#just a bit blokey is all
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Déjà Brew
@hinnymicrofic June 15 "Coffee," Muggle AU, Coffee Shop <3
Harry isn’t trendy enough for this shop, that much is obvious.
The bulletin boards are plastered with advertisements for several local bands and a poetry slam; the chalkboard lists at least ten different types of milk alternatives and more flavor shot options than he thought possible; and some indie song he’s never heard in his life blares from the speakers.
He considers turning around, but decides the day calls for coffee more than it calls for a tactical retreat, and he presses on.
He’s still staring at the menu, upon which every order has been assigned a kitschy nickname, when he arrives at the front of the line, trying to decipher how to order an americano without making a tit of himself. The barista asks what he’d like and he panic-orders a plain black coffee so there’s no room for error, the pain in his voice apparent. He starts digging around in his wallet for his credit card, and it isn’t until he goes to hand it over that his eyes land on the barista and he freezes.
Fuck she’s pretty.
It’s an annoyingly blokey thing to think, but he thinks it, and keeps on thinking it as her lips quirk into a smirk and her amber eyes glint with amusement at his expression and she tucks an errant strand of coppery hair behind her ear.
“Do you really want a black coffee?” the local goddess moonlighting as a barista asks, her nose scrunched in amusement. “Or did you panic?”
Panic is an ongoing state of affairs, frankly. “Er…” he says, in a fruitless attempt to kick start his brain. “How could you tell?”
“Call it a barista’s intuition,” she says with a wink. “Plus you look like you were having a tooth pulled trying to read the menu.”
“The fuck’s nitro cold foam?”
“Nothing you’d ever order.”
“You don’t know that,” Harry says obstinately, ignoring the way speaking with her seems to be having the same effect as the four shots of espresso he’d intended to order would have. “I’m very difficult to read.”
She snorts, and he’s not sure whether to be offended or enchanted. “Let me guess,” she narrows her eyes. “You want straight espresso.”
“How–”
“You look too tired for two. A bit too young for four. Three shots?”
“I’ll just have a nitro cold foam, thanks.”
“Sure,” the barista says with a chuckle. “Only, that’s supposed to go on top of an order.”
“Well, shit.”
She laughs, and Harry decides right then and there that he likes this shop, after all. Might be his new favorite place.
“I wanted four, actually,” he admits.
“Rough day, eh?” the barista says sympathetically. His eyes flit down to her nametag, Ginny, and linger for a beat too long. Her smirk tells him she notices. “For future reference, if you want four espresso shots you can order the Déjà Brew, double.”
“Fuck’s sake, that’s terrible.”
“It’s revolting,” she agrees cheerfully and turns around to pull his espresso shots, revealing that the back of her is as tragically fit as the front.
She hands him his drink a few minutes later. “Enjoy. Don’t expect you’ll be visiting again, eh?”
I will if you’re here. “Never know. Could do.”
“I hope so,” she adopts a decidedly wicked expression that does something funny to his stomach. “It’ll be just like Déjà Brew.”
He lets out a bark of laughter. The joke is objectively terrible, as is everything about the hipster shop.
He'll be back tomorrow.
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Chat to your fav LI’s | LITG edition
Will update as new LI’s come in!
If you have a request for a LI you’d like to chat to (female or male!) please send me (@0shewrites0) or @libelle949 an ask 🤍
If you have a request for another fandom (like RC for example) send them in too! @libelle949 and I will do our best to set all of them up step by step 🥰
LI’s available to chat with so far (30+):
Just tap on the character you want to chat with!
Angie Chandrasekhar
29. paramedic. scorpio. tattoos. proud lesbian.
Arjun Khatri (by anon)
24. dog groomer. influencer. loves cheeky winks.
Bobby McKenzie
24. baker. happy kiddo. loves to laugh. weirdo.
Bruno Kaminski by @libelle949
25. standup comedian. jokester. sweet. positive.
Carl Sullivan
29. tech entrepreneur. geeky. loyal. quiet.
Chelsea Edwards by @notaviirgo
24. interior decorator. charismatic. fun. diva.
Dylan (whatever) (by anon)
28. swansea. ambitious. pro volleyball player.
Eddie Harris (villain!)
24. model. feminist. no time for boring. flirty.
Gary’s Nan
73. charity work. temper of thunder. heart of gold.
Gary Rennell
23. crane operator. down to earth. blokey bloke.
Harry Zhong
21. student. nerdy and proud. gamer. ambitious.
Hazeem Salmani by @notaviirgo
25. landscaper. plant daddy. early exitee himself.
Henrik Bergstrom
23. climbing instructor. relaxed. goofy. weirdo.
Hope Biala by @notaviirgo
26. retail ambassador. hotter than a spark.
Iain Stirling by @mrsbsmooth
hilarious narrator locked in shed. has got tea to spill.
Jake Wilson by @mrsbsmooth
29. chef. strong silent type. deeply romantic.
Jakub Zabinski by @ariendiel
*grunt*
Johnny by @libelle949
21. theater student. drama king. momma’s boy.
Kassam Maleek
26. DJ. cynical. cold. passionate about music.
Lottie Campbell by @notaviirgo
24. makeup artist. obsessed with the color black. dramatic.
Lucas Koh
27. physiotherapist. passionate. loves danger.
Marisol Lopez Trujillo by @notaviirgo
24. law student. latina goddess who likes both genders
Noah Alexander by @ariendiel
25. librarian from romford. loves books. quiet.
Oliver Tan
26. tattoo artist. drama-free. “friendly giant”.
Priya Kumar by @notaviirgo
29. real estate agent. bisexual bad gyal.
Suresh (Frazer) (by anon)
27. an Edinburgh based corporate lawyer. wanderlust.
Tai Kahu
28. rugby coach. proud kiwi. 193cm of love.
Tim Burton (Big T)
23. DJ. wannabe rapper. loyal. funny. short king.
Tom Beresford-King by @notaviirgo
22. finance worker. people’s prince. little bit nervous.
Willem (Will) Kimura by @libelle949
26. artist. free spirit. creative. aloof. cute.
Youcef Nassiri by @libelle949
27. french. model. charming man. philosopher.
Characters by @thisiskhayeanne - tap here to get to them!
Rocco, Hannah, Blake, Elisa, Shannon, Ibrahim, Jo, Meera
#litg#love island the game#litg all seasons#chat to your fav LI’s#character ai#reblog so everyone sees this! ❤️
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3, 4, 14, and 37 for dean and seamus
my darling boys! 🥹 dean and seamus, off we gooooo. thank you @valfromcall!
3. Obscure headcanon
obscure headcanon 1 - dean thomas was born may 10th 1980, the day west ham won the FA cup. that west ham have never won the cup since remains a source of great regret for east london's golden boy. unfortunately may 10th also happened to be the day in 1997 when gryffindor won the house cup and harry potter scooped his ex from right from under his nose - a bad birthday for the ages. seamus tried to cheer him up by reminding him that may 10th is also the birthday of a proud son of ireland (bono from U2), which dean said was 'not helping'
obscure headcanon 2 - this is dean and seamus' son:
also this isn't obscure but their first kiss was 100% in the finnigan tent at the quidditch world cup after ireland's stonking victory over bulgaria
4. Favorite line
for seamus, it's probably when they're all in the dormitory in GoF and dobby rocks up and seamus nonchalantly goes 'someone attacking you, Harry?' aka mr finnigan giving precisely zero shits about whatever main character moment harry is having and thereby failing his audition for inclusion in the golden trio. bonus special mention to the world's worst pep talk in PS/SS:
“Harry, you need your strength,” said Seamus Finnigan. “Seekers are always the ones who get clobbered by the other team.”
“Thanks, Seamus,” said Harry, watching Seamus pile ketchup on his sausages.
can't a man enjoy a condiment anymore smh
for dean, it's either "send him off, ref! red card!' from PS/SS or this from OotP:
"Well, [Moody] turned out to be a maniac, didn’t he?" said Dean Thomas hotly. "Mind you, we still learned loads."
14. Most heroic moment
seamus 'harry's a liar' finnigan getting beaten to a pulp and unrecognisably disfigured by the carrows. king shit
dean is being the biggest bravest boy in the world all on his own on the run leaving his mum and sisters behind and not being able to have a cuddle when he's lost and alone and scared and hungry all through DH :(
37. What they really think about themselves
i think, as teenagers, seamus was the one with a lot of insecurities and self-loathing: struggling with the knowledge that he was gay and a bit in love with his best mate and not really knowing what to do with it, in conflict with his mum and wrestling with who he was going to be in this big war that seemed to be looming, not the cleverest or the sportiest or the anything-est and generally a bit aggy and restless. dean was the much more relaxed one of the two. he had a strong sense of right and wrong, was sure the goodies would prevail before anything got too out of hand, was content with his kind of chill blokey vibe and got a fit girlfriend that meant he could park any of the slightly confusing feelings he was feeling for shay.
after the war, though, they swap roles. seamus has quite a settled sense of self after his school years - like, he got his fuck up out of the way (not believing voldemort was back, having his big sulk), but then redeemed himself, was on some real hero shit and really became close with the other DA lot, getting a lot out of the prestige of being an auror for a bit, no longer felt like he had much to prove, and felt loved and confident enough to come out. dean, however, really struggled with the impact of the war, feeling an intense sense of isolation and distance from the other's wartime experiences, and both envying seamus' confidence to come out but struggling to accept that he might also not be straight, like it was just another thing that would mark him out as Other. i basically think seamus and dean were hooking up a lot immediately after school and in their early twenties, but always in secret, while dean kept dating muggle girls and playing out this big tension he feels in his own identity, between the muggle and wizarding worlds, as well as over his own sexuality and internalised homophobia. i reckon seamus was the one to (eventually) recognise this was self-destructive and breaking his heart, and ended it. cue the wilderness years!
they obviously get back together eventually, though, hence west ham son (yes i'm obsessed with this child), although seamus threatened to break up with him when dean argued he should be allowed to put the imperius curse on declan rice to stop him moving to arsenal and betraying his beloved hammers in summer 2023
#these boys! break my heart everytime#i knew following UK football by osmosis would come in handy#deamus#dean thomas#seamus finnigan#headcanons#ask game
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Hey look it’s that young ones thing i said i’d write!
“I’ve told you once and I’ll tell you you again Vyvyan you cannot go throwing tables at people”
The boys had returned from an unsuccessful night at the pub, making it the third pub they had been banned from in a 10 mile radius. Their reputation for destroying the blokey atmosphere of the local pubs was now beginning to precede them.
“Yeah Vyv that was a really heavy thing to do. I mean my ready salted crisps got all over the floor and like a bit of chewing gum got on one of them and they were all covered in lint and mucky stuff. It was really really heavy”
Neil whined, trudging in behind Rick he slipped his brown coat off his shoulders and threw it onto the floor in a huff.
The coat landed on the linoleum floor of their kitchen, but not flat in the way it was supposed to. In a sort of heap, with shined shoes sticking out the other end of it. Rick tutted at the sight of it, rolling his eyes
“Neil, you’ve dropped your stupid ugly facist coat on Mike”
“No he hasn’t. I’m here, Rick”
“Oh har har Very good impression Vyvyan. Obviously Mike is under the coat I mean who else could it be.. a burglar that died in our kitchen”
Rick snorted at the idea, whipping the coat off the figure he titled his head upward so that his nose was in the air
“Come on, get up Mike stop lying on the floooor”
As Rick looked down to berate his older housemate for continuing to lie on the ground he jumped back, shrieking in horror
“What, what is it? Rick come on man all this yelling is really really heavy man, what’s the matter?”
Neil queried, trudging around Rick’s quivering frame to have a look at what he was making such a fuss about. Upon finding the source he tutted
“Aw man what a really heavy trip. Mr Balowski’s like all dead on the floor”
he sighed as if this was a very normal thing to be happening in their kitchen on some random Wednesday. Vyvyan and Mike had now circled around their dead landlord. Lying flat on his back, eyes wide open with a look of horror on his face, as if he had been petrified by a gorgon of greek myth.
There was a considerable pause as the boys examined his corpse, all of them looking pensive. And then, an eruption of cheering seemed to rumble up through the four of them. Vyvyan, in his haste to find a party popper lit a stick of dynamite and threw it haphazardly out into the garden. Mike righted himself and then began to instruct the others
“Vyv, get the babycham. Rick, call everyone we know. Neil… shut up”
“But Michael,” Vyvyan interjected, throwing open the cupboards to peer inside “It would appear that we only have lentils and fairy liquid in the cupboards”
“Right. Neil, go get some babycham”
Reluctantly, Neil put his coat back on and on the way out he passed Rick on the phone, chatting excitedly down the receiver to one of his friends whom he ticked off on a little list in his other hand once the phone was down.
By the time he had got back, the house was bustling with people, more people than the last party for definite.
“Sorry guys, I could only get snowballs and lager.”
Vyvyan launched forward and snatched the drinks out of Neil’s hands in a huff
“What? No babycham?!”
“No right it was totally heavy, he told me to come back at like christmas time right because that’s when people buy the babycham y’know”
“Oh well, yet again it seems you have disappointed us Neil”
The party was definitely one for the ages, there was quiet music, talking and people snogging on their stairs. Rick was trying and failing to make small talk with a girl who looked just as desperate as him for some form of human contact. Mike on the other hand, had girls swarming to his tiny little body like moths to a flame. Neil, a bit dejected from all the abuse, plonked himself next to their landlord’s body in the kitchen and began to play absentmindedly with the dead man’s fingers, feeling utterly sorry for himself.
Then, all of a sudden, the corpse sprang up to his feet. As if snapped from some terribly ineffective trance. He wobbled to his feet but before he could open his mouth to speak, Vyvyan had whipped through the kitchen like a ginger whirlwind and clarted Mr Balowski over the head with a far from sanitary looking pan. There was a moment of stillness in the house as all the party attendees watched Mr Balowski crumple to the floor like a sack of spuds
“Right. Let’s keep this party going”
Mike hummed, procuring a decent looking bottle of Champagne from god knows where, the party goers got right back to what they were doing.
As they always did, the party fizzled out in the early hours of the morning, leaving the four boys with a corpse and terrible terrible hangovers. The last stragglers had let themselves out of the open backdoor and had left Jerzei well enough alone.
“Leave this to me boys. I’ve got a Buddy down in the cellar that’ll look after him”
Mike hummed, looking for something to shroud their landlord with. Eventually he just decided to bundle him back up in Neil’s coat.
“Y’know, Mike. You can have my grave if you want to. I wasn’t going to use it this week anyway it’s like y’know I’ve promised Wayne I’ll help him with his slam poetry so like if you want you can just throw me on top next week”
Rick rolled his eyes “Oh stop making this all about youuuuuu Neil”
Eventually they managed to drag him out to the grave and drop him in. Rick, who hadn’t really helped at all received a harsh shove from Vyvyan and began to wail as the others piled dirt into him. Using their landlord as a step stool, Rick managed to scrabble out of the grave “Look at what you’ve done to my shirt Vyvyan! It was only washed six months ago and now you’ve ruined it!”
Vyvyan rolled his eyes at Rick but said nothing, continuing to shovel the dirt into the grave.
Once the hole was filled, Neil placed a flower in the middle of the grave. This was met with confused looks from the others
“What?” Neil asked “It’s for good karma man”
“Bollocks to good karma! I’m really thirsty!” Vyvyan bellowed.
They all stood in thought for a moment. Clearly that feeling was mutual. It was Mike who spoke after the silence “…Pub?”
And off they went into the sunset, the quest for a pint had begun.
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dumb fan theory alert:
firstly, if the following doesn’t make it abundantly clear, yes i did study english literature for a long time and i’m also incredibly passionate about music and yes this does mean i tease hidden, convoluted meanings and themes from almost anything i read and any song i listen to. and so this is something I’ve been pondering:
so we’ve been told strike’s favourite artist is Tom Waits. robin gifts Strike a couple of bits of Waits memorabilia, including a special copy of the Closing Time album in The IBH.
arguably the most famous track from that album is I Hope That I Don’t Fall in Love With You. I think at this point a lot of us have drawn enough parallels between that song and Corm and Robin’s relationship so don’t worry, that’s not the theory.
My theory is RG is working their way through the track in strike and robin’s relationship.
Hear me out.
I hope that I don’t fall in love with you, ‘cause falling in love just makes me blue
This is the beginning of the song and the beginning of the journey. Cormoran is still in love with Charlotte. It’s a toxic, twisted relationship that’s making him sad and despairing. Love, to Strike, either brings pain or obligation, or in the case of certain members of his family, both of those at once. Strike is immediately drawn to Robin but neatly boxes that attraction off entirely. We’re told it’s because of her being quite obviously engaged and therefore off-limits. However to a degree, I believe for Strike there’s an element of self-preservation. Nothing good has come from romantic love for him so it’s best to not pursue it to avoid being hurt again. And, as a friendship forms, there’s that age-old trope of not wanting to “ruin” that newfound relationship and throw everything off-balance.
Well, the music plays and you display your heart for me to see, I’ve had a beer and now I hear you calling out for me
This line makes me think of two separate incidents and both fit perfectly. The first is Robin confiding in Strike about her attack at university. To me, the first real shift in their friendship to one of a level of dependency. To trust someone with that information, as such a private person, to trust that they won’t use that against you in any way, shows a level of trust that runs deeper than mere friendship and colleagueship.
Or on the other hand, the argument after Max’s dinner party. Robin laid herself completely bare, highlighting the role she was forced to assume; the peacekeeper, the balm to everyone’s feelings, the pretty, slight, demure one to his brash, insensitive and blokey one. She calls to him her need to be validated as something other than easygoing, peaceable Robin by him, because that’s who she’s been her whole life and she is tired of it now.
And I wonder, should I offer you a chair? Well, if you sit down with this old clown, take that frown and break it, before the evening’s gone away I think that we can make it
This might be more of a reach as this line is a lot more abstract, but I see this as the cautious agreement to embark on a partnership and then later on, a best-friendship, despite the clear animosity and disapproval from Matthew. Robin is unsure where she fits in Strike’s world but knows that she wants to be in it body and soul. Especially around Silkworm era, Robin is in that phase of trying so hard to prove herself to both men in her life as a worthy partner on two very different levels; as a work partner and as a life partner, slowly realising that one has to win out over the other, and slowly, without ever labelling it, allowing the former to win. This line reminds me of Strike warning Robin that he would demand of a partner someone who can sacrifice as much of their life as he has, and then that ultimate agreement to become partners, where optimism seems to be at an all-time high.
Well the night does funny things inside a man, these old tomcat feelings you don’t understand
This line always reminds me of chapter 58 of TB. The evening in the office with heavy and ever-so-slightly intimate whiskey-fuelled conversations. It was the first distinctly noted instance of Strike considering a physical element to the relationship, reminding himself of the distance between the two of them and a double bed. I’ve been playing around with that “you don’t understand” part too - I suppose it could allude to Robin’s inexperience with men of the variety who don’t want to attack her or the one who married her. She doesn’t understand the feelings he has or indeed the sheer weight of them, because he’s never told her or let her know they could be there.
Until her birthday night, when he decides all at once to spring those feelings on her in such a physical sense. And of course, she doesn’t understand, because there’s been no build-up, no hint or suggestion that this is what he wants. Because neither of them use their damn words…
I can see that you are lonesome just like me, and it being late, you’d like some company
Post-separation/divorce Robin has such a welcome air of independence, but also one of sometimes uncomfortable solitude. It’s definitely realistic - this is someone actually learning to be alone for the first time. Strike is a seasoned veteran at this and seems to be a bit of a guide in that respect. He just seems to be quite conveniently guiding her…to him. The imagery of late nights returns again and I’m minded that we see so many of the occasions that spur this relationship onward occur in the evening/night time - Robin’s wedding night, the night in Barrow, the night in the hotel in IBH, the night where Strike stays over Robin’s, the night after the American Bar, the night at the Ritz, the night of Max’s dinner party…I could go on.
The guy you’re with, he’s up and split, the chair next to you’s free, and I hope that you don’t fall in love with me
Once Matthew is out of the picture, Strike doesn’t have quite as many distinct barriers to Robin as he once had. The wedding ring was like the ultimate way to close down any thoughts of romance and without it, there’s only the running of the agency in the way. The shift from “I hope I don’t fall in love with you”, to “I hope you don’t fall in love with me”, makes me think of the point at which Strike started to entertain the idea that Robin may well be attracted to him, which is noticed a lot more in the last 2 books. It’s like his one last resolve before crumbling - he’s too far gone, so the only hope is that she doesn’t love him back.
Well, I turn around to look at you, you’re nowhere to be found, I search the place for your lost face, guess I’ll have another round
And I think that I just fell in love with you
The end of the song and the end of book 6. Strike has finally scraped his shit together and realised he can’t keep up the self-flagellation act of denying the existence of his love for her any more, finally admitting it to himself …. And it’s too late. Robin’s finally seeking that last step of independence and it isn’t with him. Of course, what remains to be seen is what he intends to do about that…
And if there’s no song left, and we’ve reached a conclusion (of sorts) in terms of what Strike is feeling, there doesn’t seem to be much left in the way for the inevitable to happen, right?
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i've been actually sitting down and listening to kate bush bc of stranger things (before that I only listened to her popular songs, y'know, wuthering heights, babooshka. running up that hill.) and she is so underrated omg, it's taking me a bit longer to really get into the other albums, but hounds of love has so many absolute bangers??? obviously it's got running up that hill but also??? the title track?? under ice??? CLOUDBUSTING???? sooo good why did it take the dnd 80's nostalgia fest to get me into this woman's music, kate bush I'm so sorry
im honestly over the moon that more people are listening to her because she's absolutely amazing. im lucky bc she's one of my mum AND dad's favourite artists (which is a rare crossover bc my dad listens to any blokey pub britpop shit and my mum listens to like. enya) so it meant kate bush was just playing a lot in my house growing up and i know a lot about her. did u know she wrote wuthering heights when she was 18 bc she saw a clip of the film? like she'd never even read the book (she did go to read it for the song tho)? and she not only writes and sings all her songs but also dances in the music videos? which is obvs as impressive now as it was back then but i feel nowadays there's a whole genre for 'eccentric' artists whereas in the 80s her specific brand was pretty much unheard of. she's genuinely such a cool woman
#like kate bush had a kid and totally just left the scene#this woman went off the grid and ditched celebrity life for over a decade and came back and immediately dropped a hit album#she's very reclusive she doesn't participate in celebrity life much#you know ELTON JOHN invited her to his... wedding? i think? and he was convinced she wouldnt come bc she's renowned for being reclusive#but SHE DID and these absolute megastars (bc hello they're at elton john's wedding) were fawning over kate bush#like they were fangirling over her lmao AS THEY SHOULD#idk where she lives in london but my dad's seen her house before#NOT IN A STALKY WAY LMAO she just genuinely lives in a very normal place that you can like. walk down#anyway yeah kate bush my beloved <3#ask#music tings#kate bush
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Fuck me, Fuck The Algorithm is fucking fucked-up …
… in a fucking good way, obviously.
Eclectic is an over used term in music reviews: usually merely indicating that a country/Americana act strays occasionally into CSNY territory, or a blues outfit manage at least once to leaven their relentless Chicago dumpa-dumpa-dumpa-dumpa with a splash of NOLA syncopation …
And there’s nothing wrong with either of those, but in the eight tracks of manic, maniacal, genre-mangling mash-ups of Fuck The Algorithm Mango Thomas redefines ‘eclectic’ as an ADHD chameleon on acid in a kaleidoscope during a laser-strobe light-show.
The opening track alone, Pjunkle, careens between a blizzard of high-speed machine drum, guitar and incandescently furious growled vox, and Eastern-spiced spacey electronica interlaced with lithe bass lines, burbling synths and melodic harmonised guitar… via a metal-cum-drum’n’bass maelstrom. Oh yeah, plus a closing ferocious excoriation of the www.
Musically that pretty much sets the template (of there being no template) for what comes after: a relentlessly-grinding deconstructed boogie opens Punk Bitch, breaking down to a beats-and-Parklife-on-steroids rap interspersed with fusiony guitar squiggles and playfully venomous music-hall psychedelia; a surprisingly stonery laid-back late-night jazz passage from electric piano and loose-limbed drums gives way first to minimalist jamband death metal twin-guitar lines, then a double-speed pogoing anthem, before a hanging close reprise of the ‘stoner jazz’ piano…
Hypnotically deep trancefloor bass, bubbling marimba-like accents and textured string synths underpin the increasingly urgent mantra of Whaddya Want, which canters (via some nice 80s samples and a Moroderesque hook) into a wall of melodic prog-fusion guitar and tricksy timings, ending in a staccato, punchy dead-stop.
Headlock almost convinces you it’s just the one thing: the complex percussive techno banger runs nearly half its 4-plus minutes with no more quirks beyond a bit of rapping and an occasional (very accomplished) noodling fretless bass… until that bass line returns in a full-on rendition augmented with guitar and increasingly abandoned multi-voice wordless “Na, na, na-na”s sounding like a terrace-chant Bond theme, rising to a wild peak.
As with Mango Thomas Goes De.EP his previous release, Fuck The Algorithm includes a trio of mini-tracks: Did You Mean’s spoken voice/SFX humorous rant against the Siri-tyranny of patronising suggestions; #fuckthealgorithm, a reprise of the polemic from Pjunkle set over a rather Hawkindish interstellar overdrive start-up; and Frosty Mornings, which actually does stick to its single groove of smoothly-swaying soully electric piano, heartbeat pulse rhythms and lush synth strings (although the swirling modulation, panning and phasing add an unexpected off-kilter spacey edge).
By seven tracks in, we’re all Mango Thomas veterans now, so Algorithms’ light and airy acoustic picking and mellow folky troubadour vox-led ‘love song’ aren’t fooling anybody… sure enough, the expected Oi-meets-Nu-Metal explosion of syn-drum and gutsy guitar heralds a blokey belted-out “We’re all algorithms” denunciation of the foregoing syrupy delusions, topped with very Frippish atonal guitar and a deconstructed brassy jazz-funk finale.
Now, this might all sound like a recipe for disaster, or at least a cacophonous dog’s dinner, and in the hands of someone less adept it could well be... but Mango Thomas pulls the feat off with considerable aplomb. Fuck The Algorithm is one of a handful of home-grown albums that has had me grooving and grinning simultaneously and, even more rare, laughing out loud at its invention, audacity and sheer joyous insanity. It’s fucking brilliant!
Oh yeah, almost forgot…
*****PARENTAL GUIDANCE*****
... both for the album and this review!
First single Pjunkle will be available to stream from 9th February 2024 (with subsequent releases following every 2 months) - click here for links to pre-save singles, buy the album, merch, and much more: https://linktr.ee/mangothomasmusic/
#mango thomas#fuck the algorithm#breakcore#rock#IDM#funk#folk#metal#chillhop#punk#heavy mental#jamband
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The New Doctor Who Looks Alright. Shame the People Who Cast Him Are Still Soulless Lizards.
Awhile ago, several supposedly reputable websites reported that the next Doctor (as in Who, not as in the actual field of medicine) was going to be the other guy from Pirates of the Caribbean. You know: the one who wasn’t Johnny Depp. I then relayed this information to you with my own slightly worried opinion on the matter (or possibly I just wrote the blog and then forgot to post it because I’m a busy fucking man). As it turns out, however, they haven’t cast the other guy from Pirates of the Carribean, they’ve cast a ridiculously young guy with the haircut of a middle-class nine year-old trying to look edgy in front of his cunty little friends. His name’s Ncuti Gatwa, and when it comes to pronunciation, your guess is as good as mine. Joking aside, however, he’s not actually a terrible choice for the role. He’s not yet so well-known that he can just take the role for granted, but he’s also reputable and established enough to have won a Bafta, so you know he won’t just fuck it up through lack of experience. Plus, he seems to actually be capable of emoting, unlike Whitaker, who did all her acting exclusively by opening her mouth slightly and waggling her eyebrows. Also, they got the gender right this time! And yes, I know that idiots on the internet think that a character’s gender shouldn’t matter, but those people should try imagining a version of Alien where Ellen Ripley is a dude, or a version of Titanic where Jack and Rose are both gender-flipped. Suddenly, they’re very different and much worse films (one of which comes off creepy and abusive and it’s not the one you might expect) because just as gender and physical sex help to inform who a person is in real life and shape their personality, so they have a huge impact on fictional characters. Especially the Doctor, who has been played by so many actors that the unique form of genteel British masculinity he embodies is his only actual through-line. Incidentally, sorry if you want to wash your brain out with bleach after imagining gender-flipped Titanic. I hear Morrison’s own brand is cheap.
Anyway, I should probably mention that Gatwa is black. If you live in America where racial identity is massively important and contentious, that probably feels like it should be as big a deal as a gender-flip, but here in Britain-land, it’s kind of not. Don’t get me wrong, we still have racists- that’s 50% of the reason the Tory bastards and their fuck-awful immigration policies keep winning elections. It’s just that the sane portion of the country doesn’t invest the same weight into the issue as the totally fucking barmy contingent. More importantly, within the fictional universe of Doctor Who, I never really felt like the Doctor’s skin colour informed his identity in the same way that his gender did. He was always characterised as a having a blokey side, particularly in the modern era, but never as being white. He’s quintessentially British, yes, but that’s a nationality, not a melanin level.
So yes. Gatwa’s basically an okay choice for the role. Not great, but not awful. His only real job is to be better than Whitaker and he’d be hard-pressed to fail by that metric. Besides, he’s volunteered to walk into a still-burning tyre-fire and try to put it out with boggle-eyed charm alone, so he deserves props for that.
All of which is far too positive for one of my blogs, so let me back-pedal right back into my default pessimism by pointing out that Gatwa could be the best actor in the world and have all the necessary physical and mental attributes for the role, but it won’t make the blindest bit of difference if the character he’s playing is still written as an annoying berk.
You see, Whitaker was only really the B problem with the last few years of Who. The A problem was show-runner Chris Chibnall (a man I hope one day to beat to death with a novelty giant dildo). Chib-fail was never a sci-fi writer and was brought on board largely because he once worked with David Tennant and nepotism is a powerful force at the Beeb, which is basically Britain’s foremost employment circle-jerk. Under Chibnall’s tenure, the Doctor shilled for space Amazon and locked a bunch of spiders in a room to die a slow death of starvation when there was a more merciful option on hand. There was also that episode where S/he defeated the Master (played by a brown-skinned dude at the time) by removing his perception filter so that he’d be captured by literal fucking Nazis. My point is, Chibnall wrote the Doctor as an insufferable, psychopathic infant who habitually either sided with the bad guys or just chose the cruellest, most mean-spirited possible solution to every conceivable problem. The Doctor’s mantra- “never cruel or cowardly”- was thrown out the window in favour of some of the most deliberately vindictive storytelling to ever come out of the BBC. All of which would have been fine if it was framed as some sort of crisis that Doctor was going through (after all, what could be more traumatic that ordinary regeneration? Oh yeah, sudden, involuntary gender reassignment). But Chibnall framed the Doctor’s insane and often evil decisions as morally correct, because on some deep, fundamental level, he’s not a fucking person. Chibnall is a hollow, sad puppet of a man who can only ever imitate an actual human being and usually does it very, very badly. And if I noticed, he must have been pushing the envelope, since I only have, like, five real emotions and two of those are just desire for different types of biscuit.
But I digress. My point is Chibnall, rather than Whitaker, is the primary symptom of the BBC’s true malaise. But what actually is that malaise? In brief, it’s that the BBC no longer measures success by the artistic worth and emotional merit of the story it tells, but by how many people it can persuade to tune in and maybe click ‘like’ on social media. Whitaker was stunt-casting designed to appease thick people so they wouldn’t lose viewers. Chibnall was a big name coming off of Broadchurch so he got the top job (well, that and he knew David Tennant, as previously discussed). And, worryingly, the BBC has already explained their rationale for casting Gatwa: they want to bring in a younger audience. And that’s troubling. They’re not concerned with who could play the character best. They’re not concerned with telling good stories and trusting that quality itself will attract an audience. They’re still making the same, stupid mistake of trying to engineer a hit. Which is particularly stupid because Doctor Who was already massively and internationally popular and all they actually had to do was not fuck with it too badly.
Gatwa will probably be an acceptable Doctor, but the writing around him is going to continue to get worse because, fundamentally, nobody involved on the executive level has learned a single, cock-ringing thing from the controversial, hateful mire of the last three or so years. Because of course they haven’t. People have continued to tune in. And they’ll keep doing that until the quality of the show reaches such a nadir that, all of a sudden, they just stop, and the fucking morons at the BBC will be left standing there with their dicks in their hands wondering what happened to their once beautiful and shiny money-printing machine.
Of course, that’s me being vengefully optimistic. More likely, the show will continue to limp along until someone arbitrarily calls a much-needed hiatus and the soulless fucks will just move onto ruining something else we all used to love.
Oh, and no, I’m not going to start watching again just to find out if they screw it up or not. It physically hurt me just doing the research necessary to slag off Chibnall in this blog, I’m not opening myself up to further headaches. But if you want to go look at the pretty wisps of smoke coming off the tyre fire and let me know how it all turns out, go the fuck ahead.
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Lovely Caroline John being lovely as Ann Stacy, loving wife of a ministry official (and potential traitor) in 1973's Assassin
#fave spotting#caroline john#liz shaw#assassin#1973#the pemini organisation#classic doctor who#Assassin was Pemini's first feature film but it's immediately obvious how much the crew had learnt from the Hunted shoot#this is far and away a more confident‚ more capable film#it is though a bit.. masculine? it's a very man heavy film about spies and killers and angst where Caroline is one of only two named female#characters. she absolutely shines in her scenes tho‚ and gets a killer put down in against Ray Brooks' slimy private school government man#also she's married here to Frank Windsor and Frank Windor's less than convincing hair piece#it's honestly a very good film and chock full of old tv people#just a bit blokey is all
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I've always wondered what you mean when you say you sometimes see Lando in a feminine way. I'm just curious, as I see him as quite a standard (young) hetero guy, like he can be quite 'blokey' for want of a better word sometimes (don't mean this is a bad way). I know a lot of other people see him as more feminine too. Just interested in your thoughts.
I definitely don't see him as very or even at all blokey. idk, I'd say he's more of just a straight-up creature than particularly feminine but I guess he is little and pretty and sometimes a bit girlish (in the stereotypical way not in a way I think girls actually are etc) about screaming about bugs and things and he isn't ashamed of that. like Lewis, the way he presents himself when he's given an opportunity to control that is big eyes, soft lighting, y'know - it's not really feminine but it borrows a few aesthetics from femme.
idk, I always get in trouble for answering these kinds of things because I don't mean that Lando is a girl or that there's anything specifically feminine about being soft. but when you're talking about aesthetics then, to my eyes, Lando tends more towards boyish femme than he does blokeish masc and that might just be a completely baffling statement to anyone who isn't queer but it's like. if you are someone who thinks about your presentation because it does not fall into one of the two, neat, default boxes then these are the words and language we use to talk about that.
(and yes, I know Lando isn't queer or at least hasn't said he is but we're talking about how I, a queer person, interpret the world so you can, simply, fuck off with that. also it's not actually offensive to not assume someone's straight grrr anyway fucking hell I don't think I can deal with someone trying to make this problematic because they get the fucking vapours any time anyone suggests LGBTQ+ people might not be The World's Most Shocking And Filthy Secret. screenshot it to twitter all you want, see you in hell etc.)
#mostly he has a slightly not-of-this-world quality#first changeling f1 driver#actually probably not first cevert had mad vibes#god i know this post is going to come back to haunt me i truly hate straight people so much#f1 asks
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7. “Let me do this for you, okay?” for Tozer/Irving please <3
"C'mere," Sol takes the face paint out of his mate's hands, because they're shaking far too hard to draw a straight line right now. "Let me do it, or you'll end up looking like one of them inkblots with the dirty pictures. What are they called?"
"Rorschach tests." John knows all about them, he was subjected to enough during his first failed attempt at conversion therapy as a teenager, although he was never able to figure out what about his carefully generic interpretations of the images revealed he was a sinner.
"Yeah, them things." Sol takes the cap off the little brush thing (it's already set up for purpose, blocks of colour stuck in a handle so you can draw a rainbow stripe in a single swipe, as if it's just that simple), but John grabs his wrist before he can lift it to his friend's face. "John, it's alright."
"This is a bad idea," his voice has gone all high-pitched and nervy in that way he hates, the one that says he's moments from fleeing the situation like a coward - or worse, a very unmanly panic attack. "I shouldn't go."
"It'll be fine, mate. Whole team's gonna be there, aren't we?" The gentle understanding in Sol's eyes undoes John a bit, because he'd been so unkind to his teammate when the whole issue of his being a bit non-binary first came out. John had been deeply mired in over a decade of self-loathing at the time, and he's since apologised profusely for his behaviour and been forgiven, but he's still quite certain he doesn't deserve to be treated with such kindness. "You're not gonna be alone."
The prospect of attending Pride as a team had seemed like a good idea - the uni gets good rep and is more amenable to their requests for equipment funding next semester, and their shyer members (nobody said John, freshly out and fragile as he was, but his ears burned anyway) get strength in numbers - but actually doing it feels impossible.
John's not brave, is the thing. He's never been brave, he's always hidden himself behind propriety, scripture, hierarchy - anything that kept him from having to be who he is. He's not Sol, standing there inches away from him in the dingy bathroom, as tall and broad and blokey as ever but painted carefully with eyeliner, glitter, lipstick - a mash-up of parts that's so fully him it's almost too beautiful to look at. And he's proud of it, of himself, in a way John can never imagine being.
"I-I'm not brave enough," he admits, faltering, and Sol's face softens further. He twists his wrist where John's still got a hold of it and manages to awkwardly take his mate's hand, squeezing supportively. "I'm not-. I'm so scared I want to be sick. I'm not like you, Sol, I'm not brave."
"If I told you how terrified I was of anyone finding out about this-" Sol's voice is gentle, but distinctly steady as he gestures to his painted face "-you'd never believe me. When I first told you lot, I was shaking in me boots. You've gotta fake it 'til you make it, mate. Pretend you're someone who can cope, until you can."
"Pretend I'm someone who can cope," John repeats, faintly. That makes sense. It might not make it easy, today, but it may make it just that bit easier enough to push himself through. Maybe if Sol keeps holding his hand like this, he'll make it.
Sol holds up the paint again, questioningly, and John hesitates for a long moment before he nods. The swipe of colour is quick, and less painful than he'd expected. He doesn't have to be proud today, he just has to take the first step of trying.
The lads cheer when he makes it down the stairs with a rainbow on his cheek, and Sol squeezes his fingers with a lipstick-stained grin.
#the terror fic#john irving#solomon tozer#modern au#irving/tozer#nonbinary tozer#cw: internalised homophobia#YES JOHN YOU CAN DO IT#LITTLE A PRIDE FOR THE LADS
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Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six
Part Five!
Now with gifs!...since I’ve learnt the most basic of basic gifmaking and it was actually quicker than trying to pause at just the right moment, which has been enough of an issue previously to make me swear through gritted teeth.
Time for Love O2O - that’s both the film and the series since the little overachiever just had to get cast in both.
Ready?
Bai Yu plays a character called Cao Guang in both the film and drama. In the film he seems to be a smushed together version of what in the drama are two separate people.
Now then do you see this slightly bewildered expression while looking at a computer screen? Because this was basically me watching Love O2O, both film and drama.
Why the bewilderment?
Well, I’ve come to expect a certain level of odd sitting and leaning from Bai Yu. I almost expect all his characters to be some form of Bi Disaster now. But Cao Guang? So far I’ve never seen Bai Yu sit so straight. It’s slightly unnerving, in a similar way to if someone went into your house and moved things just slightly to the left. There’s not enough of a difference to cause major problems, but there’s enough for your mind to feel uncomfortable and twitchy because something is just off.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, he still does his Bai Yu thing, but it’s almost muted, I suppose is the best word to use for it.
We’ll start with the film version, which also has the alternate title of One Smile is Very Alluring apparently.
Before this moment, he’s actually sitting properly at the desk. Both feet were on the floor and everything which was just weird. But then he stood and transitioned into a lean, that made it a little less weird.
This is, technically, also further evidence that if something is at Bai Yu butt height, he will lean/sit on it. I think I’m going to have to start capitalising it since Bai Yu Butt Height now seems to be a Thing.
(I could not get this paused at just the right moment, so here, have a gif)
And look here! He’s sitting kinda properly and only vaguely uncomfortable looking, but that has more to do with the situation than the sitting.
Seriously, so weird.
If we stick with just the general premise of ‘does he sit or doesn’t he’ then being on a horse counts...even though watching the game scenes hurt me in a major secondhand embarrassment way. Just...the outfits, people, and the hair...I just...I can’t.
At one point he gets his arse handed to him multiple times, which leads to quite a bit of time on the floor.
Even the set refuses to let Bai Yu get up and support his own body weight apparently. The weirdness of him standing under his own power is obviously just too much.
Too odd.
Too strange.
He must be returned to his natural state of being.
The car magnet he’s got implanted in his backside did manage to do its job though...even if it was in the background and barely lasted a couple of seconds at most.
Now then, the drama. Admittedly I only got to episode 11 then I started skipping because I got a bit bored with the main pairing and general story. But the bits I skipped to? Yeah...I may have gone a little over fixated on the whole way of sitting thing since I found myself analysing the degree of leg bend when his feet weren’t in shot to gauge whether or not both feet were planted on the ground or if one was on top of the other and...yeah, let’s just say it was a good thing when I got to the end of this drama. For what remains of my sanity if nothing else.
Look, most of the time, if he’s not standing and walking, he’s like this.
Sitting properly, feet on the floor. And yeah, it counts as not supporting his own weight. But what happened to the floor is lava? How hard was it for him not to cross his legs, or put one foot on top of the other, or rest his feet on something else?
He does cross this legs sometimes, and you can even see it fully a couple of times.
Like here, this is what I’ve come to expect. This is a normal seated look for this man.
He sits.
He flicks one leg over the other.
He’s happy.
Simple.
But most of the time, he doesn’t have his legs crossed in this drama. Which led me to leaning forward and squinting at the screen when moments like this came along.
Because those legs are crossed. I’m sure of it.
Cao Guang, as a character, is not the kind of person to sit like this often. Bai Yu, as a person, can’t seem to stop himself fully though.
And look at this.
When it comes to this desk, this is the weirdest he sits. Which isn’t weird at all! It’s still kinda sitting properly!
And then this. This is one of those moments where I spent way too long staring at his legs trying to determined if he had one foot on top of the other.
From the angle, and the shadows, and the different heights of his knees, I have decided that yes, he does had one foot on top of the other. He is playing the floor is lava when the camera can’t see his feet.
(...don’t judge me for diving off the deepend on this one. I’m already judging myself hard enough)
Cao Guang might not be much of a weird sitter, but he is still a slight leaner if the opportunity presents itself.
Especially in Bai Yu Butt Height circumstances.
But in general, he’s less of a full body lean, and more of a light, quick lean. And it always seems to be on things he himself has placed there.
Like a moped,
or a camera.
He does sit on the floor in a sweaty mess after having his arse handed to him in a 1 on 1 basketball game.
Seriously, if you want a sweat physically dripping off of him Bai Yu, then this is the scene for you.
Further sittingwise you have some general sitting in what I think it meant to be a foreign country(?).
And the delightful lift-and-turn he’s got going on here.
(and I’ve only just realised that ErXi has her hand up as though if she can’t see the teacher, then the teacher can’t see her. I adore this woman, she’s just so cute)
Hospitals.
Every character of Bai Yu’s I’ve encountered so far has a different way of sititng in hospitals.
Zhao Yunlan looks like he’s barely seconds away from either sliding to the floor or giving himself back problems, Xie Nanxiang is partial to a lean or a cross legged sit. Cao Guang? I would describe it as he sits like a bloke - legs spread, elbows resting on his knees. This might honestly be the straightest Bai Yu character I’ve ever encountered.
Of course he also has an in-game character in this. The wig is less cringe worthy than in the film, but there is something about his eyes in this that freaks me the fuck out so you won’t be getting on the floor pictures or looking in the direction of the camera pictures because looking at it too much seems to trigger a mild fight, flight, or freeze response in me. And I’m in no mood to deal with such ridiculousness.
So, in game character. He does spend time on the floor, only a little though. Most of his time is actually spent walking. But then they get in a boat and Bai Yu gets to indulge in his favoured elbow hook seated position generally reserved for benches and breakfast bar surface things when he’s on a stool.
Ok, last but not least, the moped!
This is a moped that birthed a headcanon for me.
It would seem that regardless of character, if something is a form of transport with wheels, then Bai Yu will find some way to sit or lean on it.
And y’know what? He is fully capable of looking damned good while doing so.
So that’s it? I think the conclusion I can draw from this one is that Bai Yu’s sitting, leaning, and lounging habits are things he can either turn up or tone down depending on the character. It’s just that more often than not the characters he plays allow him to turn it up. But Gao Guang was one of the more subdued ones, more straight blokey vibes, than Bi Disaster ones.
Both film and drama are available on Netflix (at least here in the UK they are).
They’re also on YouTube - film - drama - with subtiles and pretty good quality.
And both are on DramaCool - film - drama
The drama is on Viki too.
Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six
#Bai Yu#Bai Yu Sitting Project#Cao Guang#Love O2O#featuring the straightest Bai Yu character I've ever encountered#and yes#I'm including the military bloke who got blown up#and the Fa Hai dude#and the 8 seconds of screen time deskmate#that I am clearly /not/ still salty about#but honestly what even /was/ that film?#everything about it was just.../ugh/!#...ok...breathe...we're not going down that road again#if I could scrub that film's existence from my mind I would#just look at the pretty Bai Yu and breathe
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The Mortal Instruments – Graphic Novel Vol.2
Story by Cassandra Clare, Artwork by Cassandra Jean
Yeah… so I bought volume 2 immediately after reading 1, and honestly, I’ve already bought and read volume 3 as well! For those of you who do not know these graphic novels are adaptations of a series of six books written by Cassandra Clare. Graphic novels volumes 1 and 2 complete the events of the first fiction book City of Bones, and I’m assuming that each original book is adapted into two volumes of graphic novels. Volumes 3 and 4 are already out and I believe cover book 2 City of Ashes, and volume 5 which will probably be published this year will be the start of book 3 City of Glass.
A new volume is published once a year around October or November. Quick maths calculation: in theory there should be 7 more volumes… published once a year… I’ll be done with this series in 2028! But that’s ok. Because illustration takes time. The art by Cassandra Jean is absolutely lovely and I wouldn’t want an artist’s work to be compromised in terms of quality just to get the volumes out quicker.
For this review I’m not going to discuss the events of volume 2, I haven’t read any of the original novels but I have seen the 2013 film The Mortal Instruments: City of Bones and also clips of the TV series, so I’m actually more interested in taking the time to do a light comparison of some of the characters and how they’ve been interpretated differently.
As I already said in my previous review, I really love the graphic novel version of Clary, she’s so cute and stubborn, and is similar to the film Clary. TV series Clary has the most hideous hair colour I’ve ever seen, it looks so artificial and neon at times, and in general all the young characters seem older in the TV series.
Like Clary, film Jace and graphic novel Jace feel very similar, both versions feel young and angelically beautiful but with a touch of vulnerability. I really dislike TV Jace, he seems too old, too blokey.
For me the biggest character change is Alec. Both in the film and the TV series Alec is older looking, more masculine and strong, almost buff. In the graphic novel he looks more like a teenager, more feminine, and physically and mentally more vulnerable. I don’t dislike any of the interpretations, although film Alec is a little ugly to me and aggressive, but in fairness, we don’t get a chance to see much of his character, and there is a hint at awkwardness and vulnerability. What I find curious is how the same character can be interpreted so differently.
Magnus is another character that is slightly different in each version. In the film we don’t see much of him but he seems like a very sexy, early-twenties trendy New Yorker type. In the TV series he’s a little bit older, more flamboyantly gay and eccentric, he has so much personality that he’s a delight to watch. Graphic novel Magnus is younger, looks like late teens / early twenties, sort of a cool urban hippie, the sort of young man who looks like he believes in new age spiritualism and goes surfing all the time. I do enjoy all interpretations.
Valentine played by Jonathan Rhys Meyers in the film, looks like a sexy urban pirate, vs the graphic novel interpretation of him as a sophisticated, handsome gentleman villain. TV Valentine looks more like a regular bloke, unlike the other two, this one isn’t as physically attractive to a younger audience.
Luke is the only character which I feel is similar in both the graphic novel and the TV series, both have this tight t-shirt wearing beefcake vibe, I love that the TV series went with a black actor for Luke, because why not? The story is set in present day New York, there’s no reason, not even story-wise, why main characters can’t be ethnically diverse. The Luke of the film is more homely, beardy and has wavy hair, there’s something about him that mutters “hello I’m a secondary love-interest and will never get the girl”, a very “Simon” vibe, whereas the graphic novel Luke is a definite hunk and clearly worthy enough to be a lead love interest for Jocelyn and to go up against Valentine.
Having written that, it does raise some potentially problematic issues about what we perceive to be leading man and secondary man traits. But I’ll leave that for a future review to cover.
Side Note: I don’t think I mentioned this in my first review of volume 1 but the only thing I don’t like about this graphic novel series is the production quality of the cover, nothing to do with the illustration design but specifically the finish or lack of finish to be honest, on the printed cover. Usually book cover can have a range of final finishes, the most basic of which are either a shiny, gloss finish, or matt with lamination layer. The lamination gives the paper some protection and a thicker feel. The covers on these books look like they’ve just been printed and received no finish at all. They might have but they don’t feel like they do, they feel cheap and a little flimsy, at first I thought perhaps Amazon had sent me one of their Print-on-Demand books, oh the horror, but no, when I ordered from an independent bookshop it was the same. It’s a shame because they books are really beautiful and it’s the production side that has let them down slightly.
Review by Book Hamster
#just finished reading#mortal instruments graphic novel#cassandra jean#book review#book covers#graphic novel#reading blog#love reading#love books#Yen Press#Teen Drama#werewolves#werewolves and vampires#demons#demon hunter#demon slayer
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Lovers Rock
Director Steve McQueen Stars Amarah-Jae St. Aubyn, Micheal Ward, Shaniqua Okwok UK 2020 Language English 1hr 10mins Colour
Stunning recreation of one night in W11
Steve McQueen is by some distance the best-known black film-maker to come from the UK. But when he started making feature films, he didn’t engage with the black British experience. Which, of course, was entirely his choice to make. McQueen it seems, though, does feel there was something missing in the work he’d done so far, and the result is Small Axe, ‘a collection of five films’ he’s made for the BBC.
Four of the five could be described as issues stories, including Mangrove, which I’ve written about here. The odd one out, the glorious odd one out, is Lovers Rock. Lovers Rock takes place in the build-up to, the duration of, and the aftermath of a party in west London one Saturday night in 1980.
And the bulk of the running time is given to the party itself. Not a great deal happens, and certainly not much more than has happened at dozens of parties we’ve all been at. A young man and a woman meet for the first time, there are some inept attempts at chat-ups, there is a bit of aggro and there is dancing. A lot of dancing. I’m wondering if any film has spent quite so much time showing skanking and whining and grinding – not in stylised manner, like a musical, but just dancing (I mean, I’m sure this is choreographed, but I think you know what I mean).
In McQueen’s previous films, he’s used scenes extended long past what’s normally considered acceptable to make the audience feel uncomfortable. He uses that tactic twice in this film: for the first one, a slow dance, the effect is ecstatic, I think, rather than erotic, despite some of what we’re witnessing. The second time, to show a blokey stompalong, is more ambiguous. Is it joyful or scary or both? Is that much evident testosterone inherently unsettling? Particularly in a film that mostly seemed tuned into a female point-of-view. Or is it just a necessary release of pressure, considering how oppressive being a young black man in the UK was at that point and often still is.
The character we spend most time with is Martha (Amarah-Jae St. Aubyn), who is on a night out with her friend Patty (Shaniqua Okwok). At the party, she meets a guy she likes, one she likes less, she dances, she drinks, some stuff happens. You get a sense of where we’ve moved on to in history from the time of Mangrove by the way the young characters flip effortlessly from West Indian to London accents, something people of my age will forever associate with Smiley Culture’s great Cockney Translation. And the song at the heart of the film is Janet Kay’s Silly Games, probably the defining example of lovers rock, a reggae offshoot that was firmly made in London. (As I remember it, lovers rock got a rough ride from white music journalists, who dismissed it as girly and sentimental and preferred their Jamaican music in the form of portentous roots or head-scrambling dub. Idiots). Incidentally, the mighty Dennis Bovell – who wrote Silly Games – is in this film.
Dennis Bovell!
Since I recently saw and wrote about Yardie, another film with a soundsystem as the heart of it, the comparison is pretty hard to miss. This shares all that’s good about that film and avoids all the tedious gangster nonsense.
I love movies that take place during a day and a night, or maybe just a night, especially if there’s a party involved. And this could well be one of the finest films ever to use that approach. It’s the best piece of narrative cinema/TV that Steve McQueen has made since Shame, maybe the best he’s ever done. It’s got the freedom from cinematic convention that you’ll find in his gallery work – but that’s combined with vivid, believable characters. And that combination of radical form and deep humanity is rare and precious. This is something special.
If you’re in the UK, you can watch Lovers Rock (and the rest of Small Axe) on the BBC iPlayer.
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ORDINARY CREATIONS
by Alexander Freeling
There’s a longing at the moment—sometimes joking, sometimes deeply serious—for normality. But was there ever really normality, or do we only invent it by imagining away the latest catastrophe?
I think it’s a bit of both. What’s normal is always measured against some sense of historical or personal change, for better and worse. And yet an ordinary day isn’t just an absence of events; it’s everything that seems normal to individuals and communities. This comes through in a surprising way in Daniel Miller and Sophie Woodward’s study of the inhabitants of three streets in London, and the jeans they wear.
Over and over, Miller and Woodward’s subjects report that blue denim jeans are their ordinary clothes: a default choice that has no particular meaning. Some (such as teachers and bank clerks) mention that they can’t wear them to work; others that they prefer not to at church, temple or the mosque. But all agree that they are versatile, comfortable, and practical.
When asked about the particular jeans they own, people open up. They mention four main categories: British “high street” brands; imported Levis and Wranglers; Italian fashion labels; and Japanese craft denim. Some wear their jeans 90s baggy, others so tight they can only dress horizontally, but most are somewhere in between. Both men and women speak of searching at length for the right fit. They talk about their bodies and how they’ve changed (having kids is a common pivot.) They talk, of course, about their rears. An awkward, tall teen called George explains that he doesn’t wear skinny jeans like his friends because they exaggerate his slender frame. A girl his age laughs that her mother wears tighter, more daring cuts than she does. Jeans are clearly gendered (tighter cuts being considered more feminine but also sexier, looser cuts more masculine but conservative, even dowdy). But where you place yourself is an intensely personal question. Some men love sophisticated Italian cuts, others feel secure in blokey pairs that celebrate nothing of their exquisite forms. A trim 61-year-old man proudly wears his extremely tight.
Immigrants to London and their children speak about their relations to the city and its culture. Some British South Asians mention that their more conservative relatives criticize their tight jeans. A Barbadian woman associates jeans with her increased standard of living in Britain after a tough childhood. A Somali whose father worked in Italy and brought her back a few pairs muses that British fashion is bland, a sentiment echoed by those who visit relatives in Karachi and Lagos. An elderly man, who received his first pair from a US soldier in the ’40s, thinks of them as American clothing, but everyone else regards jeans as a universal form with regional and cultural variations to explore.
Some have different jeans for every occasion, others live in the same pair for years. Some feel fabulous in navy blue elastane, others are most comfortable in 15oz raw denim. What unites them is that, in a modest way, they all create a bit of themselves when they put them on. The first answer is correct: jeans are ordinary. But by wearing one pair or another, day after day, we shape what ordinary means.
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Romanticism-bashing=femininity-bashing
Is it just me who finds the criticism of so-called “purple prose” inherently sexist in far too many ways?
Because bad writing is bad writing, but when you start criticising something because it has romanticism, beauty, emotion and “frills,” and start condemning poetic language in and of itself as a crime, that reads like a classic criticism of something based on the ideas of what’s straightforwardly masculine or not. These are the exact things a gruff macho guy would point to in another guy and call “faggy.”
Honestly. I’ve just seen a definition of purple prose as “prose that draws attention to itself instead of the plot,” and if that isn’t a classic fucking masculine prose/feminine prose divide I don’t know what is. Language is a beautiful and wonderful thing, so why not create lush clusters of it, like complex bouquets; why not string beautiful word-images together like pearls? Because the unfortunate implication there is that only plot and only straightforward “see-Spot-run” prose are good, and lingering on descriptions of visuals and emotions is bad. Don’t you dare pause to dwell on the colour of someone’s shirt or how that summer day made you feel! Oh, wait, why does the latter strike me as *exactly* the way women tend to see the world? So lingering on costume porn or descriptions of someone’s looks is “bad writing,” but endless boring descriptions of characters moving from place A to B is great literature? You know?
(Note that as usual, I don’t discuss “male” or “female” in an essentialist sense, but as the combination of gendered socialisation and the results of our brains marinating in certain types of sex hormones, things none of us are free from). Neurologically speaking, women tend to pay more attention to things like clothes and hairstyles and draw psychological implications from them, thinking in multilateral ways about things, whereas it’s already a cliche that straight guys can’t tell if a woman’s done something with her hair and are prone to tunnel vision: just focusing on the one thing. And it’s fanboys that first start pointing out plot/factual/scientific inconsistencies in a story and slam it for that, whereas fangirls tend to make a beeline for the characterisations and character interactions and emotional responses, and judge a story on the basis of that. (Again, there are, obviously, exceptions to this in places–I’ve got neurological characteristics typed “masculine” by some–but I’m talking very broadly and generally. This is basic neurology/sociology.)
And when it’s fangirls internalising this “emotional/descriptive/poetic frills are bad” approach–especially the grumpy old generation I am myself on the tail end of–that really bothers me. It was those exceptions–the women who wrote like guys–who first betaed some of my stories and told me to cut out even fairly ordinary descriptions I found pleasant and just beautiful to my eyes/sense of language, because apparently that was bogging the story down. Whereas I wanted to linger, like a lover lingers. Fair enough; I was still starting out as a writer and some of my older stories *are* terribly purple in the sense that some of the metaphors were just cliched and corny and sort of tacked on, but that is the sort of writing that is fair to criticise, I think. Twilight is bad writing because it’s full of that kind of inconsistent, tacked-on and pointless lingering that doesn’t flow well, and doesn’t even make sense at times. But–and this is a crucial but–it’s *not* the fact that someone’s got alabaster skin or even sparkles, but how you *handle* the alabaster skin and sparkles.
I’ve seen some perfectly normal, ordinary, true-ringing female emotional experiences also described as “weepy” or “co-dependent” and the stories therefore held up as signs of bad writing as well, and that ties into this, too–but in a different sort of way. Honestly, when it’s women bashing women for being women, and wanting to impose masculine ways of seeing the world onto women’s writing (or expecting women should only write about strong, feminist paragons and not–like with Lana Del Rey bashers–not allowing women to tell true stories of women who’ve behaved in the exact damn way gendered socialisation pushes them into acting), then we’ve got a problem.
It’s perfectly possible to write–and in fact, read and enjoy–utterly beautiful prose where the language itself is a major part of the experience, a pleasure in and of itself. I’ve just been reading Robert Hichens again (a wonderful exception to the “blokey” prose stereotype, but then he *was* gay and therefore probably neurologically disposed in a more genderfluid way) and he can absolutely *intoxicate* me with his prose; he can make my head swim. Thanks to that, I’m cheerfully willing to forgive him for not throwing complex plots at me, because I don’t even *care* about plots when I have interesting characters to read about. He writes realistic women and really understands them, without a drop of misogyny, and I’m absolutely slack-jawed about the awesomeness of that in a Victorian writer–that is a huge asset to his prose, again nothing to do with plot but real, human characterisation. Yeah, I am still bothered by most of his novels having abrupt and bleh and anticlimactic endings, but you know what? If the journey that’s taken me there has given me absolutely wonderful pleasure in the form of truly beautiful visions and descriptions and spiritual insights, and characters I can really feel for and feel with, I’m *fine* with that.
TL;DR If you like sparse, masculine prose, that’s *fine.* Just don’t impose it on others as the standard by which fiction should be judged. And whenever you want to apply the term “trash” or “guilty pleasure” to something romantic, something with heavy descriptions of someone’s looks, or something that’s just beautiful, ask yourself whether you’re doing the exact same thing a macho dudebro would do in scolding another guy for being “faggy.” Are you making value-based judgements that set things traditionally considered as feminine (human relationships, care, emotions, costume, makeup, tenderness, emotion-based descriptions of experiences, anything that’d be advantageous in partner-seeking/raising a family) below those things considered masculine (emotionlessness, straightforwardness, linearity, frilllessness, toughness, sparseness, mechanical descriptions, anything that’d be advantageous to a hunter or a soldier) in your judgements of prose? That’s a gold standard for spotting internalised sexism right there.
Ideally, we should have room for all of these human expressions. But bashing one in favour of another is not conducive to a world with literature that serves a variety of tastes and speaks to *all kinds* of human experiences. I write poetic and rambly and spiritual and romantic and erotic fiction with long descriptions of things I find pleasurable and beautiful, with words and sentence structures I find pleasurable and beautiful, because that’s how I experience the world and because that’s what I want to read. And if you, like me, have been told that’s somehow lesser, I want to reassure you that that’s rubbish, and that someone out there will always love that kind of writing–if you yourself do, that’s an example of an existing audience right there. I believed the haters for far too long a time, but wished I’d had someone tell me that earlier, and had someone point out the difference between poetic writing and bad writing to me. Instead of having to find out for myself that actually, there is such a thing as good, beautiful, romantic prose–and that it’s not only an “okay” thing to write and read, but also a *wonderful* thing to write and read.
Dark and stormy nights are *awesome.*
#writing#meta#honestly there's another huge rant here re: the female experience thing#i will never be on board that thing that expects people who've been beaten up by gendered bullshit all their lives#to suddenly get up and just be these ideal people who have never been touched by the shit#what was it that one feminist guy said? that trying to tell a guy to feel is like taunting a cripple for not being able to run#same thing with people experiencing shock about lana tbh#because those experiences are real whether they're fun or not or stem from ignorance of feminism or not#you can be a feminist and still end up in an abusive relationship with a guy you thought was nice#because that's how those things work--nobody starts dating jerks and that's a victim-blaming myth#if you've had insecurity and co-dependence beaten into you for years and then get beaten up for being heartbroken#er... that's going a bit too far a bit too fast#i literally read a literary snarkfest that ripped a heroine apart for being heartbroken over a breakup#because apparently her having had dreams and fantasies of a life together with that guy#was horribly co-dependent and weak and bad and when she was devastated it was somehow crazy#i genuinely wondered what the fuck must such a critic's emotional life be? has she ever loved?!?#but anyway this sort of thing (and the whole 'trash' culture--i don't care how ironic) rings my misogyny alarms#i am fucking fine if you want to keep your spy novel blokey writing prose jesus just don't tell me what to write#you can even write cliches if you handle them in new ways i find--that's an art in and of itself as well#but so much romanticism-bashing is femininity-bashing and i have serious issues with that
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