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samsexualdeancurious · 6 years

Text

Gift

Square Filled: Graphic Designer!Sam

Pairing: Sam x Reader

Rating: General

Warnings: Fluff

Word Count: 1,385

A/N: I almost missed the Christmas deadline I gave myself, but here it is! Sorry for the lack of warning and the fact that this is definitely not when I usually post things, but I’m pretty happy with this.

Written for @spnaubingo

“No, no, no, no, no- yes!”

You snicker at the sound of your boyfriend’s yelling as you enter the apartment, laden with groceries. “Sam, I’m home!” you call, lifting the bags up onto the counter.

You hear him before you see him- he’s a big dude and when he bounds down the hallway, he can probably be heard a mile away. He sweeps you up in his arms just as you’ve let go to the grocery bags and spins you around the kitchen. You throw your arms around his neck, holding on tight as uncontrollable giggled overcome you.

“Happy to see me?” you tease when he sets you back on your feet.

“Yes,” he says, planting a kiss on your lips. “And my computer didn’t delete the project I was working on.”

“Oh, thank God,” you say, understanding now why he’s in such a good mood. You can’t even imagine how it must feel to spend hours working on designing something for a client only to discover it hadn’t been saved, though you can guess it must be pretty awful, which means the relief when it has been saved must be the best feeling. You cup his face. “I’m so happy for you, babe. Did you save before leaving the room?”

“Shit, no!”

You laugh to yourself as he bolts back down the hall to his office. He returns a few minutes later, finding you putting cans of soup in the cupboard.

“We’re all good,” he assures you, taking boxes of cereal from a bag and putting them in their own cupboard. “I sent the watermarked version to the client, so hopefully they get back to me tonight or tomorrow morning and I can finish this project before the weekend.”

“Good.” you nod, smacking his ass playfully as you pass by to get more cans from the bag on the counter. “I would rather you not have to work while our families are here.”

“I would prefer that as well,” he agrees, smacking your ass in return.

You could kiss the client when they email Sam back about thirty minutes after the two of you finish cleaning up dinner. Last year Sam ended up having work to do while your families were visiting for Christmas and it kind of- read: really- sucked. You’re so excited to be able to have everyone there this year.

Sam sends the final project to the client just as you’re putting your shoes on to go pick your parents up from the airport. Your apartment doesn’t have spare bedrooms, especially since the second bedroom was converted into an office, so everyone will be staying at the hotel that is conveniently located across the street.

“Done!” Sam shouts, joining you in the kitchen. “Can I still come with you?”

“Of course,” you chuckle, lacing up your boots. “Get your shoes.”

It’s been way too long since Y/N’s seen her parents and they agree. Her dad sweeps her into a bear hug, practically squeezing the life out of her before she’s able to wriggle free and find shelter in her mom’s much gentler embrace. Sam watches with an amused grin before moving in to shake hers dad’s hand and accept his own hug from her mom. His own parents won’t be arriving until tomorrow morning, thanks to his dad’s work, but he’s glad Y/N gets to spend more time with her parents. They aren’t able to visit as often as his are.

Sam takes Y/N’s mom’s bag, slinging it over his shoulder and trails a little behind, giving her some free space to get caught up with her parents. She has her arm around her dad’s waist and the sight makes Sam smile.

“I’m thinking rosemary chicken and potatoes for dinner,” she says, twisting around in the passenger seat to talk to her parents after everything’s been loaded into the car.

“That sounds wonderful,” her mother agrees. “We’ll get checked in at the hotel, and then come join you guys?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Once they’re settled at the hotel, Y/N’s parents join them at their apartment. Her mom settles in to help Y/N in the kitchen and Sam offers her father a beer. He manages to guide the older man out onto their small balcony, which has a nice view of a street- a view that actually continues all the way to where the road disappears into the distant mountains. Sam likes it, especially this time of night when the sun is just dipping below the peaks.

“Stunning,” Y/N’s father says leaning against the railing.

“Y/N really likes this view,” Sam tells him.

“Yeah, it’s her style.”

“Speaking of Y/N…” Sam begins hesitantly “there’s something I want to ask you about.”

You can see Dad and Sam on the balcony, backs to the apartment and deeply engrossed in their conversation. You like knowing they get along so well. You know Sam was really nervous about meeting your parents at first- you felt the same about meeting his, so you can’t blame him. The two men are quite the pair, though, and you’re not worried.

Cooking with your mom has always been a favorite past time of yours. You spent many evenings in the kitchen in your parents’ home, listening patiently while your mom walked you through all of her family recipes. The one you’re working on tonight isn’t a family one, though, which means it’s your turn to lead and you like that. It’s a nice change.

Sam’s parents arrive the next morning and the six of you spend the next few days enjoying some much needed family time. By the time they all leave, though,you’re more than looking forward to some alone time with your boyfriend. Even with them staying across the street, it felt like there was always someone in the apartment.

“Ready for a quiet Christmas?” Sam asks once the two of you are cuddled on the couch, both sets of parents safely aboard their respective planes.

“Definitely.”

After one year of traveling to see family on Christmas, you and Sam decided you would much rather spend Christmas day at home. You do your usual Christmas Eve pajama exchange- a tradition you both brought from your childhoods- and usually stay up a little late wrapping final gifts and putting together Mary Winchester’s breakfast casserole- layers of hash browns, bacon, sausage, and cheese with egg poured over the top, cooked low and slow all night in a crockpot. You get to wake up on Christmas morning to a ready-to-eat breakfast. You dig into the stockings you put together for each other, then eat breakfast and usually have a lazy morning before finally getting around to actually opening presents. Neither of you make a lot of money, so there’s definitely a present budget, but both of you are good at making the money go far.

It’s almost noon by the time all the presents are open. There’s a bag of wrapping paper by the door, waiting to go down to the recycling bin whenever either of you move from your spot on the couch. Sam’s broad chest is a good pillow, so you’re probably not going anywhere any time soon. That’s okay.

“I have one more gift for you,” Sam says softly, shifting around until you sit up and he can reach over to dig a small black box out of the end table drawer. Your heart immediately begins beating faster and you suddenly have a feeling you know exactly what Sam was talking about with your father the other day.

Sam slides off the couch and onto one knee, holding the box up in front of him. He pops it open, revealing a simple silver band made of two spun together around a few tiny diamonds with a larger diamond in the center.

“Sam,” you gasp, hands flying up to cover your mouth.

“Y/N,” he says quietly, earnestly. “You’re the love of my life. You make me a better person and I never want to spend a day without waking up with you in my arms. Will you marry me?”

You let out a slightly embarrassing squeal and throw yourself into his arms, almost knocking him on his ass.

“Yes,” you manage before kissing him firmly. “Yes, Sam, yes.”

Like this fic? Commission one of your own! See bio for details!

Team Forever: @laughing-at-the-darkness @mrswhozeewhatsis @manawhaat @books-and-icecream

Team Reader Insert: @teamfreewill-imagine @kittenofdoomage @not-moose-one-shots@deansdirtylittlesecretsblog @ilostmyshoe-79 @teamfreewillimagines @supernaturalfanfix @basic-joy @keepingitrealcas @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @jwilly18 @amazingfulyou @love-kittykat21

Team Sam: @withoutaplease @stargazingbros

#my writing #spnaubingo #sam x reader #sam winchester #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #supernatural fic #spn #spn fanfiction #spn fanfic #spn fic

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ecotone99 · 4 years

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The Other Side Of Summer Ch 1 [RF] [TH] [RO]

Authors note:

Hey all ! This is actually part of a much larger 12 chapter short story I wrote about a year ago. It was never meant to see the light of the day and may never outside of Reddit. While it begins as a slice of life style piece I assure you it does not remain as such forever. If you are a fan of modern thrillers this may be the story to you. If there is an interest in the rest of the chapters going forward I would love to hear from you all! And please, constructive criticism is greatly appreciated, just keep it civil. Dm's are open to any and all who have things to say! Thank you to anyone that takes the time to read this questionably rough piece. (formatting is likely awful on account of lack of Reddit knowledge. apologies in advance.)

Chapter 1 - Samuel Cooper: Sex God

By all accounts the summer of 94’ was a god damn roller-coaster, and not one of the sturdy ones either. Just picture the old, shitty, wooden roller coasters that used to have a good chance of decapitating random passengers and you should begin to get a general sense of how things went. You see my hometown of Summer, PA had undergone the same unchanging cycle of existence since its founding back in 1927. For the majority of the year the town was no more exciting then an old decrepit graveyard, filled with a variety of skeletons, closeted or otherwise. Though as the slow heat of May began to grow more oppressive, and the ring of boat horns echoed their shrill cries across the murky waters of Lake Watauga, An unstable sense of freedom made itself known. it was the children who noticed first, taking flight from the old brick and mortar school buildings with untied shoes and false promises of “don't worry, I won't talk to strangers” which usually lasted until the jingle of the ice cream truck could be heard vibrating through the potholes that riddled twisting roads thrice paved over and then finally given up on.

As June rolled around the heat settled in, finding its place amongst the house parties that stood as beacons of debauchery against the inky backdrop of passionate summer nights. Drugs, Alcohol, Sex; anyone who grew up in Summer was familiar with at least one of the three personally or otherwise. Parents ignored it, teenagers craved it and so the twisted dynamic of life myself and the rest of my peers reveled in was left to continue on.

I had just finished my Junior year of highschool and the prospect of nearing what many viewed as “the beginning of the end” of my current chapter in life hadn't quite hooked its adult sized claws into my juvenile mind just yet. The oppressive rays of the summer sun kept me young and stupid, leaving me and my best friend Samuel Cooper more focused on the prospect of which party we were going to get smashed at that night instead of on things that actually mattered like college applications.

Sam was a tall, lanky boy of 17 who’s greatest aspiration at that point in his life was “getting ass” more so than anything else. This prospect being doubled each summer we spent together roaming the venues that the streets of our town had to offer. I met Sam way back in the first grade and, after a short disagreement over a yellow tonka dump truck which involved the throwing of various sized lego blocks at one another until our teacher Mrs. Lambert, had to forcibly intervene, we became inseparable.

And while I myself was not as personally preoccupied with the prospect of “getting ass” as Sam was, the idea of women was still new and exciting enough for me to play along with his bullshit.

So it was that we found ourselves pacing the charred blacktop of one of Summer's pockmarked back-roads, throwing errant stones and shooting the shit as we usually did

“ No dude I swear!” Sam exclaimed as the gumball sized pebble left his hand and collided with an old maple tree to our left “They're putting in a Wawa right next to Mrs. Thompson's bakery”

“Yea…..no, I'm calling bullshit on that one man” I retorted, casting him a sidelong glance as I leaned down to retrieve my own palmful of ammunition “Mrs. Thompson is like 900 years old, you really think that old hag is gonna let them move in next door without cursing them or something?” I heard his exasperated sigh before I felt the punch connect with my shoulder.

“What?!” My voice broke the momentary silence as I stared at him incredulously. His deadpan look transitioned into one of a cynical glee as our eyes met and a smile curved its way across his cracked lips

“ you’re just jealous i'll be closer to Wawa then you shithead” Silence filled the space between us as I fought to stifle my laughter,

“Have you ever even been to a Wawa before? it's just an over-hyped gas station that has super big hot dogs” Sam was silent for about thirty seconds before a forlorn noise escaped his mouth and a simple drudging “No” flopped out after it.

Our path carried the two of us to rest under a set of twin oak trees settled just a ways into the field that marked the edge of Summers western Border. By this point in the afternoon we had forgotten all about our previous topic of contention and had instead moved on to complaining about the ever present heat.

“If it's like this all summer I honestly may just drown myself in the lake” I groaned

“eh, not the worst idea you've ever had not gonna lie, might have to join you in that endeavor” The sound of Sams words were nearly drowned out by the buzzing of cicadas making their presence known to virtually anyone with ears.

The shade cast by the twin oaks above us did little to stifle the sun and as time crawled on I found myself nearly driven to the brink of insanity by the droplets of sweat that had begun to cascade down my back and puddle at the waistband of my shorts

“Okay, fuck this, What do you say we head down to the lake and try to cool off?” I offered, hoping that Sam would bite. His response came without hesitation as he struggled to stand up, using the trunk of our temporary shelter as support.

“Given that the prospect of getting ass is pretty high, count me in.”

By the time we had trudged our way through the backstreets of town and hopped the necessary fences to reach one of the many banks of lake Watauga, Summers typical brand of debauchery had already begun in earnest. The screams and squeals of intoxicated teenagers filtered through our ears long before we had pushed through the treeline that stood as the verdant gateway to brown sugar beach. This particular stretch of sand was known for being one of the best kept secrets in town, so naturally, everyone knew about.

Before my feet had even touched the sand Sam was wriggling out of his sweat drenched shirt, cherry red rays painting his pale, pock marked skin the color of what was shaping up to be a night well spent.

“C'mon loser, salvation awaits!” Sam made a grand sweeping gesture with his hand towards the waters of the lake and held the position for a full ten seconds before taking off, kicking course sand into my down turned face as he went.

It took me a while to find a place to settle our personal belongings, but after the hollowed out hole of a tree stump had been stuffed with our two sweaty shirts and a fair amount of loose dollar bills I set out to find Sam. It had only been a few minutes since he had taken off but the steadily growing crowd on both the beach and in the water was making it hard to find him. So, as is the case with most teenage boys worried about drawing attention to themselves in a crowd of people, I wandered around eyes cast downwards, praying that I wouldn't bump into anyone better looking than me. As luck would have it, I managed to find Sam relatively early on. He had a red solo cup in his left hand whilst his right was draped over the shoulder of a smaller boy who I recognized as Ben Wenninger.

Ben was a couple years younger than us and judging by the white t shirt stretched tightly over his gut, was about as self conscious as a kid who hadn’t gone through puberty yet on a beach filled with half naked teenage girls would be. I was about to tell Sam to let go of him but before I could get the words out I was greeted to a hand in my face

“Listen Ben..” Sams words were packed full with starry eyed enthusiasm “Today may very well end up being the best you've experienced in your short life, I mean just look around!” a number of people had to jump out of the way as Sam spun the pair so that they were facing the crowded waters a couple of feet down the sandy embankment, The hand that was holding the red solo cup with god knows what in it spilling a few drops of dark brown liquid onto my chest as it whirled by, miraculously held in Sams grip

“You see that down there?” Sam half shouted half whispered.

“Uhh yeah?” Ben's timid voice was nearly imperceptible over the bustle of the crowd.

“That's Infinite possibility my man! Ass for miles!” This time the red solo cup did go flying, as Sam threw both his arms up in a triumphant gesture. Causing whoever I presumed to be the one hit by Sams unintentional projectile to yell out in surprise.

“Ew! What the Fuck!?” the voice was female and resonated from somewhere to the left of us, deeper in the crowd. I made eye contact with Ben, matching his furrowed brow and pleading eyes with a shoulder shrug of my own. Peering through the crowd, I could barely make out the disgruntled features of none other than Megan Kelly, Summers self proclaimed “most popular girl” and Sam's hopeless crush since the Sixth grade. Somehow the red solo cup had managed to land on the messy bun she had her hair tied up in, staining her usual fiery red a dark shade of sewage brown, the cups contents stopping only momentarily to drip down her nose and onto her chest before continuing to the ground below. Grabbing a random towel from the ground, and shaking the sand that clung to it with a flourish, Sam began to strut his way over to Megan.

“My bad babe, let me clean you up!” Sam's voice echoed high above the crowd and caught the attention of everyone within the general vicinity causing curious heads to turn towards the source of the commotion. All I could do was watch and hope that whatever was about to happen ended with minimal damage to Sam and whatever dignity he had left. By this point Sam had nearly made it to Megan, parting the crowd as he went and Ben had made his way to my side, our gazes breaking from the ensuing chaos for just a second to exchange mutual glances of “holy shit”. Wiping the liquid out of her eyes with the back of her hand and fixing her face with a scowl that would have sent Summers resident Creepers running for the hills, Megan turned to face Sam who seemed oblivious to the hush that had now fallen over the crowd.

“Your Knight in shining armor has arri-” Sam's proclamation was cut short as the whip crack of skin on skin contact broke the bated stillness of the balmy twilight air.

“No, no, no! Don't you even think about saying another word!” Megan withdrew her hand and placed it on her hip, a wild look in her eyes.

“Who the hell does a loser like you even think you are? I'm not your “babe” I barely fucking know you!” I could see Sam struggling to find the appropriate words to remedy the situation but Megan was already too far gone. Taking a red solo cup from the hand of a random girl standing next to her, she marched up to Sam and tossed its contents into his face without a moment's hesitation. The crowd erupted in laughter as Megan turned on her sand caked heal and stormed off, her possy of friends flocking behind her, each one of them shooting a sneer in Sams direction before disappearing into the rippling line of onlookers.

I waited until I heard the drone of conversation pick back up before approaching Sam, Ben keeping his place beside me as we struggled to push our way through the crowd.

“I have to say, not one of your brightest moves. E for effort though.” I let my hand fall to rest on his sticky shoulder and shot him a shit eating grin. Sam said nothing as he turned to face me and for a moment I was worried I had said too much, though as I watched a small knowing smirk creep its way across his lips any doubts faded into the background, lost behind the heavy bass of scattered boomboxes that littered the beach.

“She's just playing hard to get, I am irresistible after all.” Sam flexed his nearly non existent bicep and kissed it for effect causing a groan of disgust to tear its way from my throat.

“If by irresistible you mean unbearable, then sure” Ben teased. I had nearly forgotten that he was right beside me.

“ You better be careful there, Wenninger. or I may have to Motorboat those sweet little boy titties of yours.” I watched as a look of fear wash over Ben's previously triumphant features, only to immediately be replaced by one of sheer relief at Sams next words

“Don't worry kid i'm only fucking with you” his gaze drifted from the now dried liquor stains on his chest towards the Choppy waters of the lake only a couple feet from us “ On a more serious note though… last one to the water is a little bitch” and with that he was gone, leaving Ben and I struggling to catch up.

The sun was no more than a bloody, quarter circle on the horizon, by the time we had convinced Ben to tell us about a secret piece of information he had heard while working a recent afternoon shift at his father's butchery.

“You promise that you guys won't say anything right? I don't want Ryan Green and his band of assholes to beat me up again.” Sam and I shared a look with one another before turning back to Ben's shadowed form and extending our hands respectively

“I Promise” Ben's pruney hand met my own, nearly disappearing within the palm of my grasp.

“This had better be good kid” Sam repeated the gesture in kind sealing our deal. Ben looked around nervously for a moment, Waiting till a random group of splashing teenagers had passed before lowering his voice to just above a whisper and beginning his story.

“Okay, So last week, like right after school got out for the summer, I heard some noise outside the back of my dad's shop. I know I probably should have just minded my own business but we have been having problems with raccoons getting into our trash recently an-” Ben paused and adjusted his sopping t-shirt

“Anyways, as I got closer to the back door I started hearing voices, like lots of them. Some were familiar and some weren’t, but the one that stood out the most was Ryan Greens.” I watched as a shiver ran down Ben's spine causing him to sink a little deeper into the inky waters of the lake.

“They were talking about all sorts of things, you know? bouncing from one topic to the next, but then Ryan got all quiet and made everyone gather closer around. He started talking about the new family that moved to Summer recently, mostly about the daughter though. Apparently she's done all this crazy shit and has slept with a bunch of boys.”

“Sounds like my kind of girl” Sam chimed in

“Haven't you already done enough damage today? Fucks sake man give it a rest.” I snapped, shaking my head in his direction.

Ignoring my outburst, Sam continued on.

“So,what's her name Wenninger ? or did you bitch out and run away before you could hear?” Ben just rolled his eyes and splashed a handful of water towards Sam,

**“**I don't know..I mean that's pretty much all I heard, or all they said anyways, despite the usual shit.” I tried not to make my interest in the story too noticeable but nerves got the best of me.

“Oh c'mon you don't know anything else, not even what she looks like, or where she hangs out?” I questioned. Ben just shrugged his shoulders and shook his head in a kind of “Sorry to say” motion before standing up straighter and tightening his face

“Just..She sounds like a piece of work guys, Be careful… please? You really are the only people in this town who treat me halfway decent so it would suck having you get killed or some crazy shit like that.”

“Killed?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow

“Well we don't know anything about her family, and her dad is creepy as hell. I've only seen him once when he came in to buy something from the store and trust me, once is enough.” Ben look flustered and I could tell our constant questions were starting to get to him.

“Hey, look man” I placed a hand on his shoulder and shot him a smile “Thanks for looking out, Your pretty cool you know that?”

“R-really?” His eyes lit up as he struggled to contain his excitement

“For sure kid, you got some balls standing up to a sex god like me” Sam teased, throwing his arms to rest behind his head. Ben and I shot each other a look and burst out laughing.

“What's so funny, huh?! The both of you are total dick heads.” Sam's voice wobbled as he struggled to contain his own laughter, the absurdness of the situation seemingly far too much for even the sex god himself.

“Nothing Nothing, it's just, you should go tell Megan that, i'm sure she'd love it” My stomach was beginning to hurt and tears were pooling at the corner of my eyes.

“Oh oh! and make sure you call her babe a bunch” Ben piped in finding himself in a similar predicament as myself.

“Yea yea yea laugh it up, the both of you” By this point we were all lost to the slowly developing nature of each other's company and found it difficult to regain our composure for the better part of fifteen minutes, taking turns ripping on one another as twilight slowly suffocated the last remnants of the setting sun.

“Alright guys I think I'm gonna get going for the night” my eyes drifted back towards the darkened tree line and then to the dim lights of the town just beyond that.

“Same time tomorrow?” Sam's voice followed me as I moved to turn around.

“I wish but I got work tomorrow man, maybe you and Ben could stop by while im on shift, Keep me from dying of boredom?” I heard both of them laugh from behind me as my toes worked their way through the damp sand

“You got it boss, have a good night!” Sam shouted. I threw my hand up in half assed acknowledgement and began the trek back towards the tree stump that sheltered mine and Sam's belongings.

The walk back into town was a short one, My mind far too preoccupied with the days events to worry about the darkness of the woods surrounding me. As the orange glow of Mainstreet came into view my stomach made its proclamation of hunger well known. The only place still open was Gumbo’s, Summers Local ice cream parlor. Its red neon sign had stood as a calling card to children and teenagers alike for as long as anyone who called Summer home could remember. Unsurprisingly the outdoor veranda was packed full of people, a majority of whom I recognized from the beach earlier that day as well as a few new faces. Megan Kelly stood surrounded by a flock of her friends complaining loudly about “Some creepy loser on the beach” with one hand on her hip and the other holding a chocolate soft serve ice cream cone. I did my best to avoid drawing her attention and swung a wide circle around the group, eventually making my way through the tightly packed crowd of people and towards the back of the line. One of the reasons Gumbo’s was so renowned was partly due to its quick service and tonight was no different, Within five minutes I had received my strawberry soft serve cone and was making my way towards home desperately trying to lick it faster then the timid heat of the evening was melting it. The golden glow of the streetlights offset the cool purples and blacks that swirled in the night sky overhead and I found my mind beginning to wander once more.

“Hey, You.” I nearly dropped my ice cream cone as a voice ahead of me broke my stupor. Casting my gaze upwards I could just barely make out a shadowed figure just a few feet away from me.

“U-uh yea?” I found it hard to find my voice, the words creaking out like a rusty hinge on a hundred year old door.

“Was hoping you could point me towards Gumbo’s, awfully hot out tonight.”

“Oh, uh yea its just back that way” I jammed my thumb over my shoulder and tried not to sound as nervous as I felt.

“You mind?” my jaw nearly hit the ground as she stepped out of the light and whisked the ice cream cone out of my hand, Eyes never breaking contact with mine as she ran her tongue up the side of the cone and towards the drooping swirl at the top of the sugary pink confection. I had no idea what to do so I simply stood dumbfounded, wrestling with intense emotions of confusion and what I thought logically to be arousal, though fear also seemed applicable given the brazenly bizarre nature of the situation.

“Thanks” such a simple phrase, though in her case it was anything but. “Just wanted to know what I was getting myself into”

“Um sure, n- no problem” I was frozen in place, barely able to turn around as she walked past me letting the ice cream cone fall to the concrete below, Red, high top converse carrying her with a confidence that scared the hell out of me in the way only a teenage girl could. I desperately wanted to say something but as she turned back around to face me, glossed lips curling up into a teasing smile, My brain blanked.

“What's your name?” Fuck, for the life of me I couldn't remember. The look that she was giving me not making it any easier to recollect.

“Noah!” It sounded right coming out of my mouth, though In the moment I had no way of being sure. She paused for a second as if weighing its worth, slender fingers errantly twirling their way through curly blonde hair.

“Nice.”

I had no time to question what the hell she meant as the next second she was turned back around, sauntering in the direction of the Gumbo’s, whisking away any chance at an answer into the night.

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idolizerp · 6 years

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[ LOADING INFORMATION ON OLYMPUS’ MAIN RAP KWON…. ]

DETAILS

CURRENT AGE: 28 DEBUT AGE: 20 TRAINEE SINCE AGE: 16 SKILL POINTS: 05 VOCAL | 05 DANCE | 15 RAP | 15 PERFORMANCE SECONDARY SKILLS: Music production (hip hop & r&b)

INTERVIEW

At first, it’s easy to promote Jaewon mostly because he does all the job himself. When Olympus debuted Jaewon was 20 and hungry for fame. He’s known as the sarcastic one, the one who’s always taking a jab on all the members while on screen (always followed by laughter, a hug that’s a little too quick). He’s known as the 4D one, always doing weird things while on TV, always going a little too far on interviews. But at first that was funny, refreshing. Midas was known for well-crafted idols and Jaewon was just a little outlier. Quick witted and provocative, he became a hit on variety shows, which was (and still is) the main focus of his career until now.

But the years passed by and things were changing, little by little. Jaewon found himself in some scandals, nothing too serious. The first time he said something insensitive in a variety show, got some backlash. Then he got flack for being too explicit in the lyrics he made for a “free-style” rap he was supposed to play with in another show. Then some pictures of him drinking underage leaked, among other small things along the years. None of those had huge impact with the general public, but his overall image changed a little. He wasn’t the fun careless boy on the TV anymore. He started being seen as a bad boy, as the trouble maker in Olympus - and even some of their fans started to turn against him, but not enough for it to hugely impact his overall popularity. Thanks to Midas’ amazing image management, he sailed through those things almost unscarred.

And it’s funny that people started hating him for those small things because it’s almost just a tiny fragment of what he is like in real life. It’s not that the parts that they love aren’t true - Jaewon is, indeed, a very extroverted man, funny, captivating in a first meeting. He enjoys seducing, being loved. He basks in the attention and he can be quite pleasant when in a good mood. He’s the sort of person people are drawn too but once they’re too close they get burned. Because he’s not pleasant, then. He’s egocentric, focused on himself and on his own pleasure. He’s obsessive, prone to obsessions, prone to doing shit without thinking, without caring if it’ll hurt other people. And it’s not that Jaewon is manipulative, it’s not that he fakes the brighter, larger side of him. This mess, it’s all him. The laughter, the insanity, the intensity, the anger, the fickleness, the ambition, the narcissism, it’s all him.

As of now, in this very moment of his career, Jaewon is tired of Midas’ tight leash and wants to break free. His main passion is music and he feels he has wasted enough time under Olympus’ shadow, and wants to start making a name for himself as a producer. How much he’ll actually achieve, and how much Midas will actually allow him to shine, only time will tell.

BIOGRAPHY

He’s six year old and he wants something.

“I want that,” the six year old says, pointing to the expensive robot on the shelf. He doesn’t even notice the stern look his mother sends to his father because he’s focused on the robot. The little lights on his chest, and all those buttons. He’s so focused that he doesn’t even notice his father scratching the back of his neck on that old habit of hisz doesn’t even notice him looking back at his mother while she silently pleaded at him. He also didn’t see him shaking his head sadly.

“Sweetheart,” his mother starts, kneeling by his side, “I don’t think we can buy that one.”

“Why?” he asks, his bottom lip already starting to tremble. He’s just five year old but this seems like such a common place already. He’s been here, and his mother already been there, kneeling by his side. “But I want it.”

“I know, babe,” she says, looking around. Then she lowers her tone. “But we can’t afford it. I’m sorry.”

Jaewon looks down to his shoes, feels tears coming to his eyes. His father squats by his side too.

“Son, listen. We’ll get you one of those one day, okay? But right now we can’t.”

“But I want it,” he tries again, not understanding why he can’t have one. All the kids do, right? Why they can have it but he can’t? “That’s not fair.”

“Yeah, you got that right,” he says and his tone is grave, “life isn’t fair.”

“Honey…”

“Come on, kid, let’s go. You can get one.of those little cars, what do you say?”

Jaewon stares at the toys his father is pointing to. They don’t have buttons. They don’t have flashing lights. They are not a robot that he can show all the kids and play with them. But his mother is staring at him, and his father is waiting and he just nods, still crying but now in silence. Quietly.

He never plays with that car.

He’s thirteen year old and he’s anxious.

“What do you think?” He asks after finishing, and his older sister leans against the wall, thoughtful.

Jaewon waits. He had just finished showing her his first ever self-composed rap, just something he’s been working on over summer break. True, he should be studying and working up his grades but who needs that when they have raw talent, right? He’s not like them. He’s not like them at all.

“Hmmm,” Jinhee says and Jaewon straightens his back, almost ruining the piece of paper he’s holding. Most of the time he doesn’t care much for the opinions of others. He doesn’t give a shit. But Jinhee is different. She’s the one who made him live music, who showed him songs, who introduced him to american hip-hop. She’s the one who took him to music classes, she’s the one who takes him there every day. She’s paying for everything with some part time job. She only cares for her opinion, nothing else.

“It’s good,” she says, finally, and Jaewon smiles wide, all full of shit. She raises an eyebrow. “For a thirteen year old, I mean.”

“Shut up!” He shouts and she laughs. “I’m much better than any of your stupid idols!”

“Kwon Jaewon!” She shouts back and quickly enough Jaewon is running out of her room, his mother screaming for them to stop.

It’s good, she said.

He already knew it, though.

He’s fourteen and he’s keeping a secret.

She’s the one waiting for him outside his room when he got the call.

It’s been a long year. For whatever reason Jinhee actually succeeded in making him think becoming an idol would be a good thing. “Look at him”, she had told him while pointing at some pretty guy rapping on TV, “He used to be an idol, you know.”

It seemed easier, that’s true. In a company he’d be able to get rapping classes for free. He would need to learn how to sing, dance and all that stupid shit but he could do it, he knew it. So he went and auditioned to a bunch of companies, spent the whole year training, dancing to stupid choreography, looking like an idiot while doing so. But it was an easy path to stardom, it would give him fame and money to invest in a solo career. So he trained, and auditioned, and trained. It felt like a eternity.

“I’m in,” the smile that comes to his face is cocky and the sort that usually would make Jinhee be pissed at him, but she smiles wide and bright, shouts, hugs him. Jaewon is not all that excited, if he is completely honest.

He knew he could do it.

He’s seventeen years old and trainee life in Midas is not like he thought it’d be.

And it’s not about it being hard. Jaewon knew it would be hard, he wasn’t clueless when he joined back when he was fourteen. He wasn’t naive. He knew what he was getting himself into and he had prepared himself the most he could.

But still, after three years, it’s not like he thought it’d be.

And what’s so different is Jaewon himself. Because when he joined he thought he’d charm his way through the company with his easy smile and charming personality. He thought he’d awe everyone with his rapping abilities at such an young age, just like he did in his audition. He thought he would reign absolute, the best in all categories. And that’s not what happens at all.

He’s always lacking, lacking in skill, always second best. He’s dancing is not good, his expressions are too much, his personality needs to be toned down. Even his rapping is criticized, analysed, put under a microscope and torn to every piece. You need to enunciate more, your flow isn’t good, your style is too western.

“Maybe you’re not meant to idol life,” a trainer once told him, “And it’s okay, you know. Being an idol is not for everyone.”

Nothing, nothing is ever good enough. And like every reckless seventeen-year-old Jaewon starts acting out.

He starts smoking. He starts drinking. He goes out after practice to do stupid shit. The competition gets to him and he starts bullying the other trainees, using them, using his own place in the hierarchy to his own means. Trainee life in Midas shapes him in this horrible way and he doesn’t even notice. He charms his way through the company, all easy smiles, alluring, engaging. He gains his share of popularity, makes a name for himself not because of his skills but because of who he is. It hurts at first, in a way. Hurts his pride. He’d thought it would be different.

But he’ll make do.

He’s twenty years old and he finally makes his debut as the main rapper of the boy group Olympus.

He’s not all that excited about it. He knew he could do it.

“How is it like?” His sister asks on the phone right after his first music show recording and Jaewon pauses, looks through the window of their packed van. There’s a number of things that run through his mind: that the dressing room smells like foot all the fucking time, that he’s fucking pissed he got so little screen time, that all those flashing lights fit him just fine.

And that it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. Just a little taste and he was already starving.

But what he says is, “It’s easy,” and his sister chuckles, “Not that big of a deal.”

There was a second of silence. “Jesus, I knew you’d say that.”

He’s twenty-four years old and he’s amused.

“Dear God,” his manager is saying, running fingers through her hair, “Jesus, Jaewon, one day you’ll have to pay for all the meds I have to take because of you. My ulcer-”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, you can name it after me,” he jokes, smiles at her. She’s overreacting as usual but Jaewon won’t say that out loud because she’ll flip even more. The Olympus’ manager is a tiny frail thing but she hits like a wrestler. “It’s nothing.”

“They have pictures, Jaewon.”

“It’ll pass…”

“You’re drinking!”

“I was eighteen!”

“That’s underage!”

“Not in every country-”

“WE’RE IN KOREA! YOU WERE UNDERAGE IN KOREA.”

He pauses, takes off his sunglasses. The two of them are in Midas’ cafeteria, the place she chose for their “emergency” meeting. As if he didn’t know what it was about as soon as he got her text, everyone was talking about his pictures that leaked on Pann - pictures of him drinking and smoking while at a party with friends, all from his trainee days. If Jaewon it honest he was actually relieved when he saw the pictures, from the tone of her text he thought it could’ve been way worse. And it could’ve been way worse. He has done much, much worse.

But it’ not his first time on a scandal and he’s sure it won’t be the last. Four years in the industry were enough for him to have his share of missteps. Nothing too big, though. Nothing too awful. Thankfully Midas is always all over the place covering all of his shit, cleaning his mess. Which is sort of fun to watch, truth be told. And honestly, he thinks he deserves praise, because a man like Jaewon having just little scandals here and there was already a victory when you lead the sort of life that he does.

Because fame charged its price, and Jaewon paid it well. And to deal with it he resorted to all kinds of shit. He cheated, drank, smoked, did everything he could do and all that he couldn’t, and he didn’t care much. Midas would be there to do what has to be done if he ever was caught. Fame took the horrible things that were already inside that child asking for a robot toy and shaped him into the person he’s now. Fame took the competition from trainee days, the ruthlessness, the ego and made him how he is now - crooked, perverse, self-absorbed. Because that’s how he learned to be, how he has to be to survive. Or maybe he was always like that. Who knows, now? And it’s not like he cares.

Jaewon loves himself just fine.

“It’s going to pass. In our next comeback they won’t even remember it. Just like last time when you were having a fit because of something I said. I don’t even remember what it was,” he says, taking a sip of his drink, and the look she sends him is deadly.

“Last time you told me there wouldn’t be a next time and now here we are,” she buries her face on her hands, exasperated. Jaewon chuckles. Cute. “God, you’re a terrible person. You know that? Doing that to my poor heart!”

“Oh, come on,” he pouts jokingly, “Don’t be like that. Seriously. Get me some spot on a variety and I’ll cry a little and it’s over. It’s not like I was caught dating someone-”

She glares at him. “And that’s because I’m damn good at my fucking job! Also, you broke up with that girl, didn’t you?”

He nods. “Sure, sure.”

“Jaewon!”

“I did!”

“I hate you. I hate you so much,” she closes her eyes, drinks her milkshake in one go. Jaewon smiles in a cocky way.

“No, you don’t.”

He’s twenty-seven and he’d had it.

“You said an a-side,” he’s saying as he follows his boss through the corridor, the old man basically giving him the cold shoulder. “It’s been six years since I debuted. Is giving me a single for my own group too much to ask?”

The man turns around, looks at him. “It’s a b-side or nothing, Jaewon.”

Jaewon pauses and it takes him a lot not to scream, not to break everything on that damn corridor. It’s been years since his debut. He has danced and rapped to every single one of Olympus’ ridiculous songs. He has played his part. Okay, he may have screwed it up once or twice but he deserves this. He’s good at it. He’s fucking good at it. Musc has been his life for years now, and the only reason he even joined this fucking group was for a shot, to be able to produce one day, to write. And he has endured. He endured every comeback, he endured living in a fucking dorm with people he can’t stand, he endured the fucking fans and stalkers. But they won’t even give him a chance. They’ll shove whatever they chose themselves on him and not even let Olympus have a word about it, even when they have been this long in the industry. He fucking hates it.

They’re puppets. They’re fucking puppets.

“This isn’t fair,” he grunts. He shouldn’t be talking to chairman like this and he knows it, but there’s very little that Jaewon cares about now. They allowed this to happen. Allowed him to grow reckless, destructive. Allowed him to be spoiled, a petty child in a grown man body. And they’re saying no to him. They’re taking the robot toy away from him once he finally fucking got it. “This isn’t fair and you know it!”

“Life isn’t fair, kid,” the chairman says and Jaewon shrinks. Him, of all people. Him, who was larger than life. “It’s a b-side or nothing.”

Jaewon can’t believe he ended up with the car toy again. It’s pathetic, really. He thought now it would finally be different.

#id.bio #id.olympus #id.midas #id.kwon jiyong

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deniscollins · 7 years

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Public Shaming and Even Prison for Plastic Bag Use in Rwanda

Plastic bags, which take hundreds of years to degrade, are a major global issue, blamed for clogging oceans and killing marine life. More than 40 nations have banned, restricted or taxed the use of plastic bags. Should the United States do likewise: (1) Yes, (2) No? If yes, which punishments currently being used in other nations should the U.S. adopt: (1) ban, (2) restrict, (3) tax, (4) fines, (5) jail, and/or (6) public confessions? Why? What are the ethics underlying your decisions?

They are sometimes tucked into bras, hidden in underwear or coiled tightly around a smuggler’s arms.

They’re not narcotics or even the illegally mined gold and diamonds that frequently make it across the border into Rwanda. But they are, at least in the eyes of Egide Mberabagabo, a watchful border guard, every bit as nefarious.

The offending contraband? Plastic bags.

“They’re as bad as drugs,” said Mr. Mberabagabo, one of a dozen border officials whose job it is to catch smugglers and dispose of the illicit plastic he finds.

Here in Rwanda, it is illegal to import, produce, use or sell plastic bags and plastic packaging except within specific industries like hospitals and pharmaceuticals. The nation is one of more than 40 around the world that have banned, restricted or taxed the use of plastic bags, including China, France and Italy.

But Rwanda’s approach is on another level. Traffickers caught carrying illegal plastic are liable to be fined, jailed or forced to make public confessions.

Smugglers can receive up to six months in jail. The executives of companies that keep or make illegal plastic bags can be imprisoned for up to a year, officials say. Stores have been shut down and fined for wrapping bread in cellophane, their owners required to sign apology letters — all as part of the nation’s environmental cleanup.

Plastic bags, which take hundreds of years to degrade, are a major global issue, blamed for clogging oceans and killing marine life. Last month, Kenya put in place a rule that will punish anyone making, selling or importing plastic bags with as much as four years in jail or a $19,000 fine.

In Rwanda, the authorities say the bags contribute to flooding and prevent crops from growing because rainwater can’t penetrate the soil when it is littered with plastic.

The nation’s zero tolerance policy toward plastic bags appears to be paying off: Streets in the capital, Kigali, and elsewhere across this hilly, densely populated country are virtually spotless. Men and women are regularly seen on the sides of roads sweeping up rubbish, and citizens are required once a month to partake in a giant neighborhood cleaning effort, including the president.

Plastic-bag vigilantes are everywhere, from airports to villages, and these informants tip off the authorities about suspected sales or use of plastic.

One recent afternoon, Mr. Mberabagabo, the border official, surveyed the crossing point with the Democratic Republic of Congo, where thousands of people, goods and animals flowed back and forth, punctuated by shouts, cries and animal grunts.

Plastic tubs filled with onions, eggplants, carrots, plantains and cassava bobbed above the heads of women who marched purposefully, with places to go, money to make and mouths to feed. And somewhere among them, often tucked in the women’s undergarments, Mr. Mberabagabo said, were hundreds of plastic bags.

“The most extreme cases are the ladies,” he said. “It’s not very easy to search them,” he added bashfully.

An immigration official working alongside Mr. Mberabagabo showed footage on his cellphone of a middle-aged woman who had been caught transporting plastic bags wrapped around her arms. In the clip, she sobbed and apologized, shielding her eyes from the camera as if she were a drug dealer exposed in a sting operation on television.

The official, expressing a mix of awe and frustration at the lengths to which smugglers will go, showed another video clip of a wheelchair that had a false bottom concealing bundles of tightly packed plastic bags. He puffed with pride while recounting how he discovered the deceit.

Nearby, a tall plastic bin was filled to the brim with plastic bags, from the large supermarket kind to the small, translucent types used to pack sandwiches. A big banner read: “Use environmentally friendly bags” as officials searched luggage and patted down entrants.

Rwanda is probably Africa’s cleanest nation and among the most pristine in the world. Though at least 15 African countries have enacted some sort of ban, many still have plastic bags littered on roads, stuck in drain pipes or caught in trees. Cattle die eating the bags because they obstruct digestion. In informal settlements in places like Kenya, plastic bags are sometimes used as “flying toilets” containing human waste.

There are, of course, many environmental threats on the continent, including poaching, water pollution and deforestation. Some countries are trying to tackle them, like Gabon, where the president has fashioned himself as an environmentally conscious leader. But many nations lack the resources or political will. Congo bans plastic bags, in theory, but there is little to suggest the ban is enforced.

Kinshasa, Congo’s capital, has so much trash, most of it contained in plastic bags, that the city’s residents have nicknamed the city “poubelle,” or “garbage can.” In Goma, a Congolese city just across the border with Rwanda, plastic litter is everywhere, made even more visible because the earth there is made of black, volcanic rock. Clumps of colored plastic poke out of the ground like weird vegetation.

“Rwanda is very clean; here in Congo it’s very dirty,” said Richard Mumbere, a Congolese cabdriver. “Our government is not organized, and so it damages the environment.”

Back in Rwanda, enforcing the ban, which was first adopted in 2008, involves hundreds of rules that are tricky to follow, to say the least.

Imports generally have their plastic packaging removed at customs, officials say, unless doing so would damage the goods. In that case, stores are required to remove the packaging before handing the merchandise to customers.

Food wrapped in cellophane is allowed only in hotels, and only if it does not leave the premises.

Biodegradable bags are allowed only for frozen meat and fish, not for other items like fruit and vegetables because such bags still take as long as 24 months to decompose, the government says.

Potato chips and other foods packed in plastic are allowed only if the companies making them are approved by the government — after showing a detailed business plan that includes how they plan to collect and recycle their bags.

The results of Rwanda’s efforts are evident in this clean country, but they may not be easy to replicate. In the United States and Europe, for example, there is a dispute between environmentalists and representatives of the plastics industry who say that bags made of alternative materials, like cloth, have a bigger carbon footprint than plastic ones and aren’t as environmentally friendly as people think. Plastic bags should be reused and recycled instead, they argue.

The authorities in Rwanda brush off criticism about the absence of similar debates in their country. The rules here are based on extensive scientific research and public surveys, they say. And their enforcement is more easily accepted in a country with authoritarian tendencies and little room for dissent.

Out of deep anxiety over national security, President Paul Kagame has hammered into shape an obedient, organized society of law-abiding and law-fearing citizens who have grown accustomed to a strong government after the 1994 genocide, in which nearly a million people were killed in 100 days.

Tough enforcement is Mr. Kagame’s signature style, even when it comes to developing his country. He requires all Rwandans to wear shoes, has eradicated huts with thatched roofs and has banned imports of used clothing because he says it compromises dignity.

Children here are taught in schools not to use plastic bags and to cherish the environment. Smugglers are often held in detention centers or forced to write confessions in newspapers or broadcast them on the radio. Supermarkets caught selling food in plastic packaging are shut down until they pay a fine and write an apology.

Two officials from Rwanda’s Environment Management Authorityrecently went on a spontaneous inspection of shops in Kigali, posing as customers. By the end of the hour, they had already padlocked three stores and fined the owners a few hundred dollars each for selling bread wrapped in cellophane, using biodegradable bags for vegetables and cookies, or selling flour packaged in plastic instead of paper.

“This is very bad,” said Martine Uwera, one of the inspectors, towering over a store employee and jabbing her finger at a loaf of bread wrapped in plastic.

“Forgive us,” the worker pleaded. “We didn’t know, we didn’t know.” A colleague muttered, “It’s not fair,” under her breath.

The prohibited loaves of bread were swept off the shelves into a basket that the officials said would be distributed to hospitals, charities and orphanages. The store was closed temporarily until the fine was paid and the owner signed an apology letter.

Two stores in the vicinity suffered a similar fate, and one had it particularly bad: It was fined and lost revenue worth $650, a sizable amount here. Its owner, Emile Ndoli, a commercial baker, tried to negotiate with the inspectors and an argument erupted. Bread wrapped in paper, he said, went bad faster than bread wrapped in plastic. Besides, he added, customers “choose with their eyes.”

“What Rwanda is doing is 100 percent correct,” he said, stealing a glance at the inspectors who stood by, listening carefully. “But I’m also a businessman and I want a permanent solution, which won’t involve losing money.”

#Rwanda #Plastic Bags

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magneticmaguk · 7 years

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Fancy Dress is For Children, Stop Wearing it in Nightclubs

Funny, isn't it, how the fears and anxieties you develop in early childhood follow you until the day you die? Well, it's less funny than utterly, abjectly, life-ruiningly awful really, but you get the point.

The things that rationally or otherwise take you out of the blissful amniotic bubble of your first few years and thrust you unknowingly and unwittingly into the pain and horror of life after the age of about six or so don't just vanish or dissipate; they fester and rot and keep you awake night after night.

Now, I know, you're reading a dance music website rather than a peer-reviewed psychoanalytical journal, but bear with me, because I'm about to join the dots between psychosocial development and clubbing.

Ever since I can remember, and who knows what pre-remembrance memories have been repressed deep into recesses of my unconscious, I've found the concept of fancy dress parties terrifying. Part of that fear, I assume anyway, stems from a moment in time that arrives when I least expect it, broadcast in crystal clear Ultra HD. I am at a fifth birthday party, dressed as a pirate. The party is taking place at the house of a childhood friend who lived on a farm. On that farm in a barn. We are playing hide and seek and I'm hiding from the seeker in that barn. The air smells like grass and fire and broken engines and I am grasping my plastic cutlass, eyes tightly shut, heart pounding. No one has come to find me yet, and so I explore the barn, taking tentative steps into the darkness. Here in the dark, my hand rests on something. That something is, to all intents and purposes, a severed head. I am shuddering and screaming and I want to be found right this second because as soon as I am found I can ask to go home, to get out of this pirate outfit, to thrust my head under the warm water of the bath, and let this day end.

Of course it wasn't actually a body-less skull. The thing that had inspired such world-changing fear was, in fact, one of those heads that hairdressers train on. Nevertheless, over two decades on, the very thought of fancy dress sends me back to that primal encounter, an encounter which left an indelible mark on my person: I will always associate the act of dressing up with a supreme sense of terror.

Yet recently this irrational fear has mingled with the horrors of the real world. In an attempt to stand out in a market that's saturated beyond belief, promoters and venue owners have to think of innovative ways to sell their club nights. With actual innovation being quite difficult to come by, we've seen a resurgence across clubland of legitimized, actual fancy dress parties.

Now, obvious point here but dressing up is an inherent part of the clubbing experience. Even the uniform that we attach to the Oceanas of this world (the striped shirt, bootcut jeans, and school shoes look) is a means of using a wardrobe for the purpose of reinvention. Nightlife lets us pretend we really are more than our jobs, whether or not that's the case in reality, and that pretence is usually rooted in a sartorial basis. In a thousand different ways, most of us find ourselves dressing up to let our hair down, weekend after weekend.

There is, however, a massive difference between dressing up and dressing up. The italicized version is an abomination, a dullards way of disguising their own lack of, well, anything. The chances are that any party you attend after the age of say, eleven, where the majority of the room are in some form of costume, whether it's Super Mario or Mario from Big Brother 9, Jean-Claude Juncker or Jean-Claude Van Damme, will be terrible. There are a variety of reasons for that.

The first is that fancy dress is a perfect signifier is the epitome of forced fun. As soon as a nightclub has to tell you to have fun any chance of actually having fun evaporates into the air, atomising alongside the stilton-scented vape-smoke.

"YOU," these clubs and festivals scream through tannoys disguised as pineapples, buoys, or medical waste wheelie bins, "ARE GOING TO HAVE THE TIME OF YOUR LIFE."

How—you shout back over the deafening din of a Patrick Topping set and the yammer of a thousand blokes dressed as Borat howling "YEAH MATE JUST NEAR THE FRONT MATE," into their phones—how are you going to ensure that I get my money's worth from another dismal day party thrown in an unusual London location that just as usual happens to be in a convention centre with a decent sized smoking area.

"WELL," the disembodied voices yell back, "YOU'VE GOT TO LEAVE THE VENUE AND COME BACK DRESSED AS EITHER FREDDIE MERCURY, CARMEN MIRANDA, OR THE ALLEGED WHO WANTS TO BE A MILLIONAIRE CHEAT, MAJOR CHARLES INGRAM."

I don't want to dress up as Charles Ingram or Carmen Miranda or Freddie Mercury, and I cannot begin to imagine why anyone

would

. Surely, I reason from up here in my ivory tower, being at a festival or in a club is enough fun as it is, without needing to constantly be reminded of the FUN FUN FUN FUN FUN FUN FUN FUN FUN I'm missing out on from not donning a silly wig and a pair of cowboy boots and shooting myself in the face with tequila on Snapchat. And surely I'm right. This is fun designed by committee, fun for people who need perpetual pointers as to what fun actually is.

The rise of the fancy dress party hints at a broader sociological phenomenon that's threatening to see an entire generation obsessed with negating reality via a dismal return to an imagined childhood, a sea of people doomed to a life of shitting themselves in front of old episodes of Tracey Beaker as they run their furry tongues round the sites where their now-disintegrated teeth once where—a truly devastating descent into infantilism.

Believe it or not, there is a time where childish things need to be put away, and not just printed onto a onesie or whatever the fuck it is students wear these days. Fancy dress is one such thing. Think about it: what kind of self-respecting adult actually engages with fancy dress? It'll either be some red-faced systems analyst who likes to have his own tie stuffed down his gob by a matron at that creepy school dinners place just off Oxford Street, a bloke in a panda-suit giggling his way through Rochdale town centre en route to meet the region's five other fur-fanatics, or two lads in flares shaking a leg down the front at of Magic Door.

Each of those iterations says the same thing about the costume-wearer: I am pained by the idea of existing in the present and thus willing do anything and everything I can to return to the womb. A nightclub, with all its illusions about inclusion and warmth and communality is enough of a womb, thanks.

There is also a more serious point here, that of cultural appropriation. When elrow, for example, throw another Bollywood themed party, what do they actually want from it? Honestly, what is the intention? Is it, as I suspect they'd claim, nothing more than a harmless bit of fun, no worse than, say, wearing a string of onions and a beret or a matador's cape and a pair of castanets? A cheeky wink at the world and it's many cultural variances, all of which are allegedly ripe for repurposing as a costume for an unimaginative business studies student desperate for an excuse to do a few bumps of a Sunday afternoon in mid-summer.

Well, no, it isn't really, is it? It's rank cultural imperialism masquerading as banter, a modern update on an office joker donning an afro wig and doing his best Jim Davidson impression. The idea that having a good time, or creating a "fun loving vibe" or however else these parties sell themselves to potential media partners, is permission to run riot over cultural identities is a self-evident fallacy. How do we tally the sight of white dancers dressed "Bollywood" gear with the idea of inclusion that we so often come back to when we try and justify clubbing as anything more than an enjoyable diversion from work? We can't. There is no way to do so.

And that's the problem with fancy dress in general: in a perverse way it imbues going out with a sense of genuine importance. You might not think that as you slide into a Danny Zuko style leather jacket ahead of another day party, but it's true. You've made a financial and emotional investment that didn't need to be made. You've fallen into a trap set for you by wily promoters. You've lined their pockets yet again. Oh, and you look like a twat. Sorry.

#culture

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