable qualities of heart & head – Did I tell you that I had received charming letters from his wife & sisters (…)

Eleanor Parke Custis Lewis, Woodlawn, to Elizabeth Bordley Gibson, Philadelphia, 1825 January 26, A-569.110, Box: 4, Folder: 1825.1.26. Elizabeth Bordley Gibson collection, A-569. Special Collections at The George Washington Presidential Library at Mount Vernon. Accessed June 28, 2023.

Eleanor Parke Custis Lewis wrote on December 25, 1838, to Elizabeth Bordley Gibson:

I am sorry, I have not received the memoirs of Lafayette. I have nor heard for a long time from my dear Brother George.

Eleanor Parke Custis Lewis, Woodlawn, to Elizabeth Bordley Gibson, Spruce Street Philadelphia, 1838 December 25, A-569.161, Box: 5, Folder: 1838.12.25. Elizabeth Bordley Gibson collection, A-569. Special Collections at The George Washington Presidential Library at Mount Vernon. Accessed June 28, 2023.

Eleanor Parke Custis Lewis, wrote on August 4, 1851 to Elizabeth Bordley Gibson:

I regret your disappointment in regard to your letter from Miss Below [?] but I have sustained a greater loss – Oscar Lafayette wrote to me immediately after the death of his father, my faithful friend & brother, giving me all the particulay of that event.

Eleanor Parke Custis Lewis to Elizabeth Bordley Gibson, 1824 October, A-569.104, Box: 3, Folder: 1824.10.00. Elizabeth Bordley Gibson collection, A-569. Special Collections at The George Washington Presidential Library at Mount Vernon. Accessed June 28, 2023.

There are several letters from Nelly, Eliza and Georges in the special collections at the George Washington Presidential Library at Mount Vernon. Most of them are from the time of La Fayette’s American Tour of 1824/25 or from later years. But there are also two farewell letters from the time that Georges and his mentor Felix Frestel left the Washingtons. While Eleanor’s letters in particular are mostly digitalized, Georges letters are only published with short summaries or keywords. I therefor mainly focused on Eleanor Parke Custis Lewis’ descriptions of her and Georges’ relationship but all that we have suggests that Georges felt the same.

While he was not a friend Georges made in America, we should not forget Felix Frestel, the man who accompanied Georges to America. Employed as Georges’ tutor prior to the French Revolution, the young man soon surpassed himself in the fulfillment of his duties. What he did for Georges, and indeed the whole family, carried a great personal risk. Once in America, he was Georges’ father, and mother, teacher, mentor, advocate, protector and friend. Georges and his family never forgot what Frestel had done, and the two families remained very close. Georges would later refer to Frestels younger son in a letter to Monsieur Guittére dated April 12, 1832:

(…) a young friend of mine, whom I love as I would love a younger brother.

Archives départementales de Sein-et-Marne - La Fayette, une figure politique et agricole (05/16/2022).

Washington commented in a letter to La Fayette from October 8, 1797:

Mr Frestal has been a true Mentor to George. No Parent could have been more attentive to a favourite Son; and he richly merits all that can be said of his virtues—of his good sense—and of his prudence. Both your son and him carry with them the vows, and regrets of this family, and of all who know them.

“From George Washington to Lafayette, 8 October 1797,” Founders Online, National Archives, [Original source: The Papers of George Washington, Retirement Series, vol. 1, 4 March 1797 – 30 December 1797, ed. W. W. Abbot. Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1998, pp. 390–391.] (06/28/2023)

I hope that helped and I hope you have/had a lovely day!

P.S.: You mentioned that you find it hard to come across information about Georges’ stay in America. A week or so ago I had an ask about some general resources concerning Georges – maybe that was you or maybe you have seen it. If not, you might find this post useful. :-)

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fangirleaconmigo · 2 years

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I'm sure you have already been asked about it, but I need to hear about your WIP Virgin Sacrifice (Geraskier), lol. Also tell me about David loves Patrick’s Cabaret Costume? Sorry, I know I'm arriving late to the party haha.

Stinaaa I am very slow at things but thank you for sending me this for the WIP game.

Actually no one has asked about that one yet! (well I did post a snippet probably almost a year ago when it was still a WIP, sob.)

I have written a bit more, so why don't I just give you everything I have? *clears throat* Here it is.

Geralt rescues a virgin sacrifice, who is not at all what he expected.

Geraskier Virgin Sacrifice:

At dawn, in the dark, a hungry and angry werewolf stalked the camp, but when he realised that it was Dandelion who was singing, he listened for a little while and went his way. (A Little Sacrifice)

Geralt took stock of himself before he entered the cave. He tried to smooth down his hair, but it resisted him. He gave up on it and drew his shoulders down apologetically.

If the girl was still alive in there, she'd be terrified. Terrified people didn’t tend to find his presence immediately comforting, and children were always the most horrified.

But there wasn’t much he could do about first impressions. His scars spoke of violence. And as much as he wanted to think of his eyes as graceful and feline, most people saw them as demonic and serpentine. And when he smiled, it only made matters worse.

Well. He wasn’t getting any prettier. It was now or never.

He swept aside the dangling vines and crept into the cave. They fell stubbornly back into a curtain behind him. The cave was small and dark and shaped like an egg. Dry sticks and twigs defiantly crackled under his boots. Something in the depths of the shadows heard him. It whimpered plaintively.

Geralt moved closer. He squinted, trying to unravel the gloom.

“Are you here to rescue me, good hero?” ventured a voice from the dark. The voice was hoarse and dusty, but it was unmistakably hopeful. That hope tugged at the hem of Geralt’s spirits. People in difficult situations were rarely happy to see him. Resigned maybe. Grimly determined. That was the best Geralt could hope for.

Another thing that struck Geralt as odd was that the voice was masculine, and adult. Young. But adult. It could not be right.

Superstitious types, the kind that offered virgin sacrifices, only tended to involve themselves in the sexual choices of women. Regis, Geralt’s vampire friend, explained it all to him. Fear of women, he’d said. Fear of their sexuality exercised independently. It made sense.

Also, to ensure they really had a virgin, they chose younger and younger sacrifices with each generation. Town elders and clerics these days hauled helpless, tiny, girl children up mountains to be torn asunder, their lives snuffed out before they can even truly begin.

These were all just generalizations though. And not every woman was, or sounded, feminine. Geralt had lived long enough to know that the entirety of humanity would never fit into one of two discrete sex categories. He tucked his assumptions away and readied himself for anything. He opened his mouth, but sputtered when a spiderweb brushed his face. He waved it away and tried again.

“Eh. Yeah,” he said. He was unsure of what to do or say. His mind and his mouth refuse to run on the same track. Instead they ground against each other in disharmony. “I mean. I'm here to—“ he swallowed, “kill the monster. But I didn’t want to leave before I got the….virgin.”

“You killed Harold?”

Harold?

Geralt blinked and his eyes adjusted. He made out a huddled figure on the ground. Blue gray eyes blinked up at him from behind a messy, sweaty fringe.

“Harold?”

“Yeah! I had to give him a name. Even if he just snarled at me.” Sounds of awkward shuffling accompanied his answer.

“Why didn’t he eat you?” Geralt was still trying to fit the name Harold into the existing puzzle of a werewolf, and what a young man was doing trussed up as a virgin sacrifice.

“Rude!” the young man objected.

Geralt sighed. “You know what I mean.” He had forgotten all about hunching over, and his hair was as wild as it had ever been. He stepped forward and knelt next to the man.

The young man twisted his body so he could better see Geralt. Geralt wished he wouldn’t. He was glad it was too dark for this human to see well.

“Well I suppose he likes my singing. Liked my singing, that is. If you’ve offed him.”

“He didn’t untie you,” Geralt said, then immediately felt ridiculous stating the obvious. But the large expressive eyes at his knees were doing something interesting to his gut, and it was scattering his thoughts further.

“Well,” said the captive, scooting and wincing in another attempt to see Geralt’s face. “I’m quite sure he intended to eat me. It was just a matter of him getting hungry enough to kill me despite the entertainment I was providing.”

“Ah.”

“Also, he doesn’t—-didn’t, may his soul rest—have opposable thumbs. But you do. So please, my good champion?” He tried to scoot closer, grunting and trying to push his wrists forward to offer the ropes. They were wrapped tight around broad shoulders and narrow hips, and Geralt couldn’t help but notice that this was indeed a grown adult.

“May his soul rest?” Geralt said stupidly, his mind coming back to focus.

“Sir? Please?” The young man wiggled.

“Oh, yes. Sorry.”

Geralt reached for the first knots, forcing the man to turn his back to him to allow him to reach the knots on his arms.

“What’s your name by the way, good knight? I’m Jaskier.”

“Geralt.”

Geralt meant to tell him he wasn’t a knight. He meant to. But his mind was muddled, he was distracted, and perhaps he was enjoying the eagerness of this Jaskier just a little too much. No matter, he would soon be untied, and he would see Geralt. At that point, Geralt wouldn’t need to say anything. Jaskier would see his eyes and know exactly what he was.

He quietly made short work of the knots, each rope unspooling and thudding onto the ground.

“Alright. Well. You’re free now. And safe.” He threw in that last part so that Jaskier wouldn’t panic when he saw him.

Jaskier exhaled and scooted in a circle so that he could see Geralt. Geralt was still on his knees, and Jaskier sat cross legged, rubbing his wrists. He regarded Geralt carefully, leaning forward to squint through the gray of the cave.

“Well. Aren’t you gorgeous? We could’ve left some of those on if you’d liked.”

Geralt should have been relieved at a compliment and a flirtation from a handsome young man, even though that man was covered in a film of dust and wearing a shit eating grin. But he didn’t want to be relieved. He wanted to be annoyed.

“You are not a virgin.”

Geralt wasn’t able to believe that this man truly thought him gorgeous or that this smile was for him. So he argued with him instead.

“I am!”

It had to be because Jaskier still thought he was a knight. Because he couldn’t see well. It was Geralt’s eyes that gave him away, and it was probably too dim to see their true nature.

“I expected a maiden. A child. The superstitious are most fearful of women. And they don’t like to take chances with the virgin part of a virgin sacrifice,” he grunted.

Jaskier was rubbing his ankles now. “I’m sorry to disappoint you with my age and sex. Perhaps knights don’t receive as generous compensation for men. But I must insist that I am a virgin. And unfortunately I admitted it to a particularly awful cad and he ratted me out to the alderman when they started discussing human sacrifices.”

Geralt grimaced at the reminder that these miserable cunts send an innocent man to die for no reason in the jaws of a werewolf. Jaskier interpreted his grimace to indicate further disbelief.

“Am so. Like I said! A virgin! And a grateful one at that, my brave, courageous champion.”

“Fine.”

“And what kind of knight are you? Besides a gorgeous one. Do you have a kingdom? Are you a knight errant, roaming the countryside looking for virgins to rescue?”

Geralt ignored his questions. He stood up and pulled Jaskier to his feet. He wobbled a bit and pitched into Geralt’s space. Geralt moved forward just in time to catch him. He clutched Geralt’s shoulders.

“Sorry.” Jaskier’s legs trembled for a moment. “I’ve been tied up for like a da— oh.”

His hands had just flexed on Geralt’s shoulders. “Wow.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, but his cheeks were aflame with mortified pleasure. “Are you done?”

“Sure.” Jaskier licked his lips. “It’s just. You have very nice shoulders.”

His hands slipped down to his biceps.

“Holy shit.“

Geralt did not know what to say to that, so he grunted.

“Eloquent.” Jaskier arched an eyebrow. It wasn’t unkind. But it was teasing. “I won’t miss Harold at all.”

Geralt shook his head. “Are you done jesting? We need to get out of here. Geralt extricated himself and had taken two steps towards the exit when Jaskier spoke.

There was sudden vulnerability in his voice. It was so sudden, this drop from bombast to raw uncertainty. It stopped Geralt in his tracks.

He turned around, and once he had taken in Jaskier’s expression and body language, he realized that he had misjudged him. He had taken mouthy courage at face value. Jaskier was tired. He was frightened. He was overcompensating for it.

He tried to make his voice softer.

“What.”

Jaskiers fingers fiddled with the sleeves of his tunic.

“As much as I enjoy making friends of the monster variety, it wasn’t as…pleasant as you might think to be drugged and tied up and piss myself waiting to be eaten.”

Geralt swallowed and nodded.

“And by my own friends no less. The woman who used to teach me piano lessons. The men who tied me up were my uncles.”

“It’s wrong.” Geralt said quietly. “They’re assholes.”

“My whole life growing up, singing, dancing, and well alright being a bit of a scamp. It all added up to worthless. Only fit for monster food.”

Geralt’s chest grew tight.

“Yes. So. As I was sitting there tied up, I resolved never to be in this situation again. So. I came up with a plan.”

“It’s not your fault Jaskier. There wasn’t anything you could’ve done.”

“Yes but. As I sat there tied up I had time to think. And. What if I weren’t a virgin anymore? I resolved to fuck the next man I met no matter what he looked like.

“Oh thanks.”

“No! That’s not what I mean! I was prepared to do that. But then you walked in. Absolute vision. Most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. Rescuing me like some gallant knight in a story. I quite literally fucking swooned.”

“Your circulation was cut off. And clearly it’s affected your thinking.”

“Geralt please. What if I weren’t a virgin anymore? What if you. Helped me with that? It would also be a lovely way to show my gratitude.”

“No.” Geralt blurted out. Anger surged in him but he kept it in check. Jaskier hadn’t meant to insult him. This wasn’t about him at all. “I would never take advantage of you. You're upset. And scared. Anyway it’s not your fault. It’s a barbaric, obscene practice. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Yes but I have to live there don’t I?”

“No.”

“Am I really so repulsive? I know I’m not at my best but—“

“Jaskier it’s not that. I’m not—-I’m not fucking you so these assholes will leave you alone. They should just leave you alone.”

“But they won’t. Besides. You’re. Fuck. Look at you. I’d give my right arm and my lute just to touch you on my best day.”

Geralt grunted. “Matter’s closed. Let’s go, Jaskier. It’s a day’s travel back. And if you don’t get water and food in you soon you’re gonna faint.”

He turned and headed for the cave entrance. Jaskier dashed in front of him, eyes desperate. It was as though he thought the privacy they had in the cave was their last chance.

“I’m not going back! Not as a virgin. Please? I know it’s a lot to ask. You just saved my life.”

“It’s not—“

The boy was getting this all wrong.

“No more talking.”

Geralt picked him up and threw him over his shoulder like a sack of grain. He yelped, but there wasn’t much he could do.

“Let’s get you home.”

---

To be continued

----

Now, my David and Patrick one, I just went back and read and no it turns out I cannot share after all lol. It was one of my first fics and it is really really bad. Lmao. Worse than I remember. It was just a horny pwp after David watches Patrick's cabaret performance. And I stopped because I'm only used to writing fantasy scifi characters and they felt *too* real? like I was writing about real people? It weirded me out and I stopped.

And though I could post it, I won't, because it is really bad. But I take that great encouragement that my writing has improved significantly. XD That's the best thing we can ask for as writers.

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #descarada writes #descarada writes geraskier #Geraskier Virgin sacrifice #wip game #asks

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prompt-verse · 1 year

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Take some time to think about it! Don't just vote for your fav, but vote for the most societally disruptive person!

#gloomverse #gv #gloomadness2023 #gloomadness #polls #round 2 #harold gloom #clermont

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blackhair-redeyes-tournament · 9 months

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Bracket 1 Round 1

#pink eyes #polls #tournament poll #tumblr polls #black hair #tournament #red eyes #black hair red eyes tournament #black hair red eyes #Maud Molenaar #Acception #harold gloom #gloomverse #Bracket 1

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offscreen-gloomverse-probably · 4 months

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Harold: *gets a pancake stuck to the ceiling*

Harold: Don't say it, don't say it, don't FUCKING say it.

Hobo: Batter up.

#gloomverse #incorrect gloomverse quotes #incorrect quotes #harold gloom #mooching hobo #dad puns

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georgefairbrother · 8 months

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On September 7th, 1978, British Labour Prime Minister James Callaghan confirmed that he would not be calling an early election, despite the precarious stability of his minority government.

"…The government must and will continue to carry out policies that are consistent, determined, that don’t chop or change and that brought about the present recovery in our fortunes…We can see the way ahead…"

Opposition Leader Margaret Thatcher was not best pleased, referring to the government as chickens and stating;

"…The real reason he isn’t having an election is because he thinks he'll lose…"

Even Liberal leader David Steel, whose party had propped up the government through the Lib-Lab Pact, wasn’t happy, stating that the country was due for change and that an election was the only way to breathe life into the four-year-old parliament.

Callaghan had succeeded Harold Wilson in tricky circumstances in 1976. Inflation had peaked at 26% and unemployment was heading toward 1.5 million, a devastating figure in the context of the time although it would more than double by the mid 1980s under the Tories. Callaghan was forced to make unpopular cuts in government spending to comply with terms set out by the International Monetary Fund, after a financial crisis precipitated by the plunging Pound had necessitated an emergency loan. But it wasn’t all doom and gloom, the balance of trade was improving on the back of growing revenue and production from North Sea Oil, which was expected to make the country self-sufficient by 1980.

In the autumn of 1978, the government proposed that trade unions moderate the following year’s pay claims to 5% as a key part of the ongoing fight against inflation, which was by then hovering at 8%. The unions, however, rejected any limits proposed by the Callaghan government and vowed to pursue their right to free and unrestrained collective bargaining. The first major employer to concede over and above the government’s proposed ceiling was Ford Motor Company, which granted an increase of 17% after an initial ambit claim of 25%.

That December, the government received an unwanted Christmas present, when a motion in the House of Commons was carried condemning;

"…the arbitrary use of economic sanctions against firms and workers who have negotiated pay settlements beyond a rigid limit which Parliament has not approved…"

The Civil Service unions, now isolated under government control while private sector companies were free to set their own wage negotiation benchmarks without risk of sanction, prepared for militant action. The ensuing Winter of Discontent strikes created shortages of a number of essential commodities. NHS hospitals, ambulance services, rubbish collection, schools and even funeral and burial services were caught up in transport and related stoppages that created nationwide chaos.

At one point 200 000 workers were temporarily laid off, and rubbish piled high in the streets. By the end of January 1979, the strike ended with employers conceding to almost all of the various unions’ demands.

Into this chaotic atmosphere returned the PM from a summit with US President Carter, French President Valery Giscard d’Estaing and the West German Chancellor Helmut Schmidt. The meeting had been held in the sunny Caribbean Island of Guadeloupe. Callaghan, looking relaxed and unconcerned according to some reports, rather unwisely stated,

"…I don’t think that other people in the world would share the view that there is mounting chaos…"

He was rewarded by the famous What Crisis? headline in The Sun.

With an election looming, the government and Trades Union Congress finally made an attempt to publicly reconcile. The new Concordat, issued in February 1979, spelled out guidelines for a new cooperative approach toward dispute resolution, called for restraint in wage demands and set a joint ambition for an inflation rate of below 5% by 1982. It promised more measured picketing and more liberal union control over workforces. Callaghan called this a great step forward, while the Confederation of British Industry, unsurprisingly, said it was too little, too late.

Opposition Leader, Margaret Thatcher, soon seized a golden opportunity to take command of the agenda. She steamed in with motion of no confidence against the government on March 28th, 1979. The motion was passed by one vote, the first such successful motion since 1924. The subsequent general election paved the way for 18 years of Tory government.

Following the inevitable election loss, Jim Callaghan stayed on as Opposition Leader until 1980 when he was succeeded by Michael Foot. He subsequently served in the Lords as Baron Callaghan of Cardiff and passed away in 2005, aged 92.

#social history #uk politics #working class history #uk government #society #british culture #uk history #history #british prime ministers #trade unions #industrial action #protest

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