#newcastle brown ale
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Matthew Shipley illustration with Alan Shearer, wearing the Adidas x Newcastle United FC kit with Newcastle Brown Ale sponsorship.
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Daredevil Set photos.
The avocados are back.
#daredevil#matt murdock#foggy nelson#karen page#daredevil spoilers#daredevil born again#marvel#first time i've noticed they're drinking bloody newcastle brown ale
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Just Linda strangling a student reporter for asking Paul about JL. They were all very normal about each other...
“What everyone seems conveniently to have forgotten is that nobody much liked her predecessor, Linda McCartney, in the early days either. I have to declare an interest here. She once put her hands around my throat and tried to throttle me when, as a student journalist in the Seventies, I concluded an interview with the Great Man by asking why his wife had taken my notebook from me before we began and crossed out all the questions about John Lennon. She was prised off me by her husband who gave me a bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale and answered all the questions by way of compensation. Even in those days, to maintain his niceness Paul needed a Mrs Nasty as his gatekeeper.”
source
#sorry for him but this is a bit funny to me#the newcastle brown ale to make up :D#maybe the real reason why John talked more about Paul than the other way around during the 70′s#was because John didn’t have Yoko revising questions and physically attacking journalists ;)#random reading#it goes into my p+l's good-cop/bad-cop routine draft
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#new #castle #newcastle #brown #ale #beer #birra https://www.instagram.com/p/Cp7Eue4MX5a/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
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•🌜Women in stem🌛•
✨ Ancient history ✨
Hypatia
Hatshepsut
Tapputi-Belatekallim
Theano
Aglaonice
Fang
Mary the Jewess
Pandrosion
Cleopatra the alchemist
✨The Middle Ages✨
Al- ‘Ijliyyah
Dobrodeia of Kiev
Trota of Salerno
Adelle of the Saracens
Hildegard of Bingen
Herrad of Landsberg
Zulema L'Astròloga
Adelmota of Carrara
Keng Hsien-Seng
✨16th Century✨
Isabella Cortese
Loredana Marcello
Sophia Brahe
Caterina Vitale
✨17th Century✨
Louise Boursier
Martine Bertereau
Maria Cunitz
Marie Meurdrac
Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle-upon-Tyne
Marguerite de la Sablière
Jeanne Dumée
Elisabeth Hevelius
Maria Clara Eimmart
Maria Sibylla Merian
✨18th Century✨
Eleanor Glanville
Maria Margaretha Kirch
Catherine Jérémie
Laura Bassi
Emilie du Châtelet
Eva Ekeblad
Cristina Roccati
Jane Colden
Anna Morandi Manzolini
Wang Zhenyi
Caroline Herschel
Nicole-Reine Lepaute
Geneviève Thiroux d'Arconville
Elizabeth Fulhame
✨Early 19th Century✨
Sophie Germain
Anna Sundström
Sabina Baldoncelli
Lady Hester Stanhope
Mary Anning
Elisabetta Fiorini Mazzanti
Marie-Anne Libert
Jeanne Villepreux-Power
Orra White Hitchcock
✨Late 19th Century✨
Henrietta Vansittart
✨Early 20th Century✨
Hertha Ayrton
Katherine Parsons
Emmy Noether
Lise Meitner
Marjorie Lee Browne
Dorothy Vaughan
✨Late 20th Century✨
Jocelyn Bell Burnell
Katherine Johnson
Mae Jemison
Valentina Tereshkova
Valerie Thomas
Sally Ride
Lynn Conway
✨21st Century✨
Maryam Mirzakhani
Carolyn Bertozzi
Andrea M. Ghez
Jennifer Doudna
Shirley Ann Jackson
Donna Strickland
Frances Arnold
Karen Uhlenbeck
Jennifer Doudna
Marcia McNutt
Maureen Raymo
#science#stem#physics#maths#mathematics#chemistry#biology#astrophysics#astronomy#astronaut#education#women in stem#womens history#women#Steminist#history#stemblr
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Huh?
"What everyone seems conveniently to have forgotten is that nobody much liked Heather's predecessor, Linda McCartney, in the early days either. I have to declare an interest here. She once put her hands around my throat and tried to throttle me when, as a student journalist in the Seventies, I concluded an interview with Paul by asking why his wife had taken my notebook from me before we began and crossed out all the questions about John Lennon. She was prised off me by her husband who gave me a bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale and answered all the questions by way of compensation. "
Source: https://www.independent.co.uk/news/people/profiles/heather-mills-mccartney-secrets-and-lies-548935.html
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My Dad’s favourite meal was a fry-up breakfast. You know, the classic; eggs, baked beans, mushrooms, bacon, tattie scones. If you could call that a meal. I hadn’t seen my father in nearly two years; he lived on his own now after mum had left him. When it approached Father’s Day I thought I’d make the effort to go and see him and make him a classic English breakfast, and maybe hope for some conversation along the way, cheer him up a bit. He met me at the door. I hugged him. He smelled of cigarettes and old sweat. I told him I was gonna make the food and he said, “Nice, Hon, I’ll just be in my room reading the paper,” and he went into the fridge and brought out a can of Newcastle Brown Ale and then retired with it into his bedroom, where I heard him clack the can open and then the fizz of a lighter and then the funk of another fag. I began making the food. I hadn’t brought oil with me. Assuming that he would own some; there was none, so I used butter instead. Did the mushrooms in the pan first and began heating the beans. And I boiled the kettle for some coffee and I called to him, “Hey Dad, you want some coffee in the meantime?” He didn’t answer. I drank a little cup myself. Whilst I did the bacon. I didn’t remember quite well how to cook bacon because I’d been a vegetarian for twenty years, and I worried whether I was getting it right. Nor did I venture with eggs anymore [because all I thought about when I was cooking eggs was straggly chickens screaming as they were being massacred in mass farms, after they’d had their beaks cut off and had seen their male siblings be pushed into a grinder straight after birth ...] and yet they went pretty easy: Dad liked them a bit underdone. Got the plates out and set the table. Orange juice. I looked into the fridge to see if father had more ale. Yes - quite a-plenty. So I took one of those out. And I called, “It’s ready, Pop. If you wanna come and eat! All nice and warm.” He replied that he was coming. I thought I was doing real well with all of this and being a good daughter to him and looked forward to asking the questions I had thought up for the dinner scene in advance ... And I spooned out the beans/mushrooms/bacon/scones on the plates and they gave off this enticing steam with their prickly British smells. And then Dad appeared in the kitchen. He was putting his coat on and he was already wearing his flat cap. The plates were two metres away from him on the table and he didn’t even look at them: all he did was light another cigarette, and then crush up his finished can of ale. “I’m going to head down to the pub for the game,” he said, effortlessly. - “Right now?” I asked. - “Yeah.” I protested, with a light voice, that I’d just made all this food for him. “Thanks, Honey,” he said, “I’m not hungry.” I told him that he should have said beforehand. “It’s fine. Food like this brings on cancer anyway. You can come down to the pub too if you like? Should be a cracker of a match.” I gulped. He wasn’t looking at me either - only admiring the way he blew the smoke out his mouth in these wavy shapes. “Dad,” I said, “It’s Father’s Day: I did all of this for you.” He chuckled. I couldn’t tell whether it was sarcastic or not, because this man very rarely laughed. He tapped his fag in the nearest ash tray, nonchalantly. Then he said, “Fuck fake holidays.” And he turned around and walked down the corridor ... to the end of it. Where he started putting his old boots on.
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Ran some errands this evening and was planning to get my dad's favorite beer for him (Newcastle Brown Ale. Newcastle is also his preferred soccer team. I do not know if the two are related.) because it's his birthday (very funny for a math teacher's birthday to be pi day) but I did not see it at the grocery store beer aisle. So on the way home I stopped at the liquor store that used to be a bank that used to be a train station (exact history unclear), but I could not find it there either. I tried to text my mom to ask what would be perhaps second best, but my message did not send (phone barely works) so I went home without it. When I returned home my dad was out. Later, over dinner, I told him that sadly I was unable to find his beloved ale at the publix or even the liquor store. before I had a chance to do my not very funny bit about how I was blaming boris johnson for this mishap, he asks "where did you look." "I looked where the beers live," I said, perplexed. "Did you check the cave," he asked next. I did not know what he was saying to me. "What are you saying to me," I asked. He did not respond and returned to his conversation with my mom. What is the cave. Does the cave have newcastle brown ale.
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“Newcastle Brown Ale is a brown ale, originally brewed in Newcastle upon Tyne, England. Launched in 1927 by Colonel Jim Porter after three years of development, the 1960 merger of Newcastle Breweries with Scottish Brewers afforded the beer national distribution and sales peaked in the United Kingdom in the early 1970s.”
My tipple for tonight, Lovely smell of hops
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Hoshi from BSS rocking a Newcastle brown ale sponsored Newcastle kit in the video for Fighting (featuring Lee YoungJi). Is his heart for Alan Shearer?
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THERE WAS A TIME When fragments would come spilling out of me a few sips into the first beer. The fact that this specific bottle I had chosen —Newcastle Brown Ale-reminded me of him. The fact that I was drinking at all. The fact that I had a tendency to disappear, to take friendship too seriously sometimes or not seriously at all most of the time. That my mood depended on the proximity to summertime, the feeling of the afternoon sun, the sound of a distant melody coming from a stranger's window. That this is why I still smoked, because I admired the way that smoke evaporated into the air, aimless and ephemeral.
― Stay True
Hua Hsu
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three from Stephen Bett
Tom Pickard: Oop norf, fook sake
bulimia oblivia
I
[h] ate
it
bulimia oblivia―Tom Pickard (w/ nods to Basil Bunting, the Newcastle poets, Liverpool “beat” poets, George Harrison, bp Nichol) bulimia oblivia
don’t woof yr cookies (Newcastle Brown Ale)
purge yourself, sunflower
say somebody’s lil’ bunting
I
here’s I me mine in yr eye
oop norf, fook sake, you bet
Yorks Bete beat the Pool
[h] ate
not to get all cocky
h’8 no ’aitch 4 bp concrete
viz, getting all visual
it
ate me (’arf-time) so don’t be
telling porkies, pie-head
magpie caught in a barcode
Jeremy Prynne: Paratactic Procedures
Here I saw… telescopic to the field inside the mouth
where speech parts of separation had been swallowed
in foreground… fricative was the advice and
to palate by adhesion said to be forward
Kazoo Dreamboats―Jeremy Prynne (with a nod to Gerald Bruns)
Here I saw… telescopic to the field inside the mouth
chokeberries on the line rotten beyond description
chomp by field ate down to baby letter shivers, bottle
our mal du doute upchuck trick, there’s a good chap
where speech parts of separation had been swallowed
by black holes, do not interrupt his moment of disconnect
at all / anyway / whatever / even so / rubbish
goes down whoosh it’s got some teeth in it
in foreground… fricative was the advice and
couple disjunct blimeys in a row pick & prune a’miss
near scurvy them ballsy labiodental f’n fearsome
feckful avant swine, dey do dis da joint
to palate by adhesion said to be forward
by outward tastes like collage glued on the tongue
you can only “be” in the moment, just out Near/Miss
meets Gordon Lish meets Lewis Black, well done old son
Tom Raworth: gifted
a present
that
fits me
to a t
Ace ― Tom Raworth (with a nod to old Stones… & stoners)
a present
gifted, & at arms (rah-rah)
shabby old cardigan, slippers, &c.
― the real raw deal!
that
’s worth a lotta r…
She corrects / x-ray
muse in my devices
fits me
sting or other wrays
Rae-worth, Raw-worth let’s call
the whole thing off ?
to a t
Om boy… pleased to meet’cha
full steam a head
top speed, them ol’ rollers
Jack Spicer: No One Listens to Poetry
No one listens to poetry. The ocean
Does not mean to be listened to. A drop
• • •
It pounds the shore. White and aimless signals. No
One listens to poetry.
Language―Jack Spicer (with nods to Robin Blaser)
No one listens to poetry. The ocean
rolls over us ― these coastal people
nothing’s out beyond this last gasp edge
serial decoder of breakers
Does not mean to be listened to. A drop
drip drip on little green transceivers, whatever
comes in from that darkness around us
you were the real outsider, honest angel
It pounds the shore. White and aimless signals. No
jolts or jive, so okay dictate something, anything…
Nothing, you said, Deserves to live
& I heard that, crystal clear
One listens to poetry.
It’s difficult to get the news
No one listens to radio anymore,
not even Martians
Stephen Bett is a widely and internationally published Canadian poet with 25 books in print (from BlazeVOX, Chax, Spuyten Duyvil, & others), his most recent being Broken Glosa, from Chax Press. His personal papers are archived in the “Contemporary Literature Collection” at Simon Fraser University. His website is StephenBett.com
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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: VTG Newcastle Brown Ale Baseball Cap Hat Black Brewed in Holland EUC.
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