#real railway records | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

blackswaneuroparedux · 1 year

Photo

All good art cannot help but confront denial on its way to truth.

- Pete Townshend, The Who

The crowned king of smashing guitars is none other than The Who’s Pete Townshend. In a sense he was the godfather of guitar smashing on stage. The year was 1964. The Who were playing a small pub in London known as the Railway Tavern in Harrow and Wealdstone. At some point, Townshend’s Rickenbacker headstock hit the venue’s low ceiling, cracking it with a thud. When Townshend saw that none of the other band members seemed to notice or care, he decided to make it noticeable and smashed the guitar to the floor and against his amp, shattering it to pieces. And thus began a decades-long destructive affair between Pete and his many guitars.

Townshend would go on to smash more guitars on more stages in more countries the world over than any guitarist in rock ‘n’ roll history. He set the bar high on the act, performing it with an intensity and poetic presentation that bordered on dance. He would often raise his Gibson or Fender high over his head, holding it to the sky - a kind of sacrifice to the muse, to the crowd, to the moment. From there, the smashing took many directions. From bouncing the bottom of the body at the strap-button end off the stage over and over, to wielding it like an axe and chopping down a mic stand, to ramming it over and over into the drum stand or into a tower of speakers, Townshend made each guitar smashing an unforgettable moment for the audience.

In 2020, Roger Daltrey, the lead singer of The Who, perhaps with mischief in mind, said that Pete Townshend would creep around the stage collecting up all the bits of smashed guitars so he could glue them back together again. Which on the face of it wasn’t very rock’n’roll. It gets worse. According to Daltrey, to make it easier to repair his broken guitars, Townshend went to great lengths to smash them up as carefully as possible.

On the How to Wow podcast, Daltrey revealed the careful process behind Townshend’s destruction. “They were real guitars, but we worked out very cleverly that very rarely did the neck break. As long as the neck didn’t break, you could glue the body back,” he said. But Daltrey did charitably add that also pointed out: “It was costly in glue.” Fans of Townshend believed that Daltrey was deliberately trying to sabotage Townshend’s reputation. The pair interacted as little as possible during their time together and especially since the band broke up, doing separate interviews, having separate backstage areas at concerts and even recording entire albums without seeing each other.

However the story has a ring of truth to it. Pete Townshend once confessed inhis autobiography that, “The Who got paid 4000 pounds during those days, but we always smashed our equipment that cost more than 5000 pounds.“ Listen, it’s important to remember that even rock stars are people, and they have to deal with the same mundanities as the rest of us. Why Townshend had to glue all his guitars back together was because it was expensive to replace the smashed guitars and The Who were as frugal as they came.

In any case Townshend helped to set in stone one of rock’n’ roll’s defining images, the art of guitar smashing, unlike any other musical genre. In doing so he paved the way for the likes of other legendary guitarists like Jeff Beck and Jimi Hendrix to smash their guitars during their live performances on stage.

#townshend #pete townshend #quote #the who #music #guitar #rock and roll #rock n roll #guitar smashing #rebel #english #band #1960s #roger daltrey #jimi hendrix #jeff beck

135 notes · View notes

tehamelie · 5 months

Text

I repeat myself, but if you live in the United States, the most globally influential, most militarily powerful empire currently at work, you've got a two party system.

One party wants to keep power in the hands of the powerful, but they can be pressured into doing things like funding high speed cross-continental railways, suing Amazon to break up their monopoly, opening up the FCC to the idea of making Internet a public service, capping insulin prices* and maybe hopefully reversing 75 years of pro-genocidal Israel policy.

The other party wants to keep power in the hands of the powerful, and they try to kill all foreigners, queer people and women with opinions, to end the rule of law, to end public education, to end the environment, to let wannabe cops murder black people, to bring back child labor, to set the world record in lying. People thought we were exaggerating when we said "some" of these things before 2016 but then it turned out they did even worse than we could imagine.

Those are your choices, as per federal government. You aren't happy about having no real choice here, no agency? I can understand that. Imagine how the rest of the world feels looking at what you're doing and wondering if it will be your bombs or your carbon emissions or your banks that will kill us and not being allowed to do anything about it either way.

By all means you should give Biden's administration shit for the bad things they're doing. But you can do it honestly. Saying that the two parties are the same isn't honest. Saying that you'd rather have Trump back in office than Biden isn't honest - or if it is I want to fucking punch you in the face. If lies are the best you've got, then you and the Republican party are the same.

#dread politics

17 notes · View notes

promenadewithme · 5 months

Text

Chapter 2 (The Kiss of Eros)

a/n: here is chapter 2! all feedback is always welcome <3 pairing: Spencer Reid x Rebecca Sanders (original character) warnings: whirlwind of emotions here, be ready. someone gets hurt, blood, guns, fire, feelings so many feelings. word count: about 3k

Series Masterlist

The hot humidity of the subway hits me like a slap on the face. I remove my sweater, leaving me in my white button-up, and tie it around my shoulders.

“Have you ever taken the LA metro?” he asks beside me.

He’s also wearing a white button down, but his are rolled up at his arms, covered by a gray sweater vest and paired with charcoal pants.

“Nope, you?”

“I thought you were experienced.” he jabs and my face twitches.

“At public transportation, not specifically Los Angeles. Vegan city isn’t exactly my go-to holiday destination.” I answer while switching back to my normal square glasses.

“Where, then?”

“Where what?” I ask, trying to figure out which rail to take.

“Where is your go-to holiday destination?” he turns towards me, hands in his pockets, and I pause.

Is he trying to make small talk?

“I-I’ve always wanted to visit Scotland.” I offer.

He nods, looking at the map.

“Did you know that Scotland's official animal is the unicorn?” he asks.

“Yes, I did know that.” I offer a smile.

“Odd, though, isn’t it? That an official animal isn’t even a real animal?”

“Y-yes, I guess so.” I stutter.

“The first record of unicorn myths actually dates back to Mesopotamia.” he gesticulates while looking at the map “Many people think it originated from Greek mythology, but they just confuse the unicorn with the pegasus. Even though they are completely different, their only common factor being the body of a horse. Unicorns have a single horn on their head, while Pegasuses - or Pegasi - have wings.”

I gawk at him.

He’s actually talking to me. About unicorns. I am so incredibly confused right now. This is probably the most he’s ever said directly to me.

His gaze meets mine and he immediately turns away, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. I look back at the map, searching for the rail that takes us to the address Pen sent.

“We should take rail C.” I say, turning to look at him.

He’s already looking at me. All I get is a nod before he spins on his heel and walks towards the railway.

We wait behind the yellow line in silence until the metal tube arrives. The station filled with a few people after we arrived, but not enough to mean there wouldn’t be seats for us. Good, my feet are starting to hurt from the heels and I chide myself for not packing more comfortable shoes.

As soon as the doors open, I move to sit close to the exit when a large hand closes around my upper arm.

“No you don’t.” He orders, lifting me before I have the chance to sit. “Do you know how many microbes are on that seat?”

“I don’t and I really don’t want to know, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.”

“Trillions, Sanders. Trillions.”

I grimace and notice his hand still holds my arm. I’m pretty sure this is the first time he has ever touched me. So much for Dr ‘I don’t do handshakes’.

Snatching my arm from his grip, I ask “Well you don’t even shake peoples hands, so I doubt you’ll hold the support bars. Without them, you’ll be falling more than a sailor in the north sea, so what’s your solution?”

He doesn’t answer me, instead he opens his satchel and takes out two wet wipes, holding one out to me.

“We’ll sanitize our hands when we get there.” he states, grabbing the rod with the wipe as a barrier between it and his hand.

I hate to admit it, but that’s kind of genius. I’ll never tell him, though.

“Fine.” I huff and copy his actions, just in time for the metro to start moving.

He keeps his free hand tight on the strap of his satchel, eyes drifting between me and the floor. He’s nervous. Over the past year I’ve known Spencer, I’ve learned about his germophobia. I can’t imagine how hard it must be for him to be stuck in a metal tube swarming with trillions of microbes. Maybe if I can get his mind off of it…

“Let’s play a game.” I suggest, immediately regretting it.

This man is a genius and you want to play a game with him? Like a little kid? That voice reprimands in my mind.

“A game?” he asks slowly.

“You know what? Never mind, it’s stupid. I don’t know what I was th-” I splutter before he interrupts me in a soft voice.

“What game?”

My mouth opens and closes as I scour my mind for a game worthy of his intelligence. Dear lord, is there even one?

I think of every game possible. Rock, paper, scissors. Never have I ever. I spy. Truth or dare. He looks at me expectantly and I blurt out the first game on my mind “20 questions.”

“20 questions?” he asks.

I’m so dumb. So fucking stupid. I just suggested that Dr Spencer Reid play 20 questions with me.

“How do you play?” He looks interested.

Oh, okay.

“You’ve never played 20 questions?”

“I um,” he scratches his neck, crimson tingeing his cheeks. “I didn’t have all that many friends growing up.”

“Oh, well… that’s ok. I’ll teach you.” I nod.

When he doesn’t say anything, I start explaining the rules of the game.

“So, basically, person number 1 thinks of something - anything. A person, an object, a band, a place. That person then says ‘I am a country’, for instance. Then person number 2 has 20 yes or no questions to figure out what country that person is. Got it?”

He nods and asks “Can I start?”

“Sure.”

Okay, we’re eager. Good.

“I am a person.” he states.

“Alright, are you a woman?”

“Yes.” he nods.

“Are you from this century?”

“No, she’s actually from-” he starts, but cuts himself off before mumbling to himself “Yes or no questions. Just yes or no.”

I nod and hide my smile.

“Are you a monarch?”

“No.”

“A writer?”

“Nope.”

“A scientist?”

“Yes!” he exclaims with a smile.

He has a very nice smile. It’s a rare sight for me. He does smile a lot, but it usually fades when I enter the room.

“Is there a Disney princess based on you?”

“No, not Jane.”

“Did you study dark matter?”

“Not Freese either.” I can tell that he’s dying to tell me and his excitement is contagious “Come on, Becca. Think about the most obvious answer.”

Becca. He’s never called me that before. I like it.

“Rosalind Franklin?” I try.

“So close, come on. Just one step before her.”

“Marie Curie!” I exclaim.

“Yes!” he laughs.

“I love Marie! I have a magnet of her on my fridge.”

“You have a Marie Curie magnet?”

“Yes.” I smile and he just stares.

But this time, it isn’t a bad stare. I wouldn’t mind if he stared at me like this.

“Okay, okay. My turn.” I say.

I already knew what I would pick from the start, so I hint “I am a book.”

“A book?” he tilts his head.

“Is that your first question, doc?” I joke.

“No, no.” he shakes his head and brings his fingers to rest on his chin “Let me think.”

We’re closer to each other than we were before. Close enough for me to see the light stubble beginning to grow on his face and how his lips look slightly chapped.

Is he not drinking enough water? A voice whispers in my mind.

I notice I’m staring at his lips when he asks “Are you a romance book?”

“Yes.” I focus my attention on his eyes and, for the first time, he holds contact with mine.

At least he does for a few seconds, which is enough for me to notice the amber streaks in the midst of his chocolate brown irises.

“Are you from this century?”

“No.”

“Pride and Prejudice.”

I blink at him, mouth agape “How did you do that?”

“You read a lot of romance books.” He shrugs “I thought it could be your current read, but you’re reading a christmas rewrite of groundhog day so definitely not. Statistically, in these situations, we tend to pick something we can see at the moment, have seen recently or a favorite of ours. Considering there aren’t any books around and it’s not your current read, your pick could only have been your favorite.”

“How did you know Pride and Prejudice is my favorite?” I ask, completely shocked that he knows my reading preferences.

Though, thinking rationally about it, he is a profiler. He’s just doing his job and noticing his surroundings.

“It’s the only book you’ve repeated in the last year. You’ve read it three times. Plus all the times I’ve found you watching the 2005 version with Garcia in her office while going on about something you called the ‘hand flex’ scene.” He looks confused at that last part, but shakes his head before looking expectantly at me.

I realize he’s waiting for me to confirm his answer.

“Yes, you’re right. You won.”

“I never lose.” he simply answers before looking away with a small smile.

Maybe working with him won’t be so bad after all.

***

Spencer knocks on the last partner’s house, his black Ray-Ban sunglasses perched on the tip of his nose. We wait a few beats, but there is no reply. Strange.

“FBI, open up.” Reid bangs against the door.

“Maybe they aren’t home?” I suggest.

“Do you have your gun?” he asks.

I move my hand to hike up my skirt and his gaze follows as I remove my glock gen 5 from the holster strapped to my thigh.

“Do you think we’ll need it?” I question, but hear the answering sound of glass shattering inside the house.

We exchange looks and snap into action. Reid jogs to the left side of the house and I stick to the right, checking the corners and bushes for movement with my gun held in defensive. I dial Pen’s number and leave the ringing phone in my pocket. I reach a window and look inside quickly. Clear. Clear and unlocked.

The smell of benzene reaches my nose before I completely open the window. He’s here. Why did he change his pattern? He just set a fire a couple of hours ago.

Maybe he thought we wouldn’t expect it. He was right, I certainly wasn’t. Maybe he was afraid he was going to get caught and was eager to finish the job.

I hear Reid’s voice and follow it to the living room, where the whole family is held hostage. They are each tied to a chair and completely wet with what I assume is the benzene. Four chairs. Two adults, two kids. Their screams of terror are muffled by his makeshift gags. There is a stuffed teddy on the floor next to white flowers and what looks like a broken vase. Their tiny faces are red from screaming and crying. He is going to kill the kids.

I thought I escaped this side of the job when I left CASMIRC. Adults can fight back, adults have flaws and maybe could have done something to deserve what they got, but the kids? They still have the hope and innocence that humanity takes from us once we reach a certain age. They are too young to know what is happening, but what does happen scars them for life. And if it doesn’t, that means I was too late. That means their lifeless faces scar me for life. Haunt me every minute that I am awake and in my nightmares. No, the kids never deserve it.

Spencer’s calm voice brings me back from my thoughts. “I know it was unfair. I know that what they did was wrong, but you don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do.” his voice booms and the woman cries behind her gag “They have to pay for what they have done to me. Put your gun down!”

He slowly lowers the gun to the floor before saying “You want revenge.” Reid looks at me for a millisecond, he’s buying me time “I understand the feeling.”

I take a step closer, still out of sight, and try to come up with a plan.

Think! That voice yells in my minds

He has a gun and a lighter. The lighter is on. If I shoot, it falls and we all die.

“You have been wronged?” the unsub, Anthony Lewis, asks.

“I have.” he nods.

When Anthony doesn’t say anything, he continues “I used to be considered the smartest guy at my job. Then, about a year ago, they hired someone new. I’ll tell you,” he laughs humorlessly “everyone thinks she’s so smart.”

“She?” Anthony questions.

He’s talking about me? Why the hell is he talking about me?

“Oh, yes. She. Everybody loves her. She’s so perfect and so smart and so young and so sweet. That’s what they say about her.” He scoffs and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him gesticulate this much. My heart races and constricts in my chest as he continues “But I’ll tell you what I think. I think she’s nothing more than a pretty face, that’s honestly not even that pretty. She’s not smart, she’s a far cry from perfect. I’m better than her in every single way”

I hold in my gasp. I try to tell myself that he’s just distracting the UnSub, that his speech means nothing, but tears still well up in my eyes.

He doesn’t mean it, he doesn’t mean it, he doesn’t mean it, it’s not true, it’s not true, it’s not true, …

I repeat it over and over in my head, but it’s no use. It’s no use because it’s what my mind tells me every single moment of every day.

You’re not good enough, Rebecca.

You’re not smart enough. You are not pretty enough. You are not brave enough. You! Are! Not! Enough!

“But, you know what? There is something that comforts me, something that helps me keep going. One thought that I play over and over in my head to keep me sane.”

“What is it?” he asks.

His hand drops and I see that his grip loosened on the lighter. There is no longer a flame. He still has a gun so I have to be smart with this, but I walk in his direction, keeping to the wall.

“That someday, hopefully soon, they will see right through her little facade and realize that I’m the best.”

That’s enough.

I kick the lighter out of the UnSub’s hand and move to disarm him, but he’s faster. Before I can react, he pulls the trigger. I push his hand down, but I think it still hits my leg. I can’t tell, it doesn’t hurt.

Where the fuck is my gun?

I grab his gun by the barrel with my left hand and upper-cut his nose with my right. Taking advantage of the distraction his broken nose brought him, I twist the gun right off his hand and point it at him.

“Anthony Lewis, you are under arrest for the murders of the Phillips family, the Jones family and the Martinez family,” Reid comes from behind the unsub and cuffs him “as well as the attempted murder of the Andersons.”

FBI agents swarm the room and take him away. Hotch and Emily are already taking the family to the ambulance, so I grab my phone from my pocket and see that Pen is still on the line.

“Hey.” I greet.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” she exasperates.

“I’ll be fine.” I say, picking up my gun on the floor. What Reid said hurt, but I’ll get over it. Maybe not now, maybe in a few years, maybe after a bottle of wine and a good cry, but I will get over it.

I am a little dizzy, though. Must be all this benzene. Even my tights are wet with it.

“Are you sure? I heard gunshots.”

Oh, shit. Right.

I look down and see the red blood oozing down my leg, the bullet lodged somewhere on my upper thigh. Well, fuck. I really liked this skirt.

Adrenaline must still be coursing through my veins because I take a tentative step forward and it only stings a little. I keep limping around the house, trying my best to keep pressure on the wound while walking.

“Yeah, um- Pen? I’ll talk to you later. There are some uh- pressing matters I have to attend to.”

“You got shot, didn’t you?” she gasps.

I sigh. Why does she have to know me so well?

“Just a little, yeah.” I wince at a painful step.

“There is no such thing as getting a little shot!” she exclaims in my ear and the dizziness gets worse.

Pain shoots everywhere with every step I take, slowly but surely becoming unbearable. Shit, I think I might pass out.

I reach the front of the house feeling lightheaded and I think my phone is slipping from my hand. I look back at the trail of blood I left behind and just stare as the world spins around me.

Two hands grip my shoulders and I think Spencer is trying to say something. I push him away, but he doesn’t even move. I’m so mad at him.

So, so mad.

The last thing I see before the world fades to black are his wide eyes.

tag list: @dreamsarebig @aaleksmorozova @jem08

tell me if you want to be on the tag list!

#spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fandom #spencer reid x oc #the kiss of eros

16 notes · View notes

tornadoyoungiron · 7 months

Text

TRAINTOBER | Day 31 - Lights Out

Flying Scotsman meets the City of Truro for the first time. It doesn't go well.

~~~

“The LNER bought the City of Truro?” The young Jubliee class at the other platform was stunned. “Did the Great Western not want to save such a special engine?”

“He wasn’t even bought, he was donated to the museum,” the B12 next to her responded to her. “The Great Western didn’t want to spend money to preserve them.”

“Oh that’s a shame, Truro’s such a pretty engine!” The Jubilee cooed sweetly but there was a humph from the platform across the way. The Jubliee and B12 looked over to find a Gresley Pacific A3 with a sour look on his face.

“What’s the matter Solario? Can’t handle the fact that your twin got beat by a pretty little Great Western,” The B12 jeered and Solario snorted in response.

“City of Truro’s record is a fraud, the only official record is held by Scotsman,” he snapped annoyed. “We should never have allowed that engine into the museum.”

“You Gresley engines are all the same pompous snot-nosed gits," The B12 scoffed and Solario smirked.

"Our arrogance is not without precedence," Solario preened. "If even a wimpy engine such as my brother could outclass the rest, then what does that say about the rest of you?"

"Such a horrible thing to say about your own brother! He’s your twin! You should be close!" The Jubilee exclaimed horrified.

Solario rolled his eyes at her. The LMS engines and their undying loyalty to family did not breed success, it was childish and it was absurd.

“My brother is a foolish and weak-willed engine,” Solario scowled. “He does not deserve the time of day from me or our other sibling and especially Sir Gresley.”

The Jubilee was about to retort when the loud wheesh of an engine departing the station suddenly echoed through the station. The engines looked several platforms over the find the one and only Flying Scotsman departing the station, his expression unreadable and blank.

The B12 smirked but the Jubilee looked back at Solario angrily.

“For ones who pride themselves on being hospitable to your passengers, you’re real pieces of work you know that!” She snapped at them and Solario just huffed steam in response.

“The price of success demands it so, as Great Northern says,” Solario snapped back and without another word the Gresley A3 was gone, following his twin brother out of the station.

“Great Northern is a fool, everyone knows that!” The B12 sneered at his retreating tender but there was no response, the A3 long gone.

~~~

Flying Scotsman made his way to the museum. He didn’t really know why or what he was doing but he just knew that Solario’s words had stung him quite badly.

He had heard of the City of Truro. Great Northern railed at length against the engine, considering him a fraud, a phoney for even daring to try and claim ‘their’ record. Scotsman frowned, it wasn’t North’s record, it was his record. It certainly wasn’t that boastful child that was Papyrus’s record.

Scotsman rolled his eyes at the thought of his sister. She was boastful and entitled and demanded respect yet failed to have it because of the way she acted. A horrid and cold engine who found complaint in anything anyone did. She made even Great Northern seem like a saint by comparison.

Scotsman was the judge of who and what could lay claim to his record and it surprised him that after all this time he had never met the Great Western’s famous engine.

Solario’s words had spurred him on. He had met Great Western engines before, the wonderful Pendennis Castle whomst they had hosted on their railway for the exchange trials. Then again he had met him in person at the Empire Exhibition. Pendennis had been nothing but lovely and charming.

Scotsman found himself admiring and befriending the Castle Class. He wished he could see more of the handsome and beautiful engine.

He hoped that Truro would be the same.

He liked the Great Westerns, admired them even. Their smart green and gold lined liveries. They appeared delicate yet strong and powerful. He liked that. He liked that a lot.

He knew that Sir Gresley appreciated them too. Although he didn’t agree with certain aspects of their design, he remember Sir Gresley being very pleased and gave his approval to Pendennis Castle, a high appraisal indeed.

“Is something wrong, my good engine? May I assist you in any way?” A voice asked and Scotsman jumped and looked down to find a Steamworks engine, barely as tall as the average man.

“No, why do you ask?” Scotsman eyed the little engine, slightly annoyed at being startled.

“Your cheeks are red,” the little engine mumbled, Scotsman huffed embarrassed and glared at the engine who then seemed to notice his nameplate and squeaked. “I meant no offence Mr Flying Scotsman sir!”

“It’s okay,” Scotsman gave the little engine a comforting smile. “What’s your name little one?”

“Hendrick, sir! Hendrick the Steamworks Engine! If you have any faults come to me and I’ll get them fixed just like the day you rolled out of the works!” the little Wren peeped and Scotsman chuckled.

“I’m certain I will if the need arises,” Scotsman smiled. He glanced around at the museum, searching for the engine he was looking for. “Is- is City of Truro here?”

Hendrick gazed at the big engine suspiscously.

“I don’t want to start anything, I just want to meet him,” Scotsman assured the engine. Hendrick didn’t look convinced but he wasn’t exactly about to talk back to the railway CME’s favourite engine.

“This way, Flying Scotsman,” the little wren lead the large engine deeper into the facility where other engines sat. Some unnervingly had no faces which irked him.

"Why do some of these engine not have faces? What happened to them?" Scotsman asked and Hendrick seemed scared.

"I don't like to talk about it Mr Scotsman sir," Hendrick explained. "But those engines suffered from Cold Iron Sleep and died from it."

"What is-"

"No more questions please, I'll get into trouble with the engineers!" Hendrick begged the Scotsman and the A3 Pacific pressed no further.

They came to an alcove where a shining, polished Great Western engine sat, proud and glossy. The gold on its trim reflected the lights upon it, giving it a dazzling glow.

"This is the City of Truro!" Hendrick squeaked as the said engine turned its attention to the Flying Scotsman.

Scotsman looked the engine up and down. Though he was very impressed with the look of the engine, he found himself… disappointed.

"You are quite the handsome engine I must say! Though, I apologise if I sound rude but I thought that you would be larger," Scotsman remarked quietly and the City class turned a disapproving eye to Scotsman.

"Ah yes, another one of Gresley's fat, cumbersome engines come to try and pick a fight with me I see," City of Truro snapped at him and Scotsman was taken aback.

"Fat? Cumbersome?" Scotsman was deeply offended. "I am neither of those things!"

Truro eyed him disparagingly with distaste in his gaze.

"You are clunky and don't think I didn't hear you squeaking! An engine like this steals my record from me, how appalling! How embarrassing!" Truro hissed and Scotsman blasted steam in anger.

"I did not steal your record! You never had it in the first place!" Flying Scotsman snapped back, incensed by this engine.

Truro's eyes widened and he glanced down at Scotsman's number, painted on his buffer beam.

"Ah," Truro's expression turned sour. "So it's you. My rival."

"Rival? Rival!" Scotsman thundered furiously. "You? You! A simple goods engine?! You are NOT my rival I assure you! I'll have you find that Pendennis Castle is my rival, not some riff-raff like you!"

"This 'riff-raff' made 100 mph before you were even drawn!" Truro spat back angrily.

"You don't even deserve the dignity of being melted down to be the tracks under my wheels!" Scotsman snarled.

"Good because your heavy lard ass would just stress the rails so hard that you'd flatten them to sheet iron!" Truro shrieked.

"Stop calling me fat!" Scotsman exploded. "You are an uncouth and nasty little engine!"

"ENOUGH!" A voice suddenly shouted and they both turned to find one of the LNER directors striding towards them angrily, his face a picture of fury. "Scotsman! You are usually one of the best behaved and gentlemanly of engines! I am surprised at you, acting like a child!"

Scotsman looked at his buffers shamefully. He didn't know how or why but Truro had somehow antagonised him. He did not like it in the slightest.

"I am sorry sir. This is not like me, I know," Scotsman apologised profusely. "I just wanted to meet City of Truro. I had no intention of-"

"Stop. That's enough excuses. Sir Gresley will hear about this," the director snapped. "You will go back to your shed and you will not pull any trains for the rest of the week."

Truro chuckled and the Scotsman threw a glare at him.

"But sir!" He implored but he was ignored.

"Go!" The director snapped, pointing at the exit and Scotsman took his leave, feeling humiliated as Truro laughed at him.

Hendrick’s basis - a 0-4-0T Beyer & Peacock ‘Wren’

~~~

The City of Truro was displeased to find that he had been taken out of the shed at the last minute to stand in for a failed rail tour engine. There is something about a lack of maintenance on one of the Stanier 8F’s and its replacement also failing.

Truro was displeased. Not because he had been pulled out of the sheds but because he knew that the Stainer 8F deserved so much better. They were one of the hardest working engine classes in the British Isles, nay, the entire world. The fact that it’s replacement had failed was even more of a concern to Truro.

It saddened Truro greatly, the lack of respect towards the working iron horses these days. It was depressing.

“Thank you for saving our skins, City of Truro!” The Heritage controller thanked him. “It’s unprecedented that two engines would fail simultaneously.”

“Perhaps you need to keep a closer eye on maintenance,” Truro advised. “We Steam Engines are fussy things. We demand a lot more than a diesel or an electric engine.”

The controller seemed offended that Truro had chastised him but said nothing. Truro winched, wondering if he was turning bossy and pedantic like Coppernob. Maybe that was just what happened when one got to this age.

“Well, the Stainer 8F had a good maintenance record but Flying Scotsman did just return from Australia so we’re unsure what her condition is,” The controller remarked and Truro was surprised.

“Flying Scotsman is here?” He asked and the Controller nodded.

“You can see her if you like,” he offered and Truro thinning his lips in contemplation.

“I’ll think about it,” Truro finally spoke and the controller nodded before offering a parting word.

~~~

The rail tour itself went smoothly and Truro found himself in a pleasant mood. Maybe it was a good thing that both engines had failed that day. He so rarely got to do a proper run these days and he felt good for it.

He thanked the 8F and paused in the yard, contemplating whether to both his ‘rival’. Of course, Flying Scotsman never saw him as a rival, that position was reserved for Pendennis Castle.

A dark cloud darkened his mind and he frowned. He didn’t know why but seeing Pendennis and Scotsman together made him angry, it had always made him sad.

It shouldn’t have. Pendennis was a close friend, and he wanted to be happy for him and yet… when Scotsman had broken off the relationship, Truro had felt a sort of sadistic glee that made him feel ashamed.

He glanced over at the sheds and found the doors to Flying Scotsman’s berth closed. He contemplated leaving, he didn’t want to start a fight with her but he, despite himself, really wanted to see her.

Why? He had no clue.

Biting the bullet he approached her berth and waited for the crew to open the doors. Inside he found Flying Scotsman, asleep, her face pale and not looking all that well.

He was about to change his mind a leave her to rest when she stirred, groggy and extremely lethargic.

“...City… Truro?” She weakly croaked as she laid her eyes on him.

“You need your rest, I apologise for waking you, I’ll be going,” Truro tried to beg her pardon but Scotsman seemed to shake her frames to wake herself up in response.

“No, no, it’s alright, stay,” Scotsman gave him a weary smile. “I’m awake now anyway.”

“Quite,” Truro murmured and focused on her appearance. “You don’t look at all well.”

“I feel even worse,” Scotsman chuckled. “The Australian Outback did a number on me I think. I’m not used to such a harsh environment. What are you doing here?”

“Covering for you,” Truro smirked. “Did you enjoy Australia at least?”

“That I did,” Scotsman smiled. “Pendennis sends his regards.”

“Oh,” Truro looked away with a huff. “Are you two still, you know, together?”

“We talked about it,” Scotsman hummed to herself. “I decided not to pursue a relationship any longer. I didn’t see a future with him, even if we were still in England.”

Truro suppressed the sudden smile that came to his face.

Why was he glad that they had broken up?

“I’m going to wait a while before I consider a relationship with anyone else though,” Scotsman continued. “I need to get my smokebox in the right place first.”

“Of course, of course,” Truro mused. “No need to rush into anything. But if you were, did you have anyone in mind?”

Scotsman raised an eyebrow.

“Didn’t think you would’ve cared about my love life, City of Truro,” Scotsman smirked.

“I just want to know if you’re going to chase any of my colleagues,” Truro retorted and Scotsman gave a snort of mirth.

“So you can chase them away and claim me for yourself?” She sneakily suggested and City of Truro turned bright red. Scotsman smirked at his reaction.

“What on Earth makes you think I would do something like that?” Truro scoffed a bit too quickly.

“No reason,” Scotsman smirked but the look in her eyes suggested that she very well knew the reason. “No reason at all.”

Truro felt his face burn with heat and he jolted himself backwards in a hurry to leave.

“Right, well, I best be going,” Truro cleared his smokebox.

“Of course, of course, good talk, Truro, good talk,” Scotsman’s expression became conceited and smug, she had the audacity to give him a flirtatious wink.

Truro humphed in response. He knew exactly what she was insinuating and he had a very good idea that Scotsman and Pendennis had discussed him at length in Australia.

“You are appalling,” Truro huffed and Scotsman laughed. “You and Pendennis both!”

“Oh, we know,” Scotsman extolled. “But I’ll come to you first when I'm ready to date again, yes?”

Truro turned completely red.

“Is that a threat?” He scoffed, flummoxed.

“No. It’s a promise.”

With that, Scotsman seemed to grow weary again, her eyelids growing heavy.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to rest," she murmured and Truro took the hint that she wanted to be left alone.

"Very well, rest easy, Flying Scotsman," he wished as the crew flicked the lights back off in her berth.

"I'll try," Scotsman smiled and gave him a wink.

Truro felt his cheeks burn red hot but before he could answer, the doors to her berth shut in his face.

~~~

Flying Scotsman departs Kings Cross, 1967.

The City of Truro and the AUDACITY of this bitch.

Scotsman has a type and that type is Great Western 👀 He thinks they’re pretty.

The little Wren, Hendrick is Dr Hendrick who appears in Young Iron and deals with Gold Dust issues and problems. Great Northern brought him back as a Gold Dust construct to be his assistant however Hendrick decided to study medicine and became a certified Doctor.

#ttte young iron #ttte flying scotsman #ttte city of truro #ttte fanfic #ttte #real railway #traintober #traintober 2023

23 notes · View notes

religion-is-a-mental-illness · 2 months

Text

By: Michael Shermer

Published: Mar 8, 2024

Leaked documents from World Professional Association for Transgender Health practitioners reveal a medical profession in the grips of an ideology-driven social contagion

In an early study of crowd psychology, Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds (originally published in 1841 and still in print), the Scottish journalist Charles Mackay documented such delusions as alchemy, fortune-telling, haunted houses, magnetizers, religious relics, and prophecies, and the mad crowds that fell for economic bubbles like the Dutch tulip mania, the Railway Mania, witch crazes, and the South Sea Bubble. “Men, it has been well said, think in herds; it will be seen that they go mad in herds,” Mackay observed, “while they only recover their senses slowly, one by one.”

The redux of my title includes such such popular delusions of the past half century as the Subliminal Messages scare, the Satanic Panic, the Recovered Memory mania, the Self-Esteem movement, the Multiple Personality craze, the Left-Brain/Right-Brain fad, the Mozart Effect mania, the Vaccine-Autism furor, the Super-predators fear, the Drug Abuse Resistance Education (DARE) program that increased teen drug use, the Scared Straight program that made adolescents more likely to offend, the Critical Incident Stress Debriefing (CISD) programmed that worsened anxiety and symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and many more that have plagued psychology and psychiatry.

The latest of what is likely to be added to this pantheon of popular delusions embraced by mad crowds is the trans movement as a whole and Rapid Onset Gender Dysphoria in particular, as revealed on Tuesday March 5, 2024 by Michael Shellenberger, Mia Hughes, and their colleagues at Environmental Progress in a 242-page document titled The WPATH Files: Pseudoscientific Surgical and Hormonal Experiments on Children, Adolescents, and Vulnerable Adults. “The World Professional Association for Transgender Health (WPATH) enjoys the reputation of being the leading scientific and medical organization devoted to transgender healthcare,” the authors note. However, after reviewing hundreds of leaked internal documents revealing shocking levels of uncertainty, ignorance, and devotion to outdated and debunked pseudoscientific theories, therapies, and practices, the report’s authors conclude that the opposite is true:

Newly released files from WPATH’s internal messaging forum, as well as a leaked internal panel discussion, demonstrate that the world-leading transgender healthcare group is neither scientific nor advocating for ethical medical care. These internal communications reveal that WPATH advocates for many arbitrary medical practices, including hormonal and surgical experimentation on minors and vulnerable adults. Its approach to medicine is consumer-driven and pseudoscientific, and its members appear to be engaged in political activism, not science.

We devoted an issue of Skeptic to “Trans Matters” (Vol. 27, No. 1) that included an especially thoughtful, sensitive, and deeply-researched cover story by Lisa Selin Davis, “An Overview of the Debate, Research, and Policies”, documenting the massive spike in patients reporting gender dysphoria over the past decade (this data is from a gender clinic in British Columbia but rates are comparable elsewhere). Before 2015, most trans were young boys who identified as female; after 2015 most trans were adolescent girls identifying as males.

As I read the research, the Before Time (pre-2015) was very likely recording real instances of gender dysphoria (GD) in very young children and at a vanishingly rare rate well below 1%; the After Time (post-2015 to today) is very likely a phenomenon called rapid-onset gender dysphoria (ROGD), a label coined by the physician and public health researcher Lisa Littman, after she discovered in her exploratory study based on parental reports that entire peer groups of adolescents and teens were declaring themselves to be transgender, after immersion in social media or exposure in classrooms in which sizable proportions of students identified as anything but cisgender and straight. With watchful waiting and compassionate support for these adolescents, and dealing with their underlying issues of body dysphoria from puberty, autism, anorexia, and normal teen anxiety, sadness, and stress, the vast majority grow out of their self-identity of “being in the wrong body” and/or realize that, in fact, they are gay or lesbian.

Unfortunately, watchful waiting and compassionate support is not a practice that WPATH appears to recommend to medical and psychological practitioners; instead, “gender affirming care” calls for them to go along with whatever their (almost always) underage patients tell them that they want, which is often invasive, irreversible, and life-changing Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT) and/or surgery, including the amputation of healthy breasts in females (a double mastectomy, or “top surgery”) and the surgical removal of otherwise healthy genitals and reproductive systems that will never again function normally (“bottom surgery”). Detransitioners—those who transitioned then changed their minds and sought to return to their “assigned at birth” sex (a number that is growing by the month)—are discovering that they can never have biological children (they’re told “don’t worry, you can always adopt”), can never breast feed (they’re told they can “strap on” milk-delivering faux-breasts and become “chest feeders”), and can never experience the full range of normal sexual functioning, including orgasms, not to mention numerous drug side-effects, surgical complications, infections, mounting medical bills not covered by insurance, and the like. As the authors of the WPATH Files note:

This report will show that this is a violation of medical ethics and, as is revealed by its own internal communications, WPATH does not meet the standards of evidence-based medicine. It will further show that the ethical requirement to obtain informed consent is being violated, with members admitting that children and adolescents cannot comprehend the lifelong consequences of sex-trait modification interventions, and in some cases, due to poor health literacy, neither can their parents.

Before I review some of these documents, let me note that I have covered this topic before in this column, for example, answering the question “What is a Woman, Anyway?”, on the trans swimmer Lia Thomas in particular, and on trans athletes in female sports in general. I personally know two (MTF) trans adults who transitioned well into adulthood and are happy they did so, I recognize that there are people who genuinely experience GD (which is different from ROGD), and I stand by my statement in the last column that:

Of course we should support trans rights for the same reason we support the rights of people of color, women, and gays: it is immoral (and in many cases illegal) to discriminate against someone based on such immutable characteristics as skin color, gender, and sexual preference, so gender identity should be included in our ever-expanding moral circle and our ever-bending moral arc. The problem arises when there are conflicting rights claims.

In the WPATH Files what we see is the rights of underage adolescents and vulnerable adults being violated by the very people tasked with protecting them, so I agree with the authors’ call for “the U.S. government to oversee a bipartisan national inquiry to investigate how activists with little respect for the Hippocratic Oath could have risen to such prominence as to set the Standards of Care for an entire field of medicine, leading to the medical abuse of minors and vulnerable adults.”

What follows are some of the more revealing—and in many cases egregious—examples of uncertainty, ignorance, and embrace of pseudoscientific ideas revealed in the “semi-private conversations inside WPATH’s internal online forum for discussing specific medical cases,” along with my comments (below each screen shot)

Note that this post is from Marci Bowers, often tagged as “the world’s preeminent ‘gender-reassignment’ surgeon” and who self-identifies as “a woman with a trans history” (i.e., a Male-to-Female [MTF] trans), revealing that medical professionals had no idea of the consequences of transitioning youth. The correspondent inquires about the consequences for fertility and orgasmic response post transition. “The fertility question has no research that I’m aware of,” Bowers admits, but suggesting that puberty blockers will “preclude those opportunities.” Oh is that all? What about orgasms? Again, Bowers is “unaware of an individual claiming ability to orgasm” after puberty blockers. Say again?

Here is a man (AMAB = Assigned Male at Birth) who self-identifies as a non-binary female who is taking Cialis/Viagra (presumably to enhance his—sorry, her—erections) who wonders if they breast feed their 7-month old will the meds get into the infant’s system. Apparently the amounts would be so small that the infant would not experience “any adverse effects” such as, what, erections?

Here's a therapist who practices EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing), the long discredited treatment for PTSD/trauma. These people are years behind the science. A 2022 literature review, for example, concluded: “Taken as a whole, this small body of work suggests that eye movements do not reliably affect susceptibility to misinformation, nor do they appear to enhance memory, but they do seem to increase spontaneous false memories.” False Memory Syndrome is the correct interpretation of what was happening in the 1990’s Recovered Memory Movement in which adult patients in psychotherapy were convinced by quack therapists that they had been sexually molested as children, even though the patients had no memory whatsoever of such abuse, nor was there any corroborating evidence such crimes ever occurred. Astonishingly, there were cases of aging parents who were tried, convicted, and imprisoned for sexual molestation based on nothing more than bogus “recovered memories,” a mass hysteria that came to an abrupt end when lawyers sued therapists for malpractice. See Carol Tavris’s account of this madness here.

Here is a discussion of Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), previously known as Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD), explaining that consent for transitioning must be obtained from each "alter" (alternative personality). DID and MPD is a bogus diagnosis. There is no such thing as multiple personalities, so there can be no "alternate" personalities to give consent. The entire diagnosis was founded on two famous cases that turned out to be fraudulent: Sybil and Eve (as in The Three Faces of Eve). The real Sybil—Shirley Mason (played by Sally Field in the film version)—admitted she made it all up: "I do not really have any multiple personalities. I do not even have a 'double.' ... I am all of them. I have been lying in my pretense of them." As for Eve, the real woman was Chris Costner Sizemore (played by Joanne Woodward in the film rendition), and her three faces eventually transmogrified into over 20, until a book revealed that the psychiatrist who diagnosed her was sexually and financially abusing her. Nevertheless, such quack diagnoses didn’t stop this surgeon from cutting off the healthy breasts of a DID woman, or carving out fake vaginas in two DID men:

For a complete debunking of these and additional bogus psychological theories, therapies, and treatments, see 50 Great Myths About Popular Psychology by the late Scott Lilienfeld and colleagues, and his more scholarly debunking in Science and Pseudoscience in Clinical Psychology. Skeptic’s own columnist Carol Tavris has debunked these and more quack psychology in our pages (for example, see her article on trans issues here).

This post-op trans woman (a man) later "discovered that I was not suffering from any actual pathology related to being trans.” Yet, she claims to still experience cPTSD, ADHD, anxiety, and depression. O-kay.

This exchange shows a practitioner reasonably conflicted about starting a patient on HRT (Hormone Replacement Therapy) with so many problems, but is nevertheless told it’s “the right thing to do”!

Here a WPATH member complains that their client was denied insurance coverage for surgery until completing a year of HRT, stating that they think the patient needs surgery “for her physical and mental health, along with her safety.” Safety?

This surgeon isn’t sure how to handle patients requesting “non-standard” procedures, such as top surgery without nipples (“non-binary” means “non-nipples”?) and “phallus-preserving vaginoplasty.” The latter is non-standard indeed, inasmuch as normal vaginoplasty involves removing the penis, testicles and scrotum. This patient apparently wants both. In a follow-up missive Dr. Satterwhite explains: “With every patient I operate on, I always take a patient-centric approach and I let my patient lead the journey (not me).” Therein lies the problem when you’re dealing with underage patients who are otherwise not allowed to drive, drink, smoke, vote, serve in the military, get tattoos, and more. Why would anyone—much less medical professionals—think that adolescents could make adult decisions about such life-altering treatments?

Note not only the age of onset of this condition (non-binary), 13, or that the testosterone request comes from the child and not a parent, guardian or medical professional, but that on top of all that this kid is purposefully starving themselves to look “more non-binary”. Presumably this means anorexia. Whatever this youngster is experiencing it is not going to be ameliorated by transgender medical treatments. This is medical malpractice, pure and simple, and it has to stop.

I could go on and on with dozens more such revelatory correspondence from the WPATH Files, so let me close with this observation from John Mackay, who presciently put his finger on the problem we are experiencing today: “We find that whole communities suddenly fix their minds upon one object, and go mad in its pursuit; that millions of people become simultaneously impressed with one delusion, and run after it, till their attention is caught by some new folly more captivating than the first.”

I have little doubt that when the ROGD trans social contagion runs its course it will be replaced by something else, but without politicians or attorneys intervening in the meantime I am not at all confident that the WPATH community is capable of self-regulation and course-correction away from the flagitious path they’ve been on. Still, in the long run, optimist that I am, I hope lessons will be learned from this episode, as they were with the aforementioned previous popular delusions; and with that hope I will give the last word to Mackay:

Let us not, in the pride of our superior knowledge, turn with contempt from the follies of our predecessors. The study of the errors into which great minds have fallen in the pursuit of truth can never be uninstructive. As the man looks back to the days of his childhood and his youth, and recalls to his mind the strange notions and false opinions that swayed his actions at the time, that he may wonder at them; so should society, for its edification, look back to the opinions which governed ages that fled.

Amen, brother.

#Michael Shermer #social contagion #WPATH #The WPATH Files #World Professional Association of Transgender Health #medical corruption #medical malpractice #medical scandal

8 notes · View notes

stories-of-the-nrm · 2 months

Text

The Fallen King

The Flying Scotsman rolls into the station at the end of a busy day.

Scott: Ahhh. Another successful non-stop run. The A3s will run this railway for years to come.

His driver, William winces.

William: I wouldn't say that, Scott. I've heard some rumors that Sir Nigel Gresley is set to put his latest design, the A4 into service next month.

Scott uncharacteristically splutters and turns red with annoyance.

Scott: This is preposterous! Have I not proven my worth to Sir Nigel Gresley? I can't just be replaced as if I haven't been operating this incredible service to the railway for over 10 years.

William: Shhh. Steady old boy. Just because the design is meant to provide high speed passenger rides, doesn't mean you will be replaced.

Scott: I sure hope so, William.

Time Skip

One day in 1938, Sir Nigel Gresley appeared at the sheds.

Nigel: Good morning, Scotsman.

Scott: Good morning, Sir.

Nigel: I know you've been feeling down about being replaced, but I bring good news. You are being seen as a role model by the A4s. In fact, I want you to take me to the Doncaster Works. There's an engine I want you to meet.

Scott sighs. He knows he shouldn't be so jealous, but he thought he would have his record at least a little longer.

Scott: Yes sir.

The Flying Scotsman takes Sir Nigel Gresley to the Doncaster Works. An engine freshly painted painted garter blue sits on the rails faceless.

Nigel: Now in just a minute, my latest modification of the A4 will wake up. I believe if this works, this engine will once again be a credit to the railway. In fact, as you have been the only engine in recent British history to do so, I want you to mentor this engine. Streamlining by design will make an engine fast, but it takes great skill to manage such high speeds.

Scott: Oh. Well it's an honor, sir.

Scott means what he says, but it's still bittersweet. To him it hurts to have to be responsible for training his own replacement. Being demoted from the Flying Scotsman services was quite a blow.

?: Hello?

Nigel: Ah yes. Welcome to the world young engine. I am your designer, Sir Nigel Gresley. Due to my fondness of birds, I decided to name you Mallard.

Mallard: Mallard, sir?

Nigel: Indeed. The Mallard is one of the most famous birds in the world. Due to the modification I added starting with your design, I highly believe you will become one of the most famous engines.

Mallard: My goodness. Thank you sir!

Sir Nigel Gresley chuckles. He walks over to the Flying Scotsman.

Nigel: This is one of my most famous engines, the Flying Scotsman, known for being the first official engine to reach 100 mph. He will act as your mentor regarding how to handle high speeds. We value fast, safe, and reliable service on this railway. Is that clear?

Mallard: Oh yes sir! Thank you for giving me a mentor.

Nigel: Well I'll just leave you two alone then. There's a lot of work to be done.

Scott sighs. It's not at all Mallard's fault that he feels this way. Given the circumstances, the least he can do is make Mallard as reliable as himself.

Time Skip

Mallard: Scotsman, why am I being asked to pull a train like this just to test my brake?

Scott: This is meant to simulate pulling a real train. The men added a dynamometer car to measure your speed and other elements of your performance.

Mallard: So it was just like my tests before I pulled my first passenger train.

Scott: Indeed. Only this time, the hope is that you will be fit to break the speed record. Should the bearing on your middle cylinder overheat even with the modifications, it would mean more work is to be done. We don't want you hurting yourself just to break a speed record.

Mallard contemplates this. He doesn't want to let anyone down. Especially if it's because of something he can't control.

Mallard: I understand.

Jospeh: Alright, Mallard. It's time to start our journey.

Mallard: Very well then, driver.

Mallard rolls out into the distance. Something about the day makes Scott only dread his worse fear is about to become a reality.

Time Skip

Crowd: He's done! Mallard broke the speed record!

Scott solemnly closed his eyes. Even though he isn't old by any means, this news made him feel as if he's aged.

Gordon: Why the long face, brother?

Scott: I feel as if my time to shine's ended before it truly ever began.

Gordon: Oh don't tell me that you're jealous of Mallard.

Scott looks at Gordon. He shakes his head knowing jealous isn't at all the correct term.

Scott: This is not at all Mallard's fault. He's simply doing what he's told like any young engine would. It isn't as if I didn't know my speed record would be broken one day.

Gordon: So why are you upset?

Scott: I wish I was able to have that to my name a while longer. To be allowed the chance to live out my prime as the best of the best. I would be willing to accept being replaced should it be well over 50 years of service and I'm no longer reliable. But to be replaced this soon.... I just didn't expect it.

Gordon: At the end of the day this is a business. What's best for the business is to ensure our passengers have fast, safe, and reliable rides. By mentoring Mallard, you are ensuring that guarantee. That is being a really useful engine. Like I said before, get some perspective Scott.

Scott shuts his eyes sighing again. If only there was a way to explain that Gordon is right but he should still be allowed to his feelings.

Scott: I only hope that Mallard doesn't meet the same fate as me. Falling from grace for things that is not at all your fault is something I wouldn't wish on anyone. No one should ever have to worry about facing the cutter's torch.

Gordon: Indeed, Scott. Indeed.

AN: Thank you anon for requesting this. I didn't realize that the real life A4s did in fact replace the Flying Scotsman until I started learning about the history a little bit more.

Tagging: @nelllia, @gordon208, @jayde-jots, @mintydeluxes-blog, and @engineer-gunzelpunk.

#nrm fanfiction #flying scotsman #lner a3 #fan requests #lner a4 #mallard

8 notes · View notes

dozenssporks · 10 months

Text

*the video opens with a distant shot of Vash laying in the shade of a sand dune making a ‘snow’ angel*

Wolfwood, speaking from behind the camera: there he is, ladies and gents, the most feared outlaw in the tri-state area

Vash: only that infamous? my ratings have dropped.

Wolfwood slowly zooms in until it’s a close up of Vash’s face as he stares at the sky: you’ve been laying there for, like, an hour. Don’tcha have anything to do, you lazy bum?

Vash: I am contemplating. The life. The Universe. The everything. That cloud looks like a jelly doughnut. Now shush.

the shot slowly zooms out again and wolfwood whispers: I am bored out of my mind so I am going to do something drastic. Ready? Okay. *raising his voice* Hey, needle-noggin! What’s your opinion of America’s public transport system?

Vash, sitting bolt upright in a shower of sand: it’s The Worst! It’s patchy, incomplete, inconsistent! There are hundreds and hundreds of desolate miles where the only option is a car because nobody bothered to put a train there. Do you know what that means when you can’t drive? It means you walk! My boots have racked up more miles than a soccer mom’s SUV--

Wolfwood, whispering again: and off he goes . . .

^Vash gets up and begins to march around, waving his arms dramatically to emphasize his points or express his frustration. The camera calmly follows him back and forth. There are several cuts so Vash’s ranting jumps from point to point and country to country, a timer in the corner of the screen records how long he’s been talking, more than twenty minutes. The smooth dune becomes a a churning sea of footprints*

Vash, pointing sharply: --and that’s why England’s railway--!

Wolfwood, suppressing giggles: what about, dunno, Italy?

Vash: Italy, well, I got pick-pocketed on public transport there actually

Wolfwood: for real? someone picked the humanoid typhoon’s pocket?

Vash: yeah--oh! That reminds me, hang on!

*Vash dives forward, sliding to a stop at his destination on his knees. He pulls open his bag and rifles through the contents. Odds and ends spill out and a couple odd shirt-sleeves are trailing in the sand before he pulls out a wallet*

Vash: so um *pulls an id card out of the wallet and glances at it* Drusilla Zuccaro if you are watching this I’m sorry I took your wallet and forgot to give it back and forgot I still had it until just now. It was going to be a great bit where you thought you’d got my wallet but I’d got yours and I’d give it back and we’d laugh and you’d turn over a new leaf and never pick-pocket again. I, uh, kinda had to hoof it due to various misunderstandings and it slipped my mind. I’d offer to send it back to you but it’s been, uuhhh, five months? You’ve probably got a new id and stuff by now . . .

Wolfwood, voice shaking with suppressed laughter: there wasn’t any cash?

Vash, looking sideways: . . . it was only maybe fourteen euros and a guy on the run has gotta eat, you know

Wolfwood: vash the stampede committing petty theft? you disgust me

Vash, on his knees, hands pressed together: Scusami tanto, ti chiedo scusa dal profondo del cuore. Sono mortificato, chiedo scusa.

Wolfwood: yeah, yeah, so what are you gonna do about it?

Vash, sadly and a little sulky: Ti rimborserei ma non ho soldi

Wolfwood: Imma take a wild guess and say you’re saying you’re broke

Vash, muttering and drawing circles in the sand: sì

Wolfwood: you’re a total deadbeat you know that, spiky?

Vash, throwing himself down into the sand, tears streaming down his face: leave me and my deadbeat feelings to die

Wolfwood: want some absolution?

Vash: keep your stupid little confession box away from me! Didn’t you hear me? I have no money! I’m already in debt!

*Vash continues to weep noisily as the camera pans over the dunes and setting sun*

Wolfwood: that was fun. next time I’m gonna ask him about, um, types of socks maybe. This is where I’d ask you to like and subscribe but y’all know we don’t work like that. Otherwise we’d be scamming you for donations and ol’ needle-noggin here would have money for bus fare. Buh-bye.

*video ends*

#trigun #trigun on the run au #trigun modern au #a dozen sporks speaks #ww: how can you tell the cloud is specifically a jjelly doughnut #vash: well it doesn't look like a custard filled one. Obviously.#this nonsense makes me smirk to myself at work and that's all that matters #trigun snippets

22 notes · View notes

neutrallyobsessed · 1 year

Text

OH MY GOD! STAND USER!AU

i was suposed to put the text underneath the images but i love this arragement?? and i guess it could work better to catch your attention so mucho texto y un poco de lore under the cut lel

「STAND MASTER」: Ten Cents 「STAND NAME」: Recovery Ship

Ability: Ferrokinesis. Can lift double his weight on metal by itself and triple if holding it with his body. He can manipulate it to a distance of 2 meters. As seen in the picture, he can make himself fly if he's over something made of metal

Namesake: Song by P-MODEL. And it's a remix of the Guts theme so that's pretty epic, more upbeat and fun ^^. I think recovery ships are actually for recovering spaceships that comeback to Earth and land on the ocean but damn it, it does sound like a synonym for tugboat right? kinda? anyways i hc TC as a Susumu Hirasawa fan 'cause yeah

___

「STAND MASTER」: Big Mac 「STAND NAME」: Supernatural

Ability: Detect bad luck. That's it xd

Namesake: Album by Santana. Pretty simple stuff, it is a supernatural ability after all and has Smooth, a fav song :)

___

「STAND MASTER」: O.J. 「STAND NAME」: Molchat Doma

Ability: Creating force-fields. Up to 10 meters of diameter on any solid, so nothing on open air (for now)

Namesake: Belarusian post-punk band. They made Sudno. It means boat. I was running out of ideas ok? and then remembered bout this song and its translation and i was like :000 perfect.

___

「STAND MASTER」: Top Hat 「STAND NAME」: Englishman in New York

Ability: What do you mean irl railway tugs don't actually move its wheelhouses like Top Hat? I thought that it was based on something real that happend. Well, he can do that now, raise it up 50 meters una cosa asi.

Namesake: Song by Sting. Top Hat🤝Miles Edgeworth -> californian guys who want to be british lol

___

「STAND MASTER」: Warrior 「STAND NAME」: Soldiers of the Wasteland

Ability: He just has the tugboat :P

Namesake: Song by DragonForce. C'mon, it has reference to his name and his job, it's perfect. And I think it fits Warrior, this band also made Through the Fire and Flames

___

「STAND MASTER」: Hercules 「STAND NAME」: Big Brother

Ability: He can fuse with his tugboat and become this big, strong and fast af, hovering, can walk on water, robo-man and and it's really cool! uhhh ranges of all these metrics tba xd

Namesake: Song by P-MODEL. Self-explanatory and it was named by Ten Cents for obvious reasons. P-MODEL is Hirasawa's band lel

___

「STAND MASTER」: Sunshine 「STAND NAME」: Blondie

Ability: Ya bet a guy called sunshine is going to have a high-temperature stand. Up to 1000 kelvin without damaging himself

Namesake: American new-wave band. He's blond, that's all I got, wanted some variety and not name everything after a song :v

___

「STAND MASTER」: Grampus 「STAND NAME」: Midnight Crusin'

Ability: He can dive as far as a midget submarine can go, as long as either the human or sub are on the surface.

Namesake: Album by Kingo Hamada. It's where the Machi no Dolphin song is. City Dolphin. Grampus is a dolphin. Dolphin of Bigg City. It fits so well and so does the song ^^

___

「STAND MASTER」: Zorran 「STAND NAME」: Yesterday

Ability: Viewing the past recorded on reflective surfaces. The amount of centimeters determines the amounnt of seconds it has recorded. (a 45cm window has 45 seconds of footage, for example)

Namesake: Song by The Beatles. It is clear that main antagonists in Jojo tend to have time-based abilities and what better Zorran to have an ability like that, referencing that theory of playing Beatles songs backwards gives proof that Paul died~ wish I could use one of those songs, but nothing fitted so whatev, obvious reference :P

___

「STAND MASTER」: Zebedee 「STAND NAME」: ???

He probably has something other than the tugboat, but it's too afraid of exploring his abilities due to fear of not being able to control the power and feels that having a mf talking boat is enough for him. Also religious trauma, ofc~

___

「STAND MASTER」: Zak 「STAND NAME」: Smoke on the Water

Ability: Creating and controlling dark smoke that comes out of his mouth. Doesn't need to smoke to do so, but he'll do it anyway. He has a problem but won't die from it, so he'll continue

Namesake: Song by Deep Purple. Again a very obvious one :v

___

「STAND MASTER」: Zug 「STAND NAME」: Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

Ability: Morph his body into sharp objects

Namesake: Japanese Alt-Rock band. Is the band that did Parasyte's OP, his ability is a direct reference to that. Let me Hear is the name of the song but like it didn't fit? The band name, on the other hand, goes pretty well. They also made Kaiji's 2nd OP, just another banger to listen to uwu

___

「STAND MASTER」: Zip 「STAND NAME」: Sussudio

Ability: Phase through walls and any other horizontal solid wall-like things, so not floors nor ceilings. He can make others (living or inanimated) to go with him if he's touching them. His hands are the expection, they can go through anything at his will.

Namesake: Song by Phil Collins. Did you know that sussudio means absolutely nothing? I think that it fits Zip pretty well, a word that he made up on the spot. And I like the song.

#this is tugs #bigg city port #tugs au #tugs ten cents #tugs big mac #tugs oj #tugs top hat #tugs warrior #tugs hercules #tugs sunshine #tugs grampus #tugs zorran #tugs zebedee #tugs zak #tugs zug #tugs zip

73 notes · View notes

dreaminginthedeepsouth · 2 years

Text

ALLIGATOR RIVER

Reflecting eyes in the river. Photo by Garret Suhrie in Big Cypress National Preserve, Florida :: facebook.com/gsuhrie/

(Frans de Waal)

* * * *

“Animal minds are simple, and therefore sharp. Animals never spend time dividing experience into little bits and speculating about all the bits they’ve missed. The whole panoply of the universe has been neatly expressed to them as things to (a) mate with, (b) eat, (c) run away from, and (d) rocks. This frees the mind from unnecessary thoughts and gives it a cutting edge where it matters. Your normal animal, in fact, never tries to walk and chew gum at the same time. The average human, on the other hand, thinks about all sorts of things around the clock, on all sorts of levels, with interruptions from dozens of biological calendars and timepieces. There’s thoughts about to be said, and private thoughts, and real thoughts, and thoughts about thoughts, and a whole gamut of subconscious thoughts. To a telepath the human head is a din. It is a railway terminus with all the Tannoys talking at once. It is a complete FM waveband- and some of those stations aren’t reputable, they’re outlawed pirates on forbidden seas who play late-night records with limbic lyrics.” Terry Pratchett - Equal Rites

[alive on all channels]

#alligator #eyes #night #Frans de Waal #alligator river #quotes #Terry Pratchett #Equal Rites #Alive On All Channels

160 notes · View notes

horrorblogafterhours · 5 months

Text

So tonight we're gonna talk about Japanese urban legends.

Let's get started with

Kuchisake-onna (Slit-Mouthed Woman).

If you are unlucky enough to meet Kuchisake-onna during a solitary stroll, she will ask you if you think she is beautiful. As with Aka Manto, consider your answer like your life depends on it (since it does). If you say no, she will immediately murder you with her scissors. If you say yes, she will remove her face covering to reveal a gaping mouth that has been slit from ear to ear in a haunting smile. Then, she will ask again: say 'no' and you die, but stick with 'yes' and she will slit your mouth like hers. The only way to escape Kuchisake-onna, is to tell her that she looks average

Teke Teke

Teke Teke is said to be the ghost of a woman or schoolgirl who fell on a railway line and was cut in half by an oncoming train. The vengeful spirit—outraged by her untimely death—now haunts urban areas and train stations at night. Since she no longer has legs, she drags herself on her hands and elbows, which produces a chilling “teke-teke” sound. Should you encounter Teke Teke, run! If the malicious spirit catches you, she will slice you in half with a scythe. Although she lacks legs, she is extremely fast, and has been known to keep up with cars. In some renditions of the story, she will ask you where her legs are, in which case you must reply “Meishin Expressway” in order to survive. In less hopeful iterations, your only chance of survival is to outrun her, which is completely impossible.

The Red Room Curse

For those reading these tales on your computer, this story is for you. The Red Room Curse is an internet-focused story that starts with an ominous pop-up. The pop-up features a red screen with black text that reads, “Do you like the red room?,” which is accompanied by a sinister pre-recorded voice asking the same question. No matter how many times you close the pop-up, it will continue to appear until the voice has finished its question. Afterward, your entire screen will turn red and become flooded with past victims’ names. No one knows what happens next, but the receivers of the pop-up are always found dead with their blood painting the walls red, creating the titular red room. Once you receive the pop-up, it is impossible to escape your fate

Momotarō – Arguably the most famous Japanese folktale, this is the quirky story of a boy born from a peach who was discovered by an old childless couple when they split the soft fruit open. Momotaro jumped out and was raised by the couple

Howling Inunaki Tunnel-The true mystery of Inunaki Village is whether or not it ever existed. Rumors of it have persisted in Japan and online since the 1990s. Supposedly located deep in the Inunaki countryside of Kyushu’s Fukuoka Prefecture, this abandoned village is said to only be accessible through Inunaki Tunnel. The stories say that all who enter the village are doomed to a violent death. These myths and tales also seem to mention that there is some sort of “official” sign stating, “The Japanese constitution is not in effect past here,” meaning all who enter are on their own to face the real or supernatural horrors that await.

Aka Manto- Aka Manto (red cloak) meets victims when they are most vulnerable: on the toilet. He wears a white mask and a long red cape. There are many variations to the legend. He holds red and blue toilet paper in some stories, but he’s only in his cape in others. However, he always asks the victim to choose a color: red or blue? Like Japan’s slit-faced woman asking, “Am I pretty?” it doesn’t matter what you answer because Aka Manto kills you regardless—choosing red rewards you with a stabbing, spilling your blood all over the stall. If you answer blue, Aka Manto either suffocates you or sucks out your blood, leaving you blue-faced and dead on the floor. So your best bet is to either ignore the fiend or run away.

Ok I think that's all for now. Hope you will all enjoy this.

#horrorblog78 #horrorblogafterhours #urban legends #Japanese urban legends

10 notes · View notes

power-chords · 6 months

Text

After the war, as a student first at Brooklyn College and then at Columbia, Hilberg was quickly drawn to the academic study of the fate he had escaped in Europe but that many of his relatives had not. "Briefly I weighed the possibility of writing a dissertation about an aspect of war crimes, and then I woke up," he explained in his autobiography. "It was the evidence that I wanted. My subject would be the destruction of the European Jews." He was soon spending long hours in a torpedo factory in Virginia that had been transformed into a repository for countless boxes of captured Nazi archives. Hilberg’s decision to study this material was not considered a professionally prudent one at the time, which may seem odd in the current era of Holocaust movies and proliferating Holocaust studies departments. But in the late 1940s and ’50s, the genocide of the Jews was a subject ignored in academic circles. History books of the era focused on the cult of Hitler and the Nazi terror but generally did not identify the slaughter of the Jews as a central part of the story of World War II. In the United States, the first college-level course dedicated to the subject of the Holocaust was taught in 1974–by Raul Hilberg. More than twenty years earlier, when Franz Neumann, Hilberg’s adviser at Columbia, learned of his dissertation topic, he quipped, "It’s your funeral."

Hilberg’s study opens with a bold statement: "Lest one be misled by the word ‘Jews’ in the title, let it be pointed out that this is not a book about the Jews. It is a book about the people who destroyed the Jews." Hilberg toiled for nearly a decade in the archives of the Nuremberg trials and other collections of recovered German documents. During his last lecture, which he delivered in Vermont just a few months before his death, he recalled the void that engulfed him at the outset of his research. "I was transported into a world for which I was totally unprepared," he explained in his dry, austere manner. "I would read a document, but I would not understand what it meant. The context had to be built record by record."

In Hilberg’s telling, the murder of the Jews was not a product simply of Hitler’s anti-Semitic rage (as Dawidowicz would later argue), nor was it preordained the moment the Nazi Party coalesced or even by the terror of Kristallnacht. "The destruction of the Jews was an administrative process, and the annihilation of Jewry required the implementation of systematic administrative measures in successive steps." Hilberg presented a staggering picture of the bureaucratic machinery of extermination, which developed slowly over time and inundated every sector of German society–not just the Einsatzgruppen and the SS but also the finance ministry, foreign office and railways; everyone knew what was happening, and everyone cooperated.

Hilberg defended his dissertation in 1955 and submitted it to prominent publishing houses. It was roundly rejected until 1961, when a young press in Chicago, Quadrangle Books, decided to publish the work, printing it in double columns on cheap paper. From there, the massive tome began quietly and slowly to win over admirers. In a glowing review in Commentary, the British historian Hugh Trevor-Roper wrote that Hilberg’s book was "not yet another chronicle of horrors. It is a careful, analytic, three-dimensional study of a social and political experience unique in history: an experience which no one could believe possible till it happened and whose real significance still bewilders us." Michael Marrus, the foremost historiographer of the Holocaust, says that it is now generally agreed that before Hilberg "there was not a subject. No panoramic, European-wide sense of what had happened. That’s what Hilberg provided."

12 notes · View notes

engineer-gunzelpunk · 6 months

Text

(WAY PAST) Traintober 2023: Twins prt 2 + Bird

The VR's Scottish Twins R707 City of Melbourne "Cerberus" and R761 "Andri", with friend.

(Usual disclaimer, this is not a reflection on any person living or dead or the real life locomotives they are based on)

OK, its now November but so... I'm putting these up anyway. The VR's answer to Donald and Douglas, Victorian Railways R-Class Hudson R707 City of Melbourne/Cerberus and VR R-Class Hudson 761 Andri.

Both built at North British Works at Queens Park, Glasgow and brought to Victoria in the early 50's as part of a 70 strong fleet of R-Class Hudsons to replace the aging A2 4-6-0 express passenger fleet. The Rs were quickly superseded by the B-class diesels built at Clyde, Granville, NSW; and all of the class was withdrawn by 1964, with only R707 and R761 remaining in operational condition after their fellow Rs were brutalised by the VR.

Seven members of the class including these two made it into preservation. As these two were paired up frequently during the late and post-steam era on special trains, it was natural that they were close. And they cannot be any more different.

R707/Cerberus (originally "Choin Dubh", but renamed himself to something the Aussie humans could understand) is quite an intense individual, highly intelligent and obsessed with balancing the scales as well as preserving the rest of his family. He's mad as a cut snake that he was not particularly dealt a good hand initially (rust in the bearings kept him in the shop till 1954, STUG equipment fitted to him reinforced his idea of himself as hard done by) or was given the working life he was promised; he was fucked around by the VR in the final years of steam, moved from shed to shed and then left to rot for 6 years from 1974 to 1980; he hasn't forgiven them, even after they are long gone.

He's by turns manipulative, charming, calculating and scary. When he is not pulling his highly lucrative Grainlander and Riverlander trains, he's working out schemes with his underlings, his right hand engine being the Lancastrian English Electric built F-class shunting diesel, Dynon Donk.

R761/Andri (originally "Kelpie" but taunting by the local yobbo locomotives hurt her enough to change it; a particularly humiliating incident of taunting lead to one of them having a rude word scratched on their tender in meter high letters...) couldn't care less about balancing the scales. As a matter of fact, she doesn't care at all. All she want to do is continue to run like the Devil in engine form if she's allowed by the vollies at SteamRail, look at birds (her special interest is birds of all kinds) and sigh over Gordon the Big Engine, her favorite engine in the RWS series. Her particular special train is the Melbourne Snow train but she's taken plenty of other special trains. She's is pretty blunt and forthright when talking with others, but she means no offense.

Her working life was punctuated by long bouts being shedded, for reasons that are not entirely clear or explainable; which would explain why she was in such good condition compared to the other Rs at the time of her preservation.

Both these engines have a monster form, and a demon form like their Newport compadre, VR H220 Heavy Harry.

As a matter of fact, when they both attained a human form sometime around 1964, they ran in the same larrikin gangs as Harry did. And participated in his infamous scrapbreaking activities. To this day, they still live at Newport, at the old sheds in the West Block where the volunteer groups operate their trains out of.

The lil blue bird on Andri's shoulder is a Splendid Blue Wren.

Here's a video of the IRL R761 ripping up the track:

youtube

The VR were never that interested in breaking records for speed, but it is estimated the Rs could go as fast as 90/mph if allowed; VR regulations dictated that express passenger engines like the R, the S and the A2 were restricted to 70/mph and H220 60/mph.

#thomasallgrownup #victorian railways #VR OCs #Victorian Railways R-class Hudsons #Red And Black Steam On Southern Metals

8 notes · View notes

scotianostra · 7 months

Text

On October 31st 1903 Hampden Park stadium opened in Glasgow as the home of Queen’s Park Football Club.

Sources differ some say October 25th but SFA state 31st, I think the confusion is that there ws a previous stadium called Hampden, it is now occupied by railway lines and a lawn bowling club named Hampden Bowling Club. It opened on 25th October 1873 and closed 10 years later. It was the first enclosed stadium with turnstiles in the country

Hampden was the biggest stadium in the world, it would hold this record until 1950 when The Maracanã Stadium in Rio, it held and incredible 199,854 for the final.

Back to Hampden, it opened for a league game on this day in 1903, three years late it held it’s first international when Scotland played England in front of a crowd of 102,741 people, which established Hampden as the primary home of the Scotland team.

Attendances continued to increase during the remainder of the 1900s, as 121,452 saw the 1908 Scotland v England match. A new world record of 127,307 were in attendance to see Scotland play England in 1912.

World record crowds attended Scotland matches against England in 1931 and 1933 and it was 33 that saw the first team from mainland Europe, Austria visit the stadium. Further ground improvements increased the official capacity of the ground to 183,388 in 1937, but the SFA were only allowed to issue 150,000 tickets for games. The 1937 Scotland v England match had an official attendance of 149,415, but at least 20,000 more people entered the ground without tickets.

During WW2 a government official presented an order demanding that both the Hampden and Lesser Hampden pitches be ploughed and used to plant vegetables, but the Queen’s Park committee chose to ignore the order and the government did not pursue it.

Hampden hosted the 1960 European Cup Final; Real Madrid defeated 7–3 Eintracht Frankfurt with 130,000 people in attendance. By the time the next European cup final was held in 1976 between Bayern Munich of West Germany and Saint-Étienne of France the attendance had fallen to 54,670. The French complained about the goalposts stating that two of their efforts which hit the square crossbar and rebounded into play would have resulted in goals if it had been round!

Hampden was aging and the capacity was cut 81,000, redevelopment started in October 1981 and completed in 1986, reduced the capacity to 74,370 and cost £3 million. After the cancellation of the annual Scotland v England fixture in 1989, questions were raised as to whether Scottish football required a separate national stadium, other venues were mooted but the SFA and the stadium committee rejected these and after securing a grant of £3.5 million in 1992, work to begin on a £12 million project to convert Hampden into an all-seater stadium, Hampden was re-opened for a friendly match between Scotland and Netherlands on 23 March. The final stage of the renovation began in November 1997, costing £59 million, inevitably the price soared but Hampden was re-opened for the 1999 Scottish Cup Final. The ground now has a capacity of 51,866.

The stadium was again fit to host the top matches and Real Madrid were again victorious when Hampden Park hosted the 2002 UEFA Champions League Final, defeating Bayer Leverkusen, with Zinedine Zidane scoring the winning goal with a left-foot volley.

In 2012, a Scotland women’s national football team game was played at Hampden for the first time, when it hosted the first leg of a European Championship qualifying playoff against Spain and Hampden was temporarily converted into an athletics stadium for the 2014 Commonwealth Games.

To celebrate the 60th anniversary of the European Championship in 2020 the National stadium has been chosen by Uefa as on of 13 venues for the competition and I am sure the people of Scotland will welcome whoever is chosen to play in Glasgow.

With the advent of big stadium concerts Hampden has been used to host a wealth of worldwide acts Genesis and Paul Young performed in the first concert at Hampden, in 1987. The Rolling Stones played there in 1990, during their Urban Jungle Tour. Since the redevelopment of Hampden was completed in 1999, many acts have performed there, including The Rolling Stones, Rod Stewart, Tina Turner, Bon Jovi, Eagles, U2,Oasis, George Michael, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Neil Diamond, Take That, AC/DC, Bruce Springsteen, Coldplay, Pink, Paul McCartney, Rihanna, and Beyoncé.

In 2018 the SFA )Scottish Football Association)agreed a £5m fee for the national stadium with Queen's Park, just this year it was used to host games in the delayed Euro 2020 matches. The stadium recently played host to the 15oth anniversary Scotland v England match, the lesssaid about that game the better! ;)

The pictures show the changes to the stadium over the past 118 years.

#scotland #scottish #history #Glasgow #football #national stadium #sporting history

16 notes · View notes

wardenred · 7 months

Text

Flufftober 3: "Wait, you love me?"

Tales from the Witch House is one of my oldest stories/settings that keeps growing out of control, changing directions, sprouting new characters and plotlines, and generally being a wild urban fantasy kitchen sink thing that refuses to stick to one shape. Some of the characters keep staying the same though. Like Tim and Leo, my favorite chaotic anxious fuck-ups in love.

The city was creeping up closer and closer to the Witch’s House. It wasn’t so evident if you stuck to the kitchen whose windows faced the desolate closed courtyard, or the living room that had no windows at all. Maybe if Leo was still only an occasional guest in this place, he would be able to pretend that this wasn’t happening. That the House’s borrowed time wasn’t running out. But he was now living under this leaking roof, sharing a room with Tim, and every time he passed the window with its sheer curtains, he caught a glimpse of the street on the other side of the barbed wire fence. What used to be a boring gray patch of asphalt and concrete, a border drawn between the House and the railway track, now brimmed with life. Streetlamps shone brightly through the evening fog, and the buildings were littered with signs for take-out venues, mom-and-pop shops, and other small businesses.

The Witch's House used to be an island drifting off the edge of the world. Now, it felt like a sinking ship about to crash into the shoreline.

Behind Leo’s back, the door hinges screeched. “The new guy is awful,” Tim complained.

Leo smirked, turning away from the window. “You say it about every new person.” It was a relief, really, to get this reminder that their broken boat was still getting new passengers. If the Witch kept letting people in, that could only mean she didn’t expect for the whole project to collapse any moment, right?

“Yes, but this one is particularly awful! He just called Tyssa a ‘buxom babe.’ Who talks like that?”

“The new guy, apparently,” Leo said. He hopped up to sit on the edge of the shabby, scratched desk, squeezing himself between Tim’s laptop and the ancient lamp with its dragonfly-patterned fabric shade. None of the mismatched chairs in the room offered much comfort for his lanky frame. The sunken armchair in the corner was occupied by Tim’s guitar and a stack of laundry they really needed put away.

He supposed he could go plop down on the bed, like Tim just did. Except that was the thing: Tim was already there, stretched over the faded blue comforter, his toes nudging at the low table tucked between the bed and the door, the one with the record player and a stack of dusty vinyls they never played. It would be the easiest thing in the world to come join him, tuck himself against Tim, take a peek at whatever he was scrolling through on his phone, steal a kiss or two.

Get hopelessly late for work as a result.

“I have looked up ‘buxom’ in the dictionary,” Tim proclaimed, “and I have serious suspicions the guy is sexist, stuck-up, and old-fashioned.”

“The way you say it makes the last part sound like the worst of his crimes.”

Tim let out an over-the-top groan. “Love. Please. Take me seriously.”

The endearment made Leo freeze. He dug his fingers into the edge of the desk and forced a smile in place of the real one that had dimmed. “That’s really an impossible request.” He was speaking lightly, right? Just joking around. Tim wasn’t going to notice any weirdness.

Tim tossed the phone on Leo’s pillow and turned to his side, propping himself up on one elbow. “Is something wrong?”

Crap. Why was he getting so perceptive lately? Leo drew a breath. We did promise each other to be honest, he reminded himself. Maybe it was his turn to start.

“Nothing! Absolutely nothing.” Yup. Perfect start there. His suddenly damp palm slid uncomfortably against the unevenly polished wooden surface. “It’s just—I like all the pet names and stuff, all right? But, um. Maybe save this particular one for, for when you really mean it.”

Which was probably never, and he had now successfully stuffed his foot in his mouth again, and Tim was going to—

“But I do love you.”

Leo’s train of thought crushed into a wall of rock-solid confusion.

“You... love me.”

Tim sat up slowly, his brow furrowed. “Well, yeah? I mean, I always have. Like, literally always? From that very first night in the club? Come on, you must know. Everyone knew before I did.”

“I—” But this didn’t make any sense. What did he mean, everyone knew? Yes, of course, now that Leo thought about it, there had been all those jokes. Karolina needling Tim about being oh so smitten, Gella making cutesy faces. Xan’s exaggerated eyerolls. Agnia’s grumbling.

Leo thought those jokes had been at his expense.

“You... didn’t know,” Tim stated. He sounded kind of lost.

“Well, you never said! And the way you were acting around me, up until the last time we got back together—” Leo forced himself to shut up. There was no use rehashing it. Those old hurts were scabbing over just fine. The two of them had sorted it all out, hadn’t they? They were literally living together. He was here to stay. The past didn’t matter.

Tim had the grace to look sheepish. “Well, yeah, I was an ass, I know. But that was precisely because I was trying to come to terms with—ugh. Why am I so bad at this?” He dragged his fingers through his dark hair, and then suddenly, adorably, he was babbling. “Listen, I’m a coward, okay? I met you once, and I couldn’t think of anything else. And then we kept, um, meeting, and every second with you was like stars colliding. Yes, I know! It sounds sappy and stupid! But that’s how it felt. How it still feels. So I chickened out and tried to act like you weren’t important, because at that time, I was still fucked-up. I mean, I’ll probably always be fucked-up, that’s like, my style! But when we met, I still believed wanting something openly was the surest way to never get it. And I’ve never, ever wanted anything the way I want to be with you.”

Leo decided his shift could wait.

#warden's random scribbles #writeblr #original fiction #snippet #flufftober2023 #day 03 #writers on tumblr #my writing #flash fiction #achillian #romance #urban fantasy #long overdue confessions #tales from the witch house #tim and leo

7 notes · View notes