#here comes mr uncivilised

[kahixxi]

My fav shounen manga:

Dai Dark (Q Hayashida) Gintama (Hideaki Sorachi) In/Spectre (Kyou Shirodaira, Chashiba Katase) Jujutsu Kaisen (Gege Akutami) Dandadan (Yukinobu Tatsu) Welcome to the Ballroom (Tomo Takeuchi) To Your Eternity (Yoshitoki Ooima) Naruto (Masashi Kishimoto) Spy x Family (Tatsuya Endou)

#dai dark #big dark #great dark #q hayashida #gintama #gin tama #dandelion #shiro kuro #black and white #shirokuro #13 #thirteen #bankara san ga tooru #here comes mr uncivilised #silver soul #hideaki sorachi #kyokou suiri #inspectre #in spectre #invented inference #stranger case #kyou shirodaira #chashiba katase #jujutsu kaisen #sorcery fight #gege akutami #dandadan #tatsu yukinobu #yukinobu tatsu #ballroom e youkoso

[oftenderweapons]

Title: Cue, She

Pairing: Namjoon x reader

Wordcount: 3k

Genre: Enemies to something, Strangers to something

Rating: this is for the General Public, but pretty much anything after this is VERY NOT.

Trigger Warnings: abusive parents, someone is petty, someone is a bit overbearing and paternalistic LOL, reader has a 100% no bs approach. Let’s say she’s a bit abrasive. Soft swearing.

[A/N: hello everyone! Sorry, I know you maybe expected another kind of update, but I’m struggling not to go on hiatus rn, I’m really biting dust with uni and exams and life, I‘m living many experiences that are making me grow up as a writer and I can‘t wait to put them into words here and for you. This piece is how Namjoon met his future Vixen. If you are 18+ you can learn more about them in my masterlist!]

This piece was lovingly edited by @joheunsaram. There’s no one else I would trust myself with. I love you 💖

Enjoy 💜✨

You paced nervously in the foyer, staring at the white marble floor.

They always chose damn marble.

You hated it. Cold. It reminded you of your parent’s mansion. Your nose scrunched. You had a schedule and it was vital. It’s not like you had all the time in the world to plan out the exhibit. You had another appointment in two hours and you needed to keep some spare time in case you needed to arrange some acquisitions or bookings.

And then the door opened, a tall man, his attire absolutely unfit to visit a gallery of that prestige, making a fuss with his trainer shoes across the polished floors.

The squeaky, chilling noise irked you. A part of your brain could still hear your mother screaming at you about the damn floors and being an “uncivilised monkey”.

You rolled your shoulders and tried to keep a straight face. “Excuse me, Sir. This is a private visit. I booked it.”

“I apologise, Miss ____. I owed one to this friend of mine. I promise it won’t be a nuisance.” The artist smiled at you and you were ready to leave, entirely annoyed.

“It’s okay, Jeongwon, we can arrange another time,” the man was ready to leave when the director of the gallery placed a hand on the man’s back.

“Please, mr. Kim, be our guest. We would be honoured.” From the director’s tone you knew the gym class kid had to be extremely rich. Extremely important too. “I’m sure Miss ____ won’t mind. Am I correct?”

You blinked slowly. “Correct.” It took you all the patience in the world.

What is a power game to this man is your job to you. Your passion, your largest sacrifice, your greatest, most elaborate achievement. Your — and your father’s — most expensive investment.

“She has been a close partner of ours. Most of our most successful pieces have been delivered from or in her hands,” the director explained, the artist nodding in agreement.

The man turned towards you. He looked familiar. “Then I am glad Jeongwon insisted for me to come. It is an honour to meet you. I’m Kim Namjoon.” He lowered his mask and bowed to you.

You were frozen for a couple seconds. You were working for one of his best friends.

And now he was right in front of you.

“Pleased to meet you, I’m ____.” You bowed in return, much deeper than he did.

“Shall we start? We might have some discussing to do.” The director indicated the way to the gallery with his forearm, you speed-walking ahead.

Jeongwon explained the paintings as he went on, answering Namjoon’s sharp questions, and your technical ones. He could recognise a pattern in the way you both were acting. It was like you were competing on who could ask the most difficult question.

He could barely hold himself back from chuckling. Especially when he would catch Namjoon’s expression: a mixture of disbelief and interest and obstination as he listened to your comments and suggestions. Also, he knew his friend: Namjoon was checking you out. Jeongwon had seen it happen maybe three or four times.

It looked like a hunt. Namjoon had a precise way of dissecting his potential interests, challenging them in a growing game of wits. It was systematic, precise, surgical.

And Namjoon was indeed amused by you. He was interested.

You were one-upping him painting after painting, your expression so focused as you explored the extent of every canvas, guessing the technique and the materials with one skilled glance.

“What is its ideal collocation, according to your imagination?”

Namjoon turned towards you. Did you really ask him?

“Yes, I’m talking to you,” you clarified. If he was trying to test you, you might as well test him back. Did he really think you didn’t notice how he was dissecting your knowledge of art?

“I see it in my home, right above the dining table.”

“The kitchen because of the auburns and reds?”

Namjoon almost snorted. “Because it’s my friend’s work and I want to see it where I spend most time relaxing. I like autumn trees.”

You clicked your tongue, your gaze moving back to the painting. “I want this one.” Your eyes met the artist’s gaze, his face as red as the crimson leaves drifting on a puddle in the picture.

“It is not available for purchase, I’m afraid,” he murmured with a slight stutter.

You turned to the director. “This is a private preview. How come it’s not available?”

And then the unbearably deep voice of obnoxious visitor number two broke an embarrassed silence. “Well, I’m here, at the private preview because I spent a fair bit of money on this one. I think it’s my right to see what I bought, don’t you think?”

Namjoon felt his entire being petrify at your gaze. You were Medusa and he was your victim — he found nothing wrong with it, you were a lovely Medusa to be petrified by.

And then your stare shifted to the director. He looked embarrassed and you were proud of it.

“I’ll see myself out.” Could you do without the rest of the exhibition? Probably yes. Would you regret it? Of course. Normally you would buy a catalogue and have it delivered to your studio, where you had an abundance of time to fit your pieces of interest in refined and detailed moodboards for every project you designed.

You had only come to the gallery because you had trusted the director, you had trusted the artist, you knew what incredible feats he could achieve with canvas and acrylics.

Your heels clicked cynically against the damn marble floor, sneering at it as you stared at its weak, frigid coldness.

“Miss, please, there are plenty of good paintings left, I am sure we can find something of your taste!” The director insisted while you opened the door, a capricious wind toying with your scarf as you wore it in a rush around you.

Jeongwon stared at Namjoon with a mad look on his face. Namjoon sprinted for the door. “I’m sorry,” he spoke loudly across the sidewalk, taking long strides in your direction. “I’m sorry.”

“I heard you,” you snarked as you turned in his direction. “I’m not interested in your apologies, I have places to be.”

“Please, you can borrow the painting, I don’t care.” Namjoon stood in front of you, keeping you from crossing the street with a yellow light. “I was obnoxious and pretentious and insufferable. I am sorry.”

You rolled your eyes. “I am not a stupid little girl. I am not a student waiting to learn from you so don’t you dare challenge me. I am a professional and this is my job. And you have insulted me.”

Namjoon stared at his feet. He did tend to act bold and show off when he wanted to impress someone. Secretly he had wanted to get your attention since the moment he saw you. “I am sorry you felt challenged. I was overbearing.”

You looked away. Seeing him so tall and wide before you was making you uncomfortable.

“Please come back. I’ll keep quiet.” He offered you his pinkie. “I promise.”

You stared at it and cocked an eyebrow. You simply turned on your heels and went back to the gallery, Namjoon trotting behind you like a proud puppy.

His shoes still squeaked across the marble floor and you still hated it. You much preferred linoleum — it’s not like hardwood floors were an available choice for most public spaces.

“Okay. Where did I interrupt?”

Jeongwon smiled calmly and introduced you to the following painting.

Namjoon stayed silent until the very end of your visit.

Once it ended, you saw yourself out, Namjoon and Jeongwon exiting the gallery. “Would you like to join us for a coffee?” Namjoon called towards you while you were already checking your phone for the next meeting.

The universe really had a cruel way to shove your face in the dirt.

Meeting cancelled.

Maybe talking with the two would help you form connections. And then, even if he was annoyingly curious like a seven year old, it’s not like you could say no to a coffee with the most popular art-obsessed idol of the industry. “If you don’t mind,” you replied, turning towards him.

Namjoon grinned.

And then the dimple appeared. It was mind blowing, like being slapped in the face — well, not quite like that, but pretty close. It was almost as upsetting as that.

The coffee place was a quiet tea house on a pond and you were most definitely going to save it for your client meetings. That was the most you would ever admit yourself conceding to the gym dude.

Namjoon and Jeongwon proceeded into some small talk about the artist’s new projects, the man going on and on about an upcoming trip to the Netherlands which was supposed to send him into a new culture and new art, with new inspirations. His excited monologue was interrupted by a phone call. It lasted maybe a couple minutes, during which you stirred your latte and stared out of the window.

Namjoon took the chance to observe your face.

You had to be young. He knew you were. And you didn’t wear a ring, which was a good sign.

He liked your earrings and he liked your nose. He liked your cheeks. You had pretty cheeks but he didn’t know why.

“I have to rush out. I’ll leave mine paid. See you Joon. It’s been a pleasure, Miss ____.”

You greeted him back, your goodbye lukewarm as you stared at your coffee and then stole a glance at Namjoon.

He smiled, he looked apologetic. “So, how did you learn so much about art?”

You gave it a try. “I studied Design and Art at the local academy.”

He studied your hands. They were neatly manicured, nails trimmed short, no nail polish except for a transparent coat. “You don’t look like an art kid.”

“You don’t look like one of them either.” When your eyes met his, he realised it was like staring down the barrel of a gun.

“I know.” He chuckled embarrassedly, looking away. He looked flirty when he cocked his head to the side, looking at you once more. “So, Magritte…”

You nodded. “Magritte…”

“You like the French?” He took a sip of his coffee while he waited for your reply.

“I just studied them. I saw them once a week, you sort of grow on them. Like… like molten cheese. Like a mould and melting wax. You shape yourself on them.” You shrugged and drank some more.

Namjoon studied the way the light hit your cheekbone and slid down the side of your face. He was a fool. “How come you saw them so often?”

“I spent some time in Europe.” You blinked slowly. “Scholarship… Private school, all of that.”

“How much time?” You had his undivided attention, and it felt heavy on your frame.

“Two years, more or less? Between France and England. Though it was only a few months in London.” You smiled, feeling like you were starting to warm up.

Namjoon watched your lips curve a little. It felt encouraging. It felt beautiful. “Which one did you like the most?”

“London. It’s more… It’s more eclectic.” You shrugged, and frowned. “But Paris is lovely too. And I’m more skilled in French, it was easier.”

Namjoon was taken aback. “You speak French?”

You chuckled, toying with the neck of your dress self-consciously. “I’m not good at it.”

“I’m sure you are, just like you’re excellent at your job.” He nodded to himself. “I’ve always wanted to learn French but I’m miserable at it.”

Your smile was warm. “It just needs practice. I’m sure you can afford a private teacher and just get brilliant at it in a couple months.”

This time it was his turn to blush and look away. “You’re overestimating me.”

The rest of the conversation was flawless. It flowed endlessly. He asked questions and was genuinely interested in your replies. He made you feel interesting in ways you hadn't in a while. No one ever thought you were interesting, they always talked to your parents and let you be the pretty accessory, standing there and letting you speak only whenever they needed to show you off.

But he asked his questions to you. And he listened. He asked you about your trips, the cities you had visited and exchanged impressions on those he had seen too.

He loved watching you talk. The little gestures with your hands when you talked about art, almost as if reconstructing the painting with an invisible brush on an invisible canvas. You were one of the strangers he liked the most, he found out.

You realised you were sad when you found out you had to go.

“It's been a nice chat, really.”

He looked at you with a warm gleam in his eyes. “You need to go, right?”

You nodded.

“When can I see you again?”

You blinked rapidly. Stared at the table. Could you…?

No, you couldn't.

“I'm— I'm really flattered, I swear. But I don't think…”

Namjoon looked away too. He felt helpless. It wasn't a feeling he liked — it made him act desperate. “Oh…” He allowed himself to look at you.

You looked right back at him. He did look rather unhappy, but that was not something you could help with. You would make him miserable just the way he would make you feel neglected. “No chance at all? Maybe at Jeongwon's opening night?”

“Unfortunately I will be abroad for that weekend.” You stood up, Namjoon following suit.

“At least take my number,” he objected, staring at you with a glance you couldn't quite pinpoint. You only knew it was dangerous: he could make you do anything with those eyes.

He fumbled in his tote bag, grabbing a tiny notebook and ripping off a page. He bent over, hunching over the table to scribble down as neatly as he could his personal phone number.

You stood there awkwardly, blushing at the cheeks. Once he handed it to you, he had a sad and hopeful gleam in your eyes.

“Text me whenever. I can get myself some spare time when you're back.” He looked at you as you nodded half-heartedly. “Goodbye.” Namjoon had the feeling you would always stay a stranger to him, something he would remember as a mirage once he would get old and tell his uninterested grandchildren about his youth.

Your voice was tiny. You couldn't help but admit it was unfortunate that you could meet someone you connected with and realise they were deeply unfit for your wants. “Goodbye.”

Namjoon watched you leave, following the way your shape disappeared behind the corner. He felt the need to write about a place where the two of you would meet again. A place where that didn't sound like an eternal goodbye.

Namjoon watched an incoming call notification appear on his screen as he scrolled through his notes about the next concept. It distracted him for a couple seconds, letting it go unanswered.

It was an unknown caller anyway.

Probably a stupid callcenter.

He rolled his eyes at the annoying interruption and went back to the sketches and notes he had taken.

“As I was saying, it’s more like… As Yoongi suggested, I wanted to use this as a chance to make connections, to build a network, to see it as some sort of trip around the world, globetrotting but with art— Sorry.” This time he had to refuse the call. Why were they always so insistent?!

“I think we can map this out,” a manager commented. “We should decide the venues and the artists. It will be complicated and it might take a while to make it come true.”

Namjoon shrugged. “As long as it’s real, the timing is entirely up to you.”

Timing… What a flimsy, weak concept. He liked suggesting ideas but he rarely had the persistence to carry them through. It took a bit too much energy sometimes.

“We’ll keep that in mind. Thank you for your contribution,” another manager replied. The creative board counted eight coordinators, each of them head to a way more articulated department. They regularly met with the artists, and most of them had been around for more than four years; it was only natural to brainstorm things with them. They brought a strange clarity around Namjoon's mind… The kind of clarity—

Namjoon realised his mistake in not picking up that call. He hadn’t dared hope receiving a phone call from you, especially since two weeks had gone by, rushed, accompanied by the memory of you fading out slowly, the image of you becoming more and more blurry, like a ghost whose lineaments distorted into something Namjoon knew he had idealised, as if the gaze of his mind, by lingering on the memory of your face, had somehow applied too much pressure on fresh wax, tainting the shape of it irremediably.

“May I be excused, I—” Namjoon stared at his phone, then he looked helplessly at the board.

“I think we can be done for today,” said the head of communication.

Namjoon stood, Yoongi looking at him with a strange look on his face as the younger man bowed and left with long strides.

What if it actually was a call center? What if it was a delivery man? What if it was some random stranger, and not the one he had been dying to see in the last two weeks?

He added it to his phone, nipping at his cuticles as he opened his Kakao profile and checked who hid behind that meaningless number. Beside the contact named “stranger” appeared that face, the one he had recalled so often, now untainted by his abrasive memory.

And you were typing.

“Hi. It’s ____ from Jeongwon’s exhibit. I have an early in on some borrowed Whankis coming in from the US. It’s a parallel with some Rothkos. Wanna join?”

Namjoon stared at the text.

“So you didn’t disappear on whatever international flight you got on...” he joked. “Of course count me in.”

Namjoon was excited. There was no other way to define it.

After all, it could be something.

#Namjoon x reader #Namjoon meetcute #kim namjoon fanfiction #Namjoon enemies to lovers #namjoon scenario #namjoon x vixen

[xx-sikki-nixx-xx]

NSFW A-Z  Jimmy Page

Aftercare(what they’re like after sex)

Prolly rolls a joint and y’all get high together in pure bliss of the rocking sex you guys just had coz we all know Jimmy’s gotta be a sex god tbh, like there’s no questioning that shit.

Body part (their favourite body part of theirs and their partners)

Jimmy really likes your eyes, he thinks they are enchanting orbs, your iris’s swimming in a fountain of colour (because he’s poetic like that) and his favourite body part on himself is his hands, because he’s a guitarist...and he knows he can make you scream his name only using them. 

 Cum (anything to do with cum…basically I’m a disgusting person)

Jimmy likes to cum in your mouth because as I said before after sex he likes to get high with you and it’s kinda hard to do that if you have to clean cum off of yourself you getting it in your mouth is the cleanest solution. 

Dirty secret  (Pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He’s full ass bi and would 100% would have a threesome with you and Robert (but I mean not like you’re complaining right?) like he loves you but he bets that Robert is an epic fuck too so why not get the best of both worlds?

Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?) 

For sure Jimmy has experience, I mean you don’t become a sex god without training, so yeah he’s had his fair share of sex but it’s for the best because now he can make you cum with his eyes closed and his hands tied behind his back. 

Favourite Position (This goes without saying.)

Missionary with your legs over his shoulders because he can get deepest that way and can watch the enchanting ways your face contorts and your eyes roll back with every thrust nearing you to your finish. 

 Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Jimmy is a gentle lover and a passionate one, think rhythmic thrusts in dimmed light on silk sheets with a light breeze flowing through the curtains leading to the patio. Its as if his body is completely in tune with yours like a poem or a song. 

 Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc)

Jimmy is pretty average when it comes to hair, like he doesn’t groom it but then again he doesn’t really need to, it’s pretty tame on its own, and yes the carpet matches the drapes. 

Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

As previously mentioned Jimmy is a sensual lover and I mean it when I say that, passionate kisses, foreheads pressed together, real intimate love making and nothing less. 

 Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Robert only masturbates when he’s really high, because some of the drugs he takes give him inconvenient boners so he’ll need to relieve himself and you won’t always be around to help and sometimes you just make him do it himself because it’s funny to make him beg.

Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Jimmy has a kink for silk binds, like ties for your wrists that are made of silk, or silk blindfolds, or silk gags, anything silk, he doesn’t know why he has this kink but the feeling of silk mixed with the aspect of tying you up really turns him on. 

Location (Favourite places to do the do)

On the grass at night under the stars, preferably high on acid (cute).

Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

When you give him little flirty looks like batting your eyelids and smiling at him oh baby that makes him crazy and when you act all polite in public like crossed legs and small talk because he knows it’s all an act and he’s the only one who knows how dirty and uncivilised you are in private.

 NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

I couldn’t see him being into ddlg kinda stuff like that just weirds him out (which is ok we all have preference) if you have that kink he’d never be mean/rude or make fun of you for it (no kink shaming here) he’d just not want to participate in it. 

 Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

Ohhhhhhhhhhhh boy get strapped in baby because when Mr Page gets his hands (or mouth) on you you’ll never be the same istg if he was a superhero his power would be pussy eating for real, he likes it when you go down on him but it isn’t a must when you two have sex, he can get perfectly hard pleasuring you but if you offer he’ll never turn you down.

Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Jimmy is more slow and sensual, he likes to enjoy the moment and all of the sensations that come along with it but if he’s got some pent up frustration for instance you two haven’t seen each other for awhile expect a rough pounding as soon as you two have some alone time.

Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

He doesn’t really care too much, sex is sex in his eyes and as long as it’s with you he knows he’ll have a good time and in return will do his best to make you enjoy it too. 

Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Absofreakinglutely I mean I think this is the same for all of the rockstars, they all love risk, that’s part of the reason they chose that career so fuck yeah Jimmy’s down for risk as long as it comes with reward in some form or another.  

 Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

Like a solid 5-6 rounds if he’s in the mood and you have enough alone time but other times he’ll settle for 2 or 3 if he must but he definitely has the stamina to go on until you’re both seeing stars and struggling to breathe. 

 Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Would I be wrong to assume he has like a treasure chest of various toys for both of you to use and I mean he has EVERYTHING like imagine any kind of sex toy and I bet you he has it under lock and key ready for when it’s needed, and I also bet he wears the key around his neck.

Unfair (How much they like to tease)

Bitch boy likes to tease you until you physically have to restrain yourself from screaming, he will push you to the absolute edge and then stop and wait for you to come down before starting again and you swear you’ve almost killed him once or twice for that, he also has a shit eating grin the whole time. 

Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Jimmy is quiet but will praise you from time to time and will let out little groans when he reaches his finish and will say your name when he cums

Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

100% has had a threesome with you and Robert, you were all hanging out at Roberts house one day and the idea was sprung on you by the two men and you happily agreed because I mean who wouldn’t? And I must say it was an EXPERIENCE 

X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants)

Like a solid 7.5 inches 

Yearning (How high is their sex drive?

I’d say a 6.5/10 like he’s not a horny animal but he does like to fuck often enough when you two have the time.

ZZZ (How quickly they fall asleep afterward)

As I said at the start y’all usually get high after sex so as soon as the weed make you two sleepy you’ll curl up into his chest and sleep.

#jimmy page #robert plant #led zeppelin #led zeppelin imagine #led zeppelin imagines #led zeppelin smut #led zeppelin fluff #led zeppelin angst #led zeppelin x reader #jimmy page imagine #jimmy page imagines #jimmy page smut #jimmy page fluff #jimmy page angst #jimmy page x reader #70's #rock n roll

[hangingfire]

How the Franklin Expedition ruined Charles Dickens’s marriage

Originally posted at: How the Franklin Expedition ruined Charles Dickens’s marriage at hangingfire.net

Yes, it’s a clickbait headline. No, I’m not sorry. Because history is fucking weird sometimes, and here’s how.

(I’m posting this in honor of The Terror Appreciation Week on Tumblr. Apologies for not sticking closely to the daily themes; I hope no one minds that I’m using this as an opportunity to dump some interesting historical tidbits I’ve picked up over the last year.)

Recently the world of Victorian scholarship had a small stir over letters from Edward Dutton Cook, a friend late in life of Catherine, Charles Dickens’s wife. She confided much about her life with Dickens to Cook, particularly this bit which is what’s really got people going (my emphasis):

he discovered at last that she had outgrown his liking. She had borne ten children and had lost many of her good looks, was growing old, in fact. He even tried to shut her up in a lunatic asylum, poor thing! But bad as the law is in regard to proof of insanity he could not quite wrest it to his purpose.

More details in the Times Literary Supplement and via the University of York.

Dickens’s marriage seems to have been pretty well on the rocks by the time he became infatuated with actress Ellen Ternan (and you can read a fascinating account of how the scandal “went viral” in this paper by Patrick Leary). But how he met her is the bit that’s of interest to the Franklinologist.

The play The Frozen Deep came about in 1856. It was written by Wilkie Collins, but Dickens had his hands deep in the production (he and his daughters played some of the roles), and it was written in reaction to the findings of John Rae’s expedition in search of Franklin. As all we Franklin nuts know well: in 1854, Rae had submitted a report to the Admiralty stating that:

From the mutilated state of many of the corpses and the contents of the kettles it is evident that our wretched countrymen had been driven to the last resource—cannibalism—as a means of prolonging existence.

And instead of keeping his report confidential, the Admiralty made it public.

Reaction was swift and horrified, and Dickens put Rae and his Inuit sources on blast. He wrote articles insisting that no good Christian Englishman would have stooped to such depravity and also went full-bore racist, insinuating that the Inuit probably killed and ate the explorers themselves. Highlights:

We believe every savage to be in his heart covetous, treacherous, and cruel; and we have yet to learn what knowledge the white man — lost, houseless, shipless, apparently forgotten by his race, plainly famine-stricken, weak, frozen, helpless, and dying — has of the gentleness of Esquimaux nature. […] We submit that the memory of the lost Arctic voyagers is placed, by reason and experience, high above the taint of this so easily-allowed connection; and that the noble conduct and example of such men, and of their own great leader himself, under similar endurances, belies it, and outweighs by the weight of the whole universe the chatter of a gross handful of uncivilised people, with domesticity of blood and blubber.

And so: The Frozen Deep, a play penned by Collins under Dickens’s heavy guidance. In it, a young woman fears her fiancé has been lost in an Arctic expedition, and there’s a doomy Scots nursemaid (possibly a dig at Rae, a Scotsman) who pronounces all manner of gloomy portents—“who goes about the house like an ominous enchantress, muttering of awful visions which come to her from ‘the land o’ ice and snaw’” as a review describes it. There were a few private and semi-public performances in 1857, followed by a production at the Manchester Free Trade Hall as a benefit for the widow of Douglas William Jerrold. Dickens decided a couple of the performers (in roles originally played by his daughters) should be replaced by professionals … including a Mrs. Francis Ternan and her daughters Mary and Ellen.

And thus did Ellen Ternan enter Dickens’s life. Probably the Dickens marriage was at a point where any sufficiently strong motive would have occasioned the separation that ended it, but his infatuation with her does seem to have been the proverbial camel-breaking straw. And all thanks to Dickens’s upset about the Franklin Expedition.

Sources:

“The Frozen Deep.” Wikipedia. Wikipedia.org, 30 November 2018.

Bowen, John. “Unmutual Friend”. Times Literary Supplement. 19 February 2019.

University of York. “Letters reveal Charles Dickens tried to place his wife in an asylum”. University of York News, 20 February 2019.

Fleur. “The Frozen Deep by Wilkie Collins”. Fleur in Her World. 16 November 2009.

Dickens, Charles. “The Lost Arctic Voyagers”. The Victorian Web. 5 March 2005.

Gasson, Andrew. “The Frozen Deep: A Drama in Three Acts”. Wilkie Collins Information Pages. February 2019.

Leary, Patrick. “How the Dickens Scandal Went Viral”. Charles Dickens and the Mid-Victorian Press, 1850-1870. Mackenzie, Hazel and Winyard, Ben, eds. Buckingham: University of Buckingham Press, 2013

Levy, Walter. “Charles Dickens and the cast of The Frozen Deep”. Picnic Wit. 2014.

Rae, John. “Part III. The following is Dr. Rae’s report to the Admiralty…” An Earnest Appeal to the British Public on Behalf of the Missing Arctic Expedition. Pim, Bedford, ed. London: Hurst and Blackett, 1857.

Stanford University. “Charles Dickens: A brief biography”. Discovering Dickens: A Tale of Two Cities. 2002.

#history's great dick moves #charles dickens #theterrorappreciationweek #history #victoriana #franklin expedition

[grootpoepjeplasjehoofd]

Good night to everyone except for stinky poo poo revisionist racist Mr. Eduard Bernstein.

“We will condemn and oppose certain methods of subjugating savages. But we will not condemn the idea that savages be subjugated and made to conform to the rules of a higher civilization. Any struggle for emancipation which is to command our enthusi­asm, possibly even our active support, must have an clement of cul­tural interest in it - whether it involves peoples or nationalities, who have developed a cultural life of their own, rising against a foreign domination which hinders their development, or classes who are striving to advance, rebelling against their suppression by backward classes. We acknowledge that any people which has shown itself ca­pable of developing and maintaining a national civilization has the right of nationality.

Our remarks so far are unlikely to meet with serious opposition. Some time ago, it was indeed suggested in the socialist camp that savages and barbarians be assisted in their struggles against advanc­ing capitalist civilisation, but that was an outcome of romanticism which needed only to be followed to its logical conclusion to be proved untenable.

But even among peoples capable of civilisation we cannot treat every revolt with equal sympathy. The freedom of an insignificant people in a non-European or semi-European region does not carry the same weight as the free development of the great and highly civi­lised nations of Europe. If, then, the struggle of such a people poses a serious threat to the interests of this development, it is entirely appro­priate that we should adopt a negative attitude towards it." - 1896

“There is a great deal of sound evidence to support the view that, in the present state of public opinion in Europe, the subjection of na­tives to the authority of European administration does not always entail a worsening of their condition, but often means the opposite. However much violence, fraud, and other unworthy actions accom­panied the spread of European rule in earlier centuries, as they often still do today, the other side of the picture is that, under direct European rule, savages are without exception better off than they were before. Even before the arrival of Europeans in Africa, brutal wars, robbery, and slavery were not unknown. Indeed, they were the regu­lar order of the day. What was unknown was the degree of peace and legal protection made possible by European institutions and the con­sequent sharp rise in food resources. I have previously, in this jour­nal, quoted a bitterly anti-English article from Grenzbote in which it was, half-reproachfully, established that, under the protection of British rule, the Negro population of Shira province (between Lake Nyasa and the Zambesi) increased tenfold in the space of a few years (see Neue Zeit, xiv, 1, p. 485, and Grenzbote, 14 July 1895). Of course, the Negroes have not yet read Bax's work and, in their Philistinism, would rather live under English protection than in that African paradise where slave-raiding adds zest to life. The same is true elsewhere. In the United States today, where previously a few hundred thousand Indians fought endless internecine battles over hunting grounds, sixty million people, most of them perfectly respectable, live and export food for further millions of people. Ro­mantics may find this deplorable, but, despite the dark side of con­temporary American life, we find nothing in it that is "intrinsically evil." Whatever wrongs were previously perpetrated on the Indians, nowadays their rights are protected, and it is a known fact that their numbers are no longer declining but are, once again, on the increase.” - 1898

“We may not occupy a purely negative standpoint on colonial policy, but must pursue a positive socialist colonial policy. (Applause), We must get away from the utopian idea which Leads to disposing of the colonies. The final, consequence of this approach would be to return the United States to the Indians. (Protests) The colonies are here to stay: we have to come to terms with that. Civilised peoples have to exercise a certain guardianship over uncivilised peoples – even socialists have to recognise this. Let us base ourselves on real facts, which will lead us to oppose capitalist colonial policy with a socialist one. Much of our economic life rests upon products from the colonies which the natives were not able to utilise. On all these grounds we must accept the resolution of the majority.“ - 1907

#like I know it was the 19th century but like #this is bad even by their standards lmao

[michaeloneillwords-music]

Covid-19 and the Problem with Freedom

        So here we are 6 months into the Covid-19 Global Pandemic, a virus which has brought about tumultuous change and the reshaping of our lives in order to combat the threat it poses to the entire human population. As well as the aforementioned change to our daily existence, the virus has brought with it some larger questions around how we organise our societies and one thing that has become glaringly obvious to me over this period is that Freedom both at an individual and collective level is problematic. As the virus has shown, Freedom – the right to Autonomous self and collective determination is a threat to all of us and as a concept may be outdated, having merely ran its course, no longer being fit for purpose. People and their accustomed attachment to this ageing concept of Freedom are preventing us from getting where we need to be. Yes, we may have to hand over our individual and collective affairs to The State and the Technocratic Elite who are guiding the state but surely this is better than the Freedom to think for yourself, to manage your own risk and all the problems that arise from this? 

So for me Covid-19 has been a breath of fresh air, whilst the goal is obviously to eradicate the virus and eventually eradicate death altogether (the aim of any transhumanist worth their grain of salt), Covid-19 has allowed me to put Freedom as a concept in perspective and see it for the problematic, archaic and ultimately silly concept that it truly is. We can see clearly now that people organising the principles and practicalities of their own existence is in direct opposition to nature and the virus’s that it may throw up, this much is obvious. The great work done (at the flick of a switch) by nation states across the globe has proven that the days of loading up on Vitamin C, D, Zinc, Magnesium, eating well, getting outdoors at the same time as protecting the vulnerable and cracking on will simply not do. It’s wreckless, and as history has proven it only leads to perpetual freedom which has prevented the total technocratic takeover we desperately need and it has to stop. Ultimately, who do we think we are attempting to organise our own existence and manage our own risk? What do we really know as we scratch around in sub ordinance to Economic demands, preoccupied with bad drugs, pornography, Netflix and Deliveroo. Who made us an Authority on ourselves? Ridiculous when one actually reflects. If it wasn’t for the great work done by Technocrats through the ages we would be feral, uncivilised animals sat in a pool of our own piss and excrement. 

     The time has come comrades to cancel Freedom as it is simply not working. It is quite clear to this excited spectator that the time has come to move human existence into the digital realm entirely, where Google, Microsoft, Apple, Facebook, Twitter and all of the other great facilitators we have come to love can monitor us, keep us safe and organise our existence. Freeing us from the ever growing risks of being outside and allowing us more and more time to engage in self distraction. From this perspective Covid-19 really does have a silver lining. It has shown us that there is no place nor need for Freedom and Liberty in 21st Century Societies. And whilst I don’t think Freedom should be airbrushed out of History entirely as I think we need to learn from its mistakes, it should remain our national curriculum only so our children can understand that it was ultimately no good for us and led to the global health crisis we have today. Furthermore, anyone opposing the eradication of freedom must be understood as uneducated, they are more than likely also mentally unwell and if white are probably a member of the Far Right. We need to deal with ‘Freedomists’ swiftly and harshly. One way would be to Pathologise any dissent towards the eradication of Freedom and the Technocracy managing it. Historically this has worked for Nation State regimes before and with the right care and attention to detail I think it can work again. 

       Personally, and I’m no expert so I really shouldn’t be speaking on such matters , I think we have the right people in the right places both at a National and Trans-National level to make the next logical step from a free society to a top down Tecnocratically controlled totally digitised society. Handing over freedoms is never easy but I do urge every last one of you to do it now, it will be better for you, for your family and for all of us in the long run. We’re in good hands, I have faith in that. I know that every last Scientist, Economist, Politician and Academic who make up our new Tecnocratic World Order have put in the hours for us, they’ve gone through Hell and high water, sweated blood and tears whilst rising to the summit of their professions to make your life and your family’s life better. These are the Ultimate empaths, saints, so our minds should be at ease and any doubt ignored. Bill Gates to me is the ‘Digital Era’s Mother Theresa. So what if his father was a keen Eugenicist those were different times. Bill made his money by playing fair and applying himself. Why shouldn’t he have the right to fund and essentially own the entire global medical infrastructure? His decision to do this was Philanthropy in its finest and most pure form, done for all of our well-being and we still have some people showing sour grapes towards him. 

       Respect and praise must also be given to Both Boris Johnson and Donald Trump in such trying circumstances for how they have implemented the Scientific and technocratic recommendations. Boris has held up well in the Global transformation, delivering his message with gusto and jovialness, always referring to the Science and performing well at press conferences as you would expect. Mr Trump on the other hand has had much more to contend with in relation to systemic racism in the US and the civil unrest that has ensued at the same time as the virus. He has hung in there, although I do think he should have suspended his crusade of weeding out the systemic peadophilia in the US establishment and focused more on the enforcement of Lockdowns, increased testing and the race for a vaccine at such a critical time, but maybe that’s just nit-picking. Regardless, I think both Mr Johnson and Mr Trump should be working closer with silicone valley to provide the public both sides of the pond with an effective digital social credit system so both countries can slowly phase out freedom and liberty in the very near future. 

        I think we should also give praise to Sir Keir Starmer and his Labour party opposition here in the UK. They have done what any good opposition does and avoided scrutinising the actions and policies taken by Johnsons government, like the decision to lock down in the first place and instead argued over the particulars of said actions and policies. In doing this he skilfully avoided greater debates around the usefulness of Imperial College London’s modelling system, instead falling in line with the larger national and trans-national cause to shut down societies, he showed and understanding and knowing that time was of the essence, and underlined how worthy he is of his knighthood. At this point it is arguable which party is best equipped to rid us of our increasingly problematic ‘freedoms’. Personally I would like to see a shift to One Party Politics and stop beating around the bush. We are following the Scientific Experts now anyway, so all the rig moral of left and right as silly as it was before just seems pointless now. We need to Centralize, Centralize, Centralize and sub contract our existence out to those in the know, or the inefficiency of the system will continue. 

       However, we can only rely on the state to reduce freedom so much, we must work with them to eradicate this outdated phantasy too. Our obedience is essential. Indeed I would have to say that there is a good argument to be made that anyone who leaves their home at this point is morally bankrupt and of very questionable character given the risks it poses. The same goes for those who don’t have smartphones, who haven’t uploaded track and trace, who don’t wear masks and who are not testing themselves as regularly as possible. You could also add smokers and the obese to this list of morally deficient types. What is wrong with these people? Finally, I would just like to say to all my fellow comrades out there, the cavalry is coming, a vaccine, universal basic income and an automated smart economy is on its way, we just need to be patient, have faith in our technocratic experts and the tireless unselfish work they are doing on our behalf. Stay safe and remember, you don’t know anything, leave it up to the experts and hopefully we can work together to make Individual and collective Freedom and Liberty a thing of the past.

#satire #satirical #politics #social commentary

[torestoreamends]

Moramortia: Chapter 16

Harry interrogates James, and Draco receives the letter from Rose…

Read it on AO3 / Pick a chapter

*

XVI Not the End

Draco isn’t really reading the papers in his hand, he’s just shuffling them, staring blankly at the words and taking none of them in, then sliding each sheet of parchment to the back of the pack to start all over again. He doesn’t even know why he’s bothering. He’s not going to this auction; none of these items are of any value to him. But it’s something to do, something to keep him occupied, and this is better than pacing around the Potters’ kitchen feeling like a very anxious intruder. 

They’ve heard nothing, and even though it’s only been a few hours, the idea that they’d been so close to getting Scorpius back is torturing him. If the boys had come home they could have all worked together to get the last few ingredients, whatever those might be. It would have been a lot quicker. It might have brought them a handful of precious, lifesaving minutes. 

But no. The boys are gone. Vanished. And they’ve probably taken with them the last chance he could have had to see Scorpius alive.

Upset, irritable, burning with worry, he slaps the auction papers onto the desk and buries his face in his hands. He feels the cool press of his wedding ring against his forehead but it’s not comforting. It just makes guilt gnaw away inside him. 

He promised her. He promised Astoria that he would never let any harm come to their son. He promised that he would be a good father, that he’d help Scorpius grow up happy and healthy and strong, so he could flourish among the weeds of this hateful world. He promised, and he failed. He’s failed over and over and over again, and this failure, possibly the last one, is the worst of all because he’s been trying so hard and it’s been going so well. Until now.

He lifts his head and runs his fingers through his hair. There are lots of discarded bits of parchment on his desk, all crumpled and tear-stained and torn up, but he knows exactly where the recipe for the cure is. It’s a particularly yellow bit of parchment, all curled up in one corner, a bit crinkly from water damage, and he picks it up and smooths it out on the table. 

He knows it off by heart now, but he still reads through it:

One vial of Phoenix Tears

Two pieces of wood from a willow tree

Seven basilisk teeth, crushed

The remnants of a sacrifice

A single memory of love

A single bottle of Love Potion 

He wonders how much of this they already have. The Phoenix Tears almost certainly, and Basilisk Fangs, and they went to Godric’s Hollow for the sacrifice. But what about the rest of it? How close are they to being done? 

The only thing he knows for certain is that they have to come to him once it’s ready. They have to.  It won’t work otherwise. As much as Albus loves Scorpius, and as grateful as Draco is for that most of the time, it’s nothing compared to how much Draco loves him. Draco is certain of that.

No one else has been with Scorpius through every moment of his life, from the crushing depths of grief to moments of blissful joy over the last few years. Draco has seen him grow up, learn to walk and talk, has seen him establish himself in the world and put down deep roots. Scorpius, his child, who contains within him all best bits of Astoria as well as something indefinably his own, has become someone the Draco is so immeasurably proud of, and Draco couldn’t love him more if he tried. He wants to be part of the cure, needs to be, because he‘s sure it can’t happen without him. And all he can do is pray that Scorpius understands that before it’s too late. 

He sets the recipe down and looks at the clock on his desk. It once belonged to Astoria, and it’s beautiful, delicate gold fretwork weaving up into the shape of a bloom of roses. The clock is perched on top, its midnight blue face dotted with stars, with little planets orbiting round the outside. 

She was always fascinated by time, by the way seconds rush by, the way minutes stretch into hours, into days, and how before you know it the years are flying past. The years have moved too fast, both the years with her and the ones with Scorpius. The idea of a year is so long, but when those years are limited, they seem insignificant, too brief, almost intangible. 

The clock tells him that it’s around the time that’s both too late and too early all at once. No wonder he feels so exhausted. He’s barely slept in a week, and now he’s been up for too many hours to count. But there’s no way he’d be able to sleep. 

He rubs his eyes and gets to his feet, tucking his chair under the desk. He paces round in a circle, glancing out of the window at the grey pre-dawn world. One of the peacocks is asleep on the lawn outside, head tucked under its wing. Scorpius has always hated those peacocks. Grandfather’s Horcruxes, he calls them. It’s such an apt description that Draco smiles just thinking of it, imagining the disgust on his face, Albus teasing him about it. 

“What are you scared of? They’re just peacocks, Scorpius. Peacocks are harmless.“ 

Scorpius would fold his arms and shake his head. "No. They’re evil. They’ve got it in for me… Their feathers make beautiful quills though." 

"Maybe that’s why they’ve got it in for you. They don’t want you stealing their feathers." 

Draco can almost see them nudging each other back and forth as they make their way through the garden. He’s seen them do it countless times. He desperately hopes he’ll get to see them do it again, over years and years to come. 

He’s still gazing out of the window, remembering the past and praying for the future, when there’s a soft tapping on the other window. There are two windows in the office, because it’s quite a long room, one with a beautiful view of the garden, and another with a view onto a gnarled old oak tree, that grows close to the walls. It’s been there as long as the house has, if not longer, and they’ve had to shape the roots to stop them damaging the foundations. No one has ever been able to move it because it’s infested with Bowtruckles, like most of the trees in the Manor grounds. 

Draco frowns and walks over to the window. Who on earth would be sending an Owl at this time of night? Surely not Potter. He’d just send a Patronus message if anything happened. There’s no one else he knows who might be sending him messages. He hasn’t had any correspondence with anyone in over a week; there’s a pile of unread letters downstairs on the table in the hall. Maybe someone’s bothering him about one of those? But not at this time at night. No one would be so uncivilised. 

There’s a very bedraggled-looking tawny owl sitting on the window ledge. He doesn’t recognise it, but it looks like it’s flown through some awful weather to get here. It’s a bit shivery, all its feathers are ruffled, and it has a very indignant look on its face, like it knows it’s been put through a lot, and it doesn’t appreciate it. 

Draco opens the window, and the owl holds its ground, not fluttering back an inch. It just stays still and continues to glare at him, like its problems are all his fault. 

"I’ll let you stay for the night and give you some food if you stop looking at me like that,” he tells it. “If not, I’ll leave you out here." 

The owl gives an indignant hoot and ruffles its feathers, but it stops glaring. 

"Thank you,” Draco says. He steps back to let the owl fly in through the window. “Who are you from?" 

He walks across the room to where the owl is now perched on the back of his chair. It holds its leg out in answer, and he unties the letter, running one gentle finger over the owl’s bedraggled head. "There’s food and water downstairs, round the back of the house. You can stay there and recover if you like. I won’t send you out again." 

The owl gives his finger a grateful little nibble, then takes off and soars out of the open window. Draco closes it to keep out the draught, and sits down at his desk, curious to read whatever letter has been sent to him in the middle of the night. 

He recognises the writing on the front of the envelope from letters he’s seen sent to Scorpius. Also because Rose’s handwriting looks remarkably like her mother’s. Frowning, he flips the letter over. Why would she be writing in the middle of the night? Why would she send a letter here? Why would she be writing to him? None of it makes sense. 

He slits the letter open with one finger, not bothering with the letter opener on his desk, and pulls the parchment out. He smooths it onto the desk top and reads what Rose has written. Then he reads it again. And again. And again, trying to comprehend the enormity of what she’s said. 

Dear Mr Malfoy, 

I’ve just heard from James Potter, who’s seen Albus and Scorpius tonight, that Scorpius is in a really bad way, and that they weren’t sure how long he’ll last. I know they’ve been somewhere dangerous tonight, and I’m scared that Scorpius might already be dead. I think he would have wanted you to see these letters before he died, especially if it seemed inevitable that he would die, so I think you should have them now. 

I’m writing to you to pass on some letters that Scorpius left with me for you. He told me to send them on if he died, so you could read about the adventures he’s been having while he was away. 

Scorpius was a really great friend. I’ve loved knowing him all these years, and the world will be a darker place without him. I’m sorry we couldn’t manage to save him for you, and I’m sorry he can’t tell you all these things himself. 

Scorpius’s friend always,

Rose

Scorpius is dead? 

The weight of it hits him like a hammer blow, and he crumples into his seat as the whole world gives way beneath him. 

Scorpius is dead.

There’s a physical sensation associated with having your heart broken, and Draco feels it now. A dead weight settles in the pit of his stomach. He feels so empty and so full at the same time. His hands are shaking, and the world has narrowed down to one single, awful focus. There’s nothing else he can think of. Nothing else exists. Just this one awful truth. 

He feels numb. Emotionless. This was how he’d felt about Astoria too, and he’d hated himself for it. The inability to cry or feel anything beyond empty and shocked. Turmoil – rage and despair and denial – a tornado inside him, wrapped up so tightly than nothing can get out. All he can do is sit in silence and stare at his hands

It takes a long time, he doesn’t know how long, before he starts thinking again, and when he does, he decides that he doesn’t believe it. It can’t be true, it simply can’t. Scorpius, who is full of strength and determination and life cannot be dead. It’s wrong. It’s an impossibility. Scorpius and death are such opposing ideas that surely, if it were true, the world would have ground to a halt or shattered from the centre. 

He will not believe it. He cannot believe it. Not until he’s seen Scorpius with his own eyes. Not until he’s confirmed for himself that this is true. He won’t even touch those letters. Because if Scorpius wanted to tell him all these stories in person, then he should get that chance, because there is a chance. There is always a chance. He won’t let there not be a chance. 

He gets to his feet, full of purpose and determination. He faces himself in the mirror beside the fireplace, and he looks grim and intimidating, like his father, like nothing will stand in his way. Not life or death or magic or any person who exists in the world. 

He snatches Rose’s letter off the table, takes a handful of Floo Powder, and steps into the fireplace. 

"Holly Cottage,” he says, cold and clear, crumpling Rose’s letter in his fist. 

—

James sits at the kitchen table in his parents’ house and stares down at his knees. He can hear his dad out in the corridor, talking in a low voice to Uncle Ron. His mum is making tea with her back to him, and he’s doing his very best not to look at her. 

He’s grateful not to have been hauled back to the Ministry, but at the same time sitting at this kitchen table, surrounded by a tense, ominous silence, brings back horrible memories of all the times when he was little and he was being scolded for smashing next door’s windows with his Quaffle, or breaking Albus’s arm. He feels very small now, and a little scared, but mostly he’s worried about Scorpius and Albus. 

He can still hear Scorpius’s screams ringing in his ears, and he desperately wants to know where they both are. Whether they’re alive. Whether the Love Potion will work. But he can’t know any of that, and it’s almost better that he doesn’t know. It’s up to him to protect them both now, and he’s determined to do a good job. 

“Do you want milk in your tea?” His mum asks, turning to look at him. 

He glances up at her. “No, I’m okay,” he says. “Thanks,” he adds, just to stay on her good side. 

She slides a mug onto the table next to him. “You know where the sugar bowl is if you want it." 

"I’m not that thirsty,” he says, nudging the mug away. He’s too anxious to be thirsty. 

“I think you should have a drink,” she says, and her voice is surprisingly gentle. She doesn’t sound angry at all. 

He frowns suspiciously at the mug. “Does this have Veritaserum in it?" 

She tuts. "James, do you really think I would spike your drink? It’s just tea.” She brushes a hand through his messy hair, and he knows she’s trying to flatten the sticky up bit at the back. “It’s been a long night. And I suspect it’s about to get longer.” She rests a hand on his shoulder and looks down at him. “Your dad isn’t happy." 

"Is Dad ever happy when it comes to Albus?” James asks, then immediately regrets it as his mum’s expression goes stern. 

“He’s really worried, James. About both of them. And I know he just wants Albus home safely." 

James nods. "I know. I think they will be back soon.” He glances up at her. “Did Dad send you in here to be the good Auror?" 

She shakes her head. "Your father hasn’t sent me anywhere. I don’t know what he’s planning to ask you. I’m just here to be your mum.” She ruffles his hair. “You still have glitter on your face by the way." 

James screws his face up and starts trying to scrub it away on his cheek. "Uncle Ron’s stupid security spells. You know he blew me up like a balloon too?" 

His mum grins. "Your uncles are all excellent wizards. Not to be underestimated." 

"No,” James agrees. He picks up his teaspoon and peers at his reflection in the back of it. Most of his face seems free of glitter and make up now, although it’s a little difficult to tell how clean he really is. 

His mum sits down at the kitchen table and watches him for a moment, before taking a breath. “How is your brother?" 

James looks at her, and he knows it’s a real question. She’s not trying to get information from him. She’s just worried. 

He sighs and puts the teaspoon down on the table, then he takes a sip of tea. "Alright I think. Worried. Scared. He looks a mess. And he’s Splinched himself." 

She blinks and reels back a bit. "Splinched himself?" 

He nods. "His shoulder’s all mangled. I tried to clean it up a bit, but I’m not really a Healer. It’s a long way from perfect." 

She nods, and her fingers clench together where they’re resting on top of the table. "Anything else I should be forewarned about?" 

"Not that I can think of,” James says. “As long as Scorpius is okay I think he can survive anything else." 

"And do you know?” She asks. “Where they’re going?" 

James opens his mouth to protest against the question, but she holds her hand up to stop him. 

"I’m not going to ask you to tell me,” she says. “You’re as stubborn as your father. I know you won’t say. But do you at least know?" 

He shrugs. "Albus didn’t tell me. I could guess where they went, but it might not be helpful.” He looks up and sees that her face has fallen. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I wish I knew, Mum. I wish I could have gone with them. I could have helped, maybe.” He shakes his head and takes another sip of tea. 

She gets to her feet. “It’s alright, James.” She stands behind him and rests her hands on his shoulders. “You saw them, you talked to them, it sounds like you did a good job of looking after them.” She shifts to the side so she can look down at him, giving him a small, brave smile. “I think that’s enough. It’s better than what the rest of us have been doing. Stuck here. Worrying. Your dad’s been going mad. Draco’s even worse." 

James looks down into his tea mug and swills the liquid round and round. "Maybe it’d be safer for Al to never come home. Dad’s going to kill him. I think you might kill him too when you see the state him." 

She shakes her head. "I don’t know what we’re going to do." 

James looks up at her. "They’re nearly done though. With the cure. It might even work. If anyone can do it it’s Albus." 

His mum gives a proud little smile and squeezes his shoulders. "Undoubtedly.” For a moment she looks at him, then she leans down and kisses the top of his head. “I’m glad you’re safe too. I hope your dad isn’t too harsh." 

James groans. "Me too, Mum. Me too." 

—

Harry leans against the back of the chair and looks at James. He has his Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement face on, or as James likes to think of it, his ‘I am your dad and I do know better’ face. It’s terrifying, or at least it would be if James wasn’t used to it. But he knows his dad, and this look rarely sticks around for long. If you can make him laugh it’ll break as easily as glass. And anyway, James has his own face. He folds his arms and leans back in his seat, his best ‘I’m your son and I really couldn’t care less’ expression of ambivalence on his face. 

His mum and Uncle Ron are standing in the corner of the room, side by side, but continually glancing at each other. They seem to be having an intense but silent conversation, and judging by the worry on his mum’s face and the lack of anger on Uncle Ron’s, the conversation is about his dad and not about him. 

"Where have they gone?” Harry asks. Brusque and no nonsense. 

James shakes his head. “I really couldn’t tell you." 

"Were you there to get the Love Potion?” Harry asks, bending in lower over the chair, so he’s leaning as far towards James as he can. “Which ingredients do they have now?" 

James frowns at his dad. "You know about the cure?”

“Yes,” Harry says, pushing off the chair and folding his arms. “We do. Which ingredients have they got?" 

James sighs. "I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Basilisk Teeth; I know they’ve been to Godric’s Hollow, and they managed to get the Love Potion… You tell me what else they need.” He shrugs and stretches his feet out in front of him. He’s half tempted to put them up on the table, but he doesn’t really want his dad to complete explode, especially not in a serious situation like this. It’s just fun to nudge him in that direction. 

His dad’s jaw has gone dangerously tight, but he doesn’t look away. He’s not struggling to restrain himself just yet. “Did they tell you about any sort of plan they had? Do you know how many more ingredients they need? Do you have any idea if they’re planning to come home at all?" 

"I didn’t grill them about it,” he says, taking a nonchalant sip of his tea. “Albus isn’t exactly receptive to questioning. And you know I’m not good at remembering information. That’s why he’s your trainee Auror and I’m just a lowly Quidditch player." 

"This is serious, James,” Harry shouts, voice and temper rising all at once, just the way James expected it to. 

“And I seriously don’t know,” James replies. “You should have a cup of tea, Dad. It’ll calm you down." 

His dad slaps his palm onto the table, making the mugs there rattle and sending tea sploshing over the sides. He spins around, running his hands through his hair, struggling with himself, and James glances at the other two in the corner. 

Uncle Ron gives Ginny a nudge, and she goes over to Harry. Meanwhile, Ron steps up to the table. 

"What did they need a Love Potion for so quickly that they had to break in?” He glances at Harry and Ginny. “I mean, Albus is really good at potions. And they could have just asked me. I’d have given it to them. Or they could have bought one in the morning. I don’t get it." 

James looks at his uncle. "They… They didn’t seem confident that Scorpius would last the night. And Albus didn’t want to risk you telling dad." 

Harry turns around, and Ginny strokes a hand over his shoulder. Harry puts a hand on her arm and nudges her away. "They didn’t think Scorpius would last the night?” He glances at Ginny, then at Ron, and takes a step forward. “It’s that bad?" 

James hesitates, then nods, looking down at his hands. "He’s in a really bad way. We found him some Painkilling Potion, but I don’t think it lasted long. He can’t move properly. It’s like this disease is shutting him down bit by bit. Before you came into the shop-” He breaks off, remembering Scorpius’s awful scream of pain, and he shudders. “I hope they’re nearly done. I think they are. There isn’t much time." 

"Someone should warn Draco,” Ginny murmurs, meeting Harry’s eyes, and he nods. He looks pale and wide-eyed with shock, like he’s struggling to take it in.

“So really Malfoy should pay the damages then,” Ron says, “since it was-” He breaks off as he glances around at the others. “If Scorpius survives, of course." 

"I think Draco needs to be here,” Harry says, ignoring him. “For this discussion.” He turns back to James. “We need every detail you can give us about Scorpius’s condition.”

James nods. “I can do that." 

Harry draws his wand. "I’ll call him now, I can-" 

He never finishes the sentence. From the other room there’s a distant whoosh of flames, the distinctive sound of a Floo arrival, and they all look at each other. 

"Could it be-” Ginny murmurs, and there’s a little trace of hope in her voice.

“It hasn’t been long enough,” James says. 

Ron glances at Harry, and Harry shakes his head. 

“We’re not expecting anyone." 

He takes a step toward the kitchen door, wand pointed towards it, and both Ron and Ginny draw their wands too. James gets to his feet and turns round, stepping close to his mum. As they listen, footsteps march down the hallway, and they all ready spells. But the person who appears in the doorway isn’t an intruder. He’s a familiar figure – tall and impressive, black robes swirling around him, mouth set in a grim line. Draco Malfoy strides into the room and everyone, even Ron, relaxes. 

"I was just about to call you, Draco,” Harry says, lowering his wand. “What are you doing here?" 

In silence, Draco walks to him and holds out a letter. 

Harry takes a step back and frowns at it. "What is-" 

"Read it, Potter." 

Harry looks at the letter in Draco’s hand and seems to be considering protesting, but then he relents and takes it. Draco turns away from Harry and looks around, taking in who else is there. 

"Do you want any tea?” Ginny asks when Draco looks at her, but he waves her away and shakes his head. He turns back to Harry and now seems to have eyes only for him. 

James can’t help but notice that Draco’s hands are shaking just a bit. While he’s watching Harry he doesn’t seem to be able to keep them still. He keeps messing with the ring on his left hand, and it looks as though he’s drawing some sort of comfort from it. His shoulders relax when he’s touching it. James can’t tell if it’s anger or upset that he’s trying to relieve, but there’s some inner turmoil going on.

James watches his dad’s face for some clue, for some proof that this is about Scorpius, some sign about what the letter contains – good news or bad news. This can’t be about anything else, can it? But his dad’s expression remains unreadable as he finishes the letter. 

For a second he holds it in his hand and just stares at it, then he swallows and looks up at Draco. 

“Dead?” He asks, in a choked voice. 

Draco shakes his head. “No." 

"But this says-”

Draco snatches the letter back from Harry’s hand. “I won’t believe it.”

“We’ve seen them,” Harry says, “but not for an hour or so. They were at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.” He looks at James. “Could Scorpius be dead by now?" 

James looks at his mum, then at Draco and Harry, standing side by side, identical expressions of deep seriousness on their faces. "He could,” he says, trying desperately to come up with reasons to the contrary and failing. “It wasn’t good. There was this- this poison sort of spreading through him. Last I saw…” He trails off, again remembering the way Scorpius had looked when he was lying there on the ground, screaming in agony, cradled in Albus’s arms. “It looked like it had spread a lot. It wasn’t slow. He could- he could be gone by now." 

There’s a twitch in Draco’s cheek, and James wonders if he’s biting the inside of his mouth to try and restrain himself. He shakes his head and looks at Harry, expression hard as ice. "My son is not dead. You’re going to find him, right now, and you’re going to bring him back here, and we’re going to cure this, whatever it takes." 

Harry runs a hand through his hair. "Draco, we have no idea where they are. They could be anywhere. And… even if we found them it might be too late." 

"This isn’t the moment for you to develop a sense of realism, Potter,” Draco snaps, and he turns to the others. “Weasley, do you have anything useful in your shop? Wards? Can you tell where they Apparated to? You must be able to give us something.”

“Draco,” Harry says softly.

“Ginny,” Draco says, ignoring him. “Where would Albus take someone who was sick?" 

Ginny shakes her head and makes a vague, uncertain gesture. "He’d want to finish the potion, wherever he could do that." 

"Good,” Draco says. “Then we need to know which ingredients they still haven’t found.”

“Draco,” Harry tries again. “I don’t think we should-" 

"James,” Draco says, turning his back on Harry. “This letter says you saw them this evening. We need you to tell us everything. Anything and everything you can about where they came from, how they looked, what they were planning next-”

“Draco, please-”

Draco continues, voice raised now to drown Harry out. “Any details they mentioned about the potion.”

James glances at his dad before nodding, and Draco turns to Harry. 

“Potter, the Aurors. They should check the shop. There must be some clues. I know you can tell these sorts of things, so get to work, and-”

“Draco,” Harry says hopelessly, raising his volume to arch Draco’s. “We don’t know anything. And Scorpius might already be-”

“MY SON IS NOT DEAD!” Draco roars in his face. The whole kitchen goes dead silent as Draco reels back a step and points a threatening finger at Harry, voice going dangerous and low. “He’s not dead. He’s-” He chokes and breaks off, turning away from them all, and Ginny rushes to put a hand on his shoulder. The rest of them stand motionless, stunned, and she turns to glare at them. 

“Do what he said,” she orders. “Harry, Ron… just do it.”

Ron glances at Harry, looking very uncomfortable. James assumes he’s not happy about taking orders from Draco Malfoy. But after a bit of foot shuffling and hesitancy he sighs. “Fine, well I should go back to the shop anyway. I need to talk to George.” He gestures towards the door, backs his way out of the room, then flees down the hall. James hears the front door slam behind him.

Harry seems even more uncertain. He stays hovering beside the table, looking a bit lost. “We’re doing all we can,” he says finally, addressing Draco’s back. “There are Aurors at the shop, some of the best. If there’s anything to be found we’ll find it. And we have people out all over the country. All our contacts are on the lookout. If we see even the tiniest glimpse of either of them we’ll have them. I promise." 

James looks between Draco and his dad, then he walks over to stand next to Harry. "Mr Malfoy…” he says, soft, unsure of whether Draco will lash out again. “They’re determined to do this. I don’t think Albus will let anything happen to Scorpius. I don’t know where they’re going but I’m sure they’re nearly done with this. If anyone can do this, they can. Albus loves Scorpius. He’s going to save him.”

Draco twists round and looks at him and Harry, expression back under control. Ginny takes a step away from him and gives James a small smile and a nod. 

Draco’s expression is unreadable, restrained and set, his jaw tight. The only things that give him away are the slight bow of his head, and his eyes which are burning with desperate, infuriated grief and fear. He surveys all three of them with a sweep of that searing gaze. “If anything happens to Scorpius,” he says, soft, threatening, like the first murmur of wind before the sort of gale that sweeps away brooms, and destroys goalposts and stands. “I will not be held responsible for my actions. So don’t. Let anything. Happen… For your own sake, Potter, and for mine. Understand?" 

Harry nods. "I understand perfectly, Draco." 

Next chapter >

#Harry Potter and the Cursed Child #Cursed Child #Cursed Child fic #Scorbus fic #Scorbus #Harry Potter #Draco Malfoy #Ginny Potter #James Sirius Potter #Scorpius Malfoy #Albus Severus Potter #Keep The Secrets #Mayhem to the nth degree #Moramortia #My writing #(there's no Scorpius or Albus in this chapter because apparently I'm one of *those* authors) #(aka a massive asshole) #(I hope this chapter will still be good though) #(it's certainly abundant with feels) #Malfoy family feels #forgot the crucial tag!

[wavenetinfo]

Updated June 03, 2017 15:30:10

Photo: The Government wants to reset its relationship with Aboriginal Tasmanians but that has yet to include more land handbacks. (Supplied: The Wilderness Society)

Tasmania’s Aboriginal community is using the 25th anniversary of the landmark Mabo decision to call on the State Government to return more land.

The High Court of Australia’s 1992 ruling rejecting the notion of terra nullius gave hope to Tasmanian Aboriginal people in their ongoing battle to have land returned.

But the government of the day was quick to quash native title hopes in Tasmania, with then Liberal Premier Ray Groom saying it would be very difficult for “the Aboriginal community in Tasmania to demonstrate the necessary link with the land”.

This requirement did thwart attempts; to date, no Native Title application has been successful in Tasmania.

Heather Sculthorpe from the Tasmanian Aboriginal Centre (TAC) said the Mabo decision was significant because it rejected terra nullius — the doctrine that Australia was an empty or uncivilised land before colonisation.

But, she said, it did “very little” for Tasmania because of the Native Title legislation that followed.

“Although it was said that Native Title was good for Aborigines, what it actually did was water down the Mabo decision of the High Court,” she said.

“Unfortunately, the way the Native Title was interpreted became that people in Tasmania couldn’t even claim Native Title because it said that the tide of history had washed away our continuing connection with the land.

Photo: Clyde Mansell says the Mabo decision forced the Government to the negotiation table. (Chris Young: AFP)

“So ‘bad luck, you got invaded, you got done over, you haven’t been on your land, you’ve been separated from your land for too long, you don’t have native title’.”

That history of separation dates back to 1835, when George Augustus Robinson convinced most of the island’s Indigenous people to move to a new settlement on Flinders Island in Bass Strait in an effort to bring an end to the conflict between them and white settlers, dubbed the Black War.

Fifteen years ago, Aboriginal elder Rodney Dillon tried unsuccessfully to use native title as a defence after being charged with unlawfully taking abalone.

He said the denial still perplexed him today.

“To look at us and say that we don’t have a continuous culture or we don’t live in a tribal way, do they want me to stand here with a red ribbon in my hair, standing on one leg with a spear, and be exactly the same as when they [the English] came here?” Mr Dillon said.

Mabo decision forced government ‘to sit down and negotiate’

Aboriginal Land Council Chairman Clyde Mansell said the Mabo decision pushed the government of the day into a dialogue with the Aboriginal community which led to land handbacks.

In 1995 the Aboriginal Lands Act was introduced and title to 12 parcels of land was handed back to Aboriginal people by then Premier Ray Groom, including Risdon Cove/piyura kitina on Hobart’s eastern shore.

Photo: Then Premier Ray Groom handed back 12 parcels of land in 1995. (ABC News)

Mr Mansell said that “changed history” in Tasmania.

“It may have been an indirect reaction, but [Mabo] did, I believe force the government into a position where they had to come and sit down and negotiate with us.”

The last legislated hand-back was in 2005 and the Tasmanian Aboriginal community wants more land returned.

“[Premier Will Hodgman] has shown no inclination whatsoever to return more land so that has been a huge disappointment,” Ms Sculthorpe said.

“And there is nothing on the horizon.”

Clyde Mansell wrote to the Premier in 2014 and urged him to “commit to returning other areas of lands to the Aboriginal community”.

Photo: There’s a push to reopen four-wheel drive tracks despite claims they will damage Aboriginal heritage. (ABC News)

Among the land the community wanted returned was an area in Tasmania’s north-west which the State Government wants to reopen to four-wheel drives, despite claims that will damage Aboriginal heritage.

“It’s Crown land and it could be returned under the Aboriginal Lands Act,” Mr Mansell said.

Mr Dillon said future land handbacks should include land management partnerships and business opportunities for the Aboriginal community.

Mr Hodgman said recognising Aboriginal people in the Tasmanian constitution last year demonstrated the Government’s commitment to “re-set the relationship with the Aboriginal community”.

“The Government’s primary focus moving forward will be consideration of joint land management and future land handback arrangements to ensure they support the Aboriginal community to connect to country and culture,” he said.

Topics:

indigenous-policy,

indigenous-culture,

indigenous-aboriginal-and-torres-strait-islander,

aboriginal,

aboriginal-language,

government-and-politics,

tas

First posted June 03, 2017 10:55:46

3 June 2017 | 5:30 am

Rhiannon Shine

Source : ABC News

>>>Click Here To View Original Press Release>>>

(adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({}); June 03, 2017 at 12:00PM

[kahixxi]

My fav 20 manga [10-1]

my fav 20 manga [20-11]

10. Gintama I just LOVE this. If you haven’t read this, please, don’t run away because of the amount of the chapters. It’s a great series. 

9. Olimpos Okay so… honestly, I pretty much don’t even remember most of this story. But it has to be here as no.9. It’s my very first manga that I ever bought. Nostalgia speaks through me right now. When I see this one I always feel this kind of special warmth in my heart. And the art is so beautiful! The characters are gorgeous. But the art isn’t everything. The story: It’s confusing. It’s challenging. Definitely not for everyone. I recommend it for those who are intrigued by greek mythology or by philosophy issues. 

8. Eyeshield 21 For me it’s the best sports manga. Nothing more needs to be said. And yeah, I know nothing about American football, but I still had a lot of fun with this one. 

7. Spy x Family GOLD. Didn’t expect this to be so entertaining. It was such a nice surprise. That’s a dark horse of 2019. 

6. Beastars It’s like a Zootopia… but with a deep meaning, showing many facets of “human” world. This wild reality, in which our main lead lives, is incredibly well written and so, most of the characters are well-developed individuals with their own usual (or cruel?) stories. 

5. My Hero Academia What else can I say that I just love this kind of things… It has great artwork and it’s really fun. It’s absolutely not a masterpiece or something reaaally original, but yeah... I simply like it. 

4. Naruto The sentiment. My very first manga. Manga that made me fall in love with black-and-white world of comics. I just can’t give this one a lower rank in my subjective ranking. I appreciate this work so so so so much… ah, i love this shit. My whole childhood revolves around it. 

3. One Punch Man The art. The characters. The story. The… eh… everything, literally everything, is so fucking great!

2. Goodnight, Punpun It’s hard. It’s really hard to write about it. The feelings I had while reading it… it made me so down, so dark. It was one hell of a ride. I forget where is my home. I forget where I am and what I want from my life. Who am I and why… Why did I sometimes identified myself with this disgusting boy? A masterpiece. Unfortunately. 

1. Uramichi Oniisan So many hilarious jokes that are just my style. One after another. Non stop. 10/10. It’s so unique! It needs a better recognition.

#gintama #gintama manga #gin tama #dandelion #shiro kuro #black and white #manga black and white #shirokuro #13 #thirteen #bankara san ga tooru #here comes mr uncivilised #silver soul #olimpos #olympos #olympus #gods of olympus #heroes of olympus #eyeshield 21 #spy x family #spyxfamily #beastars #beastars louis #beastars legosi #boku no hero academia #bnha #bnha deku #bnha manga #my hero academia #mha

[tomchambersfiction]

The Patron

From an early age I resolved that I would not submit myself to the traditional forms of education and work. I had no time for the triflings of paid employment. I knew that I absolutely must be free, that I should not taste the indignity of suffering under some harangued superior whose whole existence compelled him to make life a chore.

I knew that I would succeed in my venture but I stumbled initially due to my humble background. My father being a bank clerk and my mother a homemaker. The lifestyle I desired belonged to the rich and famous. I sought to emulate their luxury and cast off my dreadful robes.

Earning my own fortune was out of the question. I lacked the requisite skills and brain mass. I had inherited this dullness from my father, whose work at the bank suffered somewhat for his inability to count. I was average in every way in spite of one; I had an irascible desire to adventure which led me into the most unlikely of scenarios.

I arrived in London on the morning of my eighteenth birthday via means of a modern day stagecoach, in fact the Stagecoach coach. Here I was in the home of the nation’s premier loafer, Our Maj The Queen. Even from Victoria station I could smell the danish oil of the oak panelled drawing rooms and the thick scent of cigar smoke floating above the heads of Mayfair’s elite set.

Though most gentlemen’s clubs were somewhat exclusive, I had heard tell of the Semolina Club, a venue that had fallen into disrepute due to the rise in fame of the eponymous grain. More importantly I had heard tell of an ancient custom that could benefit me. That of the patronage.

Each year a young man would be selected from the ranks of new beaus to live a life of luxury. In return he would offer his services as master prankster for the vicarious pleasure of the members. He would dress provocatively, court obscenity and generally act in contrary for the thrill of old men who could no longer or had missed their chance to do so themselves. It was the perfect opportunity, but I would have to subterfuge my way inside.

I had come on my father’s recommendation to see meet his acquaintance Ritchie. He said he was a ‘man who saw things’ and he happened to be Head of Maintenance at the Semolina. I found him at the back of the club, transporting a wheelbarrow of caviar into the kitchens. I told him my purpose. He looked me up and down unwistfully, as if I were a goose to be plucked and eaten.

“Can you ‘andle a mop boy?"

“I believe so sir, though my true intention is to…"

I was unable to finish my sentence for he so shocked me with the mysterious manner in which he extinguished his cigarette. I only know that it entered his body and did not return. He beckoned me up the stone steps, informed me of the living arrangements and then sped off into the bowels of the building.

It was a troubling mis-step and I was not sure what to do. I had mopped once before, as a joke, and I knew I would not be able to carry out the task sincerely.

However it was in the performance of this menial task that I discovered the ins-and-outs of the whole operation. In criminal parlance I was able to “case the joint”. I made note of the fact that the security man, himself older and frailer than the vast portion of the members - no mean feat, was almost constantly asleep, no matter the time of day or night. Any person not wearing a jacket would not be permitted entrance and in fact was in danger of being hosed down.

I also learned that in order to receive a patronage, there was an unknown challenge to be performed and the presentation for taking part was mere days away. A plan was afoot. I referred myself to Mrs Bonkswell’s Etiquette for the Uncivilised Ruffian and studied the graces of the individual I intended to portray myself as. The number of suits available for differing circumstances was baffling. I resolved that a morning suit would be appropriate.

So it came to be that one day I simply hoovered myself into the ballroom where the ceremony was taking place. While nobody was looking, I whipped off my boiler suit and threw vacuum and all down a nearby service stair.

With my character established I approached the most senior looking of men in the room.

“I have come to present myself for the pledging. For the patronage. My father is Sir Henry Rauntlefont, son of Lord Henry Fauntlefont, also son of Baron Henry Rauntlefont. You will find my credentials quite satisfactory I assume."

Phone calls were made. Stitching was inspected. Fortunately I had already shifted the man in the dusty old basement switchboard (a dab hand at impressions) a crisp twenty pound note to allow for this very circumstance.

“Sir Rauntlefont’s housekeeper here sir"

“Indeed, this is Rauntlefont’s driver speaking"

“Quite, you are talking to the headmaster of young Rauntlefont"

My breeding established I was accepted for the pledge and well on the way to a life of luxury. However, I had not predicted that I might have a contender. A chap by the name of Archibald Beaumont with high cheekbones and a ruthless stare. The entire Semolina membership was assembled in front of us by a roaring fire.

A member who I had never heard speak anything but nonsense beckoned me over.

“Boy, do you see that vat of soup over there?"

“Indeed I do sir"

“Well I have misplaced my extremely valuable antique sovereign inside it"

“Oh"

“Now I have not the heart or the spirit as an old man to go plunging my hands into vats of boiling liquid. Ah for youth” He shook his head sadly while looking at his wizened hands. “Would you do the honours?"

I reached for the ladle, relishing in the plaudit this seemingly easy task would gain me.

“Boy!” I dropped it with a clatter. “With you hands dear! You shouldn’t wish to be caught with your hands on cook’s instruments."

“Very well…"

The heat was immense. I rummaged around the bottom of the pan, trying to conceal my pain. I had it… I clenched my fingers. It burst. It was a carrot. I could not bear it any longer. I screamed and pulled my arm from the vat, soup sloshing around my shirt sleeve.

“Ah what do you know, I was wearing it all along!"

I saw a rare moment of lucidity in his eyes as he looked me up and down. I did not have time to indulge my pain as that very moment the ceremony began.

“Now my young fellows - you have come here for a life of wheeze! An opportunity for indulgence. You will be our man on the ground, our chaos causing representative around the city. Gone are your trifling pranks of schooldays. We are seeking much greater things from you. You must be practised in the art of the controversy, and master your storytelling so that we might live through you."

“In return for this you will receive a measly stipend of… what is it? Yes, £10,000 a month. Hardly enough to get by, but times are not what they used to be."

Archie yawned at the announcement of the sum to demonstrate how paltry an amount of money it was. It was unsettling.

“The challenge is simple. In order to prove yourself, you must perform a stunt so shocking, so indelicate, that it lands you on the front page of as many newspapers as possible. It is 10:15 now, go forth and make the nation gasp!"

Archie and I turned to look at each other, each putting on our most scornful looks in an attempt to destabilise the motivation of the other. We both sped for the door, grasping at each other’s coats to get a few vital seconds advantage. He pushed me back and raced out first, delivering a sneering raspberry as he did so.

“Catch me you hound!” he cried.

As I reached the door an old man in a wheelchair paused me, he seemed keen to give me a lesson so I tarried a moment to hear it.

“When you feel uncertain and anxious my boy, when you’re clawing at the sides of the barrel desperate for some kind of certainly to rescue you from the swirling of the universe, savour it! What I would give to not know the world, with all my books and the things I know. I would discard all my station in life to be in love again."

He squeezed my jacket tighter.

“Not with a woman you understand, but with the world itself. To abandon yourself to it, that is the greatest joy. Die screaming with the blinding lights of an unknown object pounding toward you. Let yourself be taken hold by a wind you know not the direction of! For love and mystery awaits!"

The energy required seemed to have finished him off, for he promptly died. I simply did not have time to alert anyone, so I rushed out and caught the first bus I could find.

Two minutes later while stuck in traffic I saw Archie whizz past in a taxi. Rats, I had unwittingly stayed true to my roots and sabotaged my first hurdle. He was already leaning out of the window, screaming epithets at passers by, puffing on a big cigar.

It didn’t take me long before I was eager to leave my carriage and I found my fine self right in the heart of London, Trafalgar Square. Surely the most sensitive place to knock the city square in the nads. Stepping off the bus into the filth crowded circus I considered my brief. It was wide open. Hmm.

I marched straight into the centre of the fountains, saluted our man on the podium, turned by one hundred and eighty degrees and dropped my trousers and pants.

There I stood for several minutes. In the first thirty seconds I presumed that I had stunned the crowd into silence. That I had conceived of an act so offensive that they could not speak. Sadly not however, the assembled lurches that had come to visit from their rural hell holes were used to this kind of depravity.

But then.

“Excusez-moi!” a voice from the crowd. “Young man?"

“Yes?” [said in knowing excitement]

“Would you take a photo of myself and my two children?"

“ugh"

“Are you not interested in my bare bottom woman?"

“Oh. I see. I think it is nice.” There was a pause. “But I would like to take a photo"

I obliged, making a record of this foul deceiver and her troglodyte spawn. I had failed to shock. I must continue with my journey. No doubt by this point Archie had already drowned a bus full of nuns.

I sped off Eastward, hoping that the inherent geographic depravity of that side of the city would inspire me to greater deeds. I took a taxi this time, having learned from my mistake. I could not reveal my origins again. I took to banging on the glass and insisting that every left turn was the incorrect choice, a bait I knew cab drivers to be unable to resist. The portly man of around forty five was insouciant. He simply stared at the road dully, goading me into ever more extreme efforts to tip him over the edge.

We arrived at Tower Bridge.

“Stop, stop!"

Surely there was nothing more precious to England than its royal family. A plan formed in my noggin. I could do something that would not fail to be the most shocking story in the land. The ravens of the tower. I would cause them to leave and thus result in the downfall of the monarch. As I departed the vehicle in my effort to tease the cabbie with a £50 note I fell face first onto my nose, with a loud crunch on the pavement. As I tended to my wound, he drove away with my change, chuckling cruelly to himself.

Doing so proved to be harder than I had imagined. I had not considered the canniness of these birds. When I was mere steps away they would flap raucously into the air. This attracted the attention of the tourists, who would then take photos, which I would attempt to spoil by adding my middle finger to the background. They seemed not to know the meaning of this gesture however, as they returned it gleefully, grinning at me.

I resolved to watch for some time. To learn their ways and habits, understand their very being. And then having become one of them I would strike at their most vulnerable point. I would stuff the whole lot of them into a sack and scarper posthaste.

...

My patience turned out to be my enemy. A childhood trauma had resulted in my being unable to hold myself in one place for longer than five minutes. The mocking flaps of the ravens disturbed me into a frenzy until I was unable to contain myself. I marched along to a tree and snapped off a dry branch, then proceeded to take great swings at the sour beasts.

After quite some disturbance I managed to catch one of them on the beak. It cracked with a great thwack and the bird squawked pathetically. It was at this point that its brothers in arms descended upon me to peck strategically at my face and nether regions. The empty headed tourists flocked around me to jeer at my misfortune.

A stout beefeater came across having observed the kerfuffle. He raised his spear into the air and commanded, “Get thee away from them birds!"

“You shall make me!"

My retort did not seem to unnerve him. Perhaps as I found myself pinned to the ground by seven angry ravens. I managed to bring myself to my feet just as he made his way to me. Now we had an audience I must take my rightful superiority. I cracked the fellow on the chin. He recoiled satisfactorily, stunned for a moment.

At that very moment there was a blinding flash of light. I had not noticed that the Lord Mayor and his party stood immediately behind me with a bevy of photographers. Although my sparring partner was then joined by several of his colleagues, who proceeded to turn my face into mush, I knew then that I had made my mark. My fame assured, I took the slams with gusto.

Although upon waking I found myself still moderately in pain, it was outweighed by the pleasure of assured victory. I took to my silken dressing gown, believing that it was not my place anymore to dress for others, raising my arms as I descended the stairs to conduct the inevitable orchestra of applause.

When I opened my eyes at the bottom step however, I heard nothing. The men stood around their newspapers, and in spite of glances, they did not acknowledge my presence. I took a copy of one of the red tops and scurried upstairs. The headlines did not tell of my efforts, in fact it read, “CRETIN PISSES ON WAR MEMORIAL”, captioned with a photograph of the scamp Archie delivering a liquid affront to decency. I flipped through to page five, page five of all places! To find my own insipid presentation, merely announcing, “FOOL DUFFS YEOMAN”. I shook with rage. This was against the natural order! I took to my room to plot my move.

Later in the day I returned downstairs, now fully dressed. A more appropriate garb for second place. I arrived to find the gentlemen fully assembled, muttering to themselves. The Semolinas were not an amenable bunch of the best of times and at this moment someone seemed to have shat in their sandwiches.

“Well if this chap can’t be bothered to turn up to his own bloody ceremony…"

“He’s got twenty minutes before we give the patronage to that little shitstake over there”. He gestured to me without looking.

And now that leads us up to the present moment. In Archie’s absence they had no choice but to hand off The Patronage to your narrator. I spend my days living in splendour at the club and courting controversy for the benefit of my benefactors through my marvellous storytelling. You will now find me in the Great Room exploding onto canvas facilitated by the resident portrait artist Enrique.

“Capture the gradients of light on my skin Enrique! The gradients!"

Naturally you will be wondering what happened to our dear fellow Archie and how it came to be that I took his place, pleasuring myself about London town at the whim of some wretched old fools. Well, I suppose you could say that his vanity got the better of him.

A phone call was received from an unknown source informing him of his position in that year’s Tatler’s Stiff Upper Lip List. He was urged to meet their photographer for a small ceremony at the back entrance of the club. He duly went along and in his haste he rather foolishly slipped into a bucket of a quite corrosive substance. An eau d’Archie now floats down these corridors.

“Do your nostrils detect something Farnabus?"

“Quite, smells rather urchin like to me."

[kahixxi]

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[kahixxi]

Hideaki Sorachi!

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[kahixxi]

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