Bringing revolution to Port Talbot - by Michael Sheen
On a recent February morning, I woke up to find I was wrong. Not a particularly uncommon experience in itself, but unusual to discover that on this occasion I was being publicly accused of it by the Secretary of State for Business and Trade. “Michael Sheen has said that ‘the people of Port Talbot have been let down’,” Kemi Badenoch wrote in the Daily Mail. “But he is wrong.”
It was a big day. I spent all of last year directing a three-part drama series for the BBC called The Way, which was to air that night. It begins in my hometown of Port Talbot, where a strike at the local steelworks becomes the spark that ignites a violent descent into national chaos. Clearly, Ms Badenoch had been given a sneak peek of the series before forming quite a strong opinion on it. But no: reading her article, Ms Badenoch admits that she hadn’t watched it at all. Why let a total lack of information prevent a full-throated denouncement, eh? Presumably, she also assumes that we managed to write, film and edit the entire series after Tata Steel announced the imminent loss of some 2,500 jobs at the steelworks mere weeks ago.
While the winds of change have only been blowing in one direction for many years, the events in our story were dreamed up some years ago and act as a fictional catalyst for all that follows. Surely even Tory ministers understand there is no VIP fast lane for making a TV series. This isn’t a PPE contract, after all…
Nothing to see here
After that episode aired, it occurred to me that such shenanigans in the right-wing press could have been about a couple of things. Since the ITV drama about the Post Office scandal, Mr Bates vs The Post Office, caused public outrage, I imagine the government has a new fear of the impact a TV show can have. A pre-emptive strike against a series it perceives to be criticising its actions around the steel industry must have seemed a useful tactic. And, having seen Breathtaking – based on Rachel Clarke’s memoir of how the Covid crisis unfolded in the NHS, which aired on ITV the same night as The Way – I wonder if her piece was an attempt to distract attention away from more dangerous territory.
It gave Ms Badenoch a chance to trot out her line about how the people of Port Talbot should be grateful for all that the government is doing to save the steel industry, not moaning about the impact job losses will have on their community. But the people of Port Talbot have been let down, no matter what Ms Badenoch wants us to think. Not by any single entity, but by years of neglect. That she immediately assumed my comments referred to her and her government tells its own story. In the words of a much older drama than mine: the lady doth protest too much, methinks.
Then and Nye
“This crisis is a privateering racket with your friends lining their pockets!” No, not an accusation against Boris Johnson, but something I currently say to Winston Churchill every night. We opened a new play called Nye at the National Theatre this week. I play Aneurin (“Nye”) Bevan, who attacks the prime minister for turning a wartime crisis into a money-making scheme for him and his cronies. It’s one of many moments in the play that seem to speak to past and present at the same time.
The entanglement of “now” and “then” is heightened by the fact that I am wearing pyjamas. Nye is lying unconscious in his hospital bed at the end of his life, and we follow him through a dream of his past. He wanders from childhood memories of overcoming his stutter in Tredegar library to his meteoric rise through local politics, to becoming the youngest member of Clement Attlee’s pioneering postwar cabinet. And, of course, as minister for health, his tumultuous birthing of the NHS on 5 July 1948. It’s an extraordinary, surprising
and moving experience telling this story on stage each night. That shared space between actors and audience, where all is felt but unseen, crackles with electricity.
Once more, with feeling
It seems that exploring the motives of politicians, the uses and abuses of political power, and the quest for justice that saw the creation of the NHS taps into deep wells of emotion. Like the pockets of gas that miners feared within the coal seam, their release brings risk and reward. At a recent show, we had three instances of people needing to be helped out of the theatre, the final one forcing us to pause the show moments from its end. Thankfully, it was nothing more serious than someone fainting. But emotions are running high.
I’m more than happy to invite Ms Badenoch to a performance. But I realise, of course, there’s no guarantee she would make it to the end.
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stop making plans / start making sense
Summary: eddie finds himself smack dab in the middle of an ap english iv class, all because some do-gooders at Hawkins High happen to “believe in him” or whatever. the catch? it just so happens to be your ap english class.
A continuation of this blurb and the result of an ongoing eddie munson hc convo with @powderblueblood 💚
Warnings: eddie’s senior year 2.0, no Upside Down, scary smart debate team captain reader, NHS president and tutor nancy wheeler, ap music theory nerd and general nuisance robin buckley, pretentiousness alert - you have been warned!
W.C.: 1771
It’s his second time around as a senior, not even the first week of school under his belt when Mrs. Meloy calls him into her office. The counseling center, which he is unfortunately far too familiar with, is busy as it usually is at the beginning of the year— schedule changes, registration, students complaining about not getting late arrival or early dismissal. Before he can settle in one of the worn chairs by the door, a woman pops her outside of an office door. She glances around, blue eyes searching for someone or something, before landing on Eddie.
“Think the wall can hold itself up just fine Edward,” She calls as she opens the door to her office and waves him in.
He grouses at the use of his full name and rolls his eyes, languidly strolling into the smaller room that smells overwhelmingly of cinnamon.
“Go ahead and make yourself comfortable.”
She’s turned around, fingers flicking through thick manilla files in the cabinet in front of her. A cup of coffee sits on her cluttered desk, cold, from the looks of it. Mrs. Meloy mutters under her breath before turning from the filing cabinet in annoyance.
“It’s only the first week of school,” Eddie points out, “I haven’t done anything.”
The yet between them goes unspoken.
The older woman merely raises a knowing brow and takes her seat opposite him. She sorts through a few loose papers on her desk before letting out a surprised huff, “Gotcha!” Flipping through the file, his file, Eddie supposes, her eyes scan over what is undoubtedly his lack of academic achievement.
Satisfied with her perusal, she sets the papers down on her desk and addresses him.
“Round two.” Mrs. Meloy begins, resignedly. “Hopefully the NHS tutoring placement will be to your benefit Mr. Munson. Miss Wheeler is an exemplary student and I have high hopes for you under her tutelage.”
She then runs through his current schedule, emphasizing the classes he needs to perform well in (mostly all of them, save for English and a few others).
“Which brings me to the reason for our meeting today,” she says with a smile. “It has not escaped my notice, nor that of Mrs. Seguin, that you are quite adept in English class. At least,” she qualifies with a pull of her lips, “When properly motivated.”
And yeah, okay, he was decidedly not trying all that hard in Mrs. S.’s senior English class last year and he breezed through with a respectable A minus.
Wayne even got a little choked up when he read that particular report card.
“I guess so,” he says with a cross of his arms.
“Rather than having you repeat the same content and curriculum this year, Mrs. Seguin and I have petitioned the principal for permission to move you into a more challenging and appropriate English class.”
Well, that perks him right up.
“Principal Higgins has agreed to the change, with a few stipulations.”
Of fucking course.
The gist of it is, Eddie’s admittance to the AP English IV class will be probationary for the first quarter, given his past exploits and record. If he can keep his grades at a respectable B across the board, Eddie will be permanently placed in Mrs. Seguin’s advanced class. If he can’t, it’s back to regular Senior English with that crone, Mrs. Cotter.
Easy peasy.
And he’s almost out the door when Meloy stops him with a furitive, “Eddie,” and pauses to look him in the eye. “We believe in you and we went to the mat with Higgins on this.” She says emphatically, standing up to escort him through the office, “You can do this, Eddie, we know you can.”
She smiles and sends him off with his newly revised schedule, the summer reading assignment, and information for Wayne to peruse about Advanced Placement courses.
The rest of that day unfolded as expected despite his new schedule. Slight differences were made, such as: Eddie sitting in the middle of the class instead of the back, hopefully next to Buckley or Wheeler if he could swing it.
With Nancy’s help, he was able to narrow the summer reading options down to books that would hold his interest. The librarian, Ms. Berkowitz, was more than happy to oblige him with checking out a copy of Notes from the Underground by some Russian dude whose name Eddie couldn’t possibly pronounce.
The bell for the final class of the day rang just as he slipped through Mrs. Seguin’s door.
“Timely as ever,” she teased and kicked the door stop into the classroom.
Her room was the same as last year, but the mood within was markedly different— more relaxed and at ease. Students sat where they pleased and chatted amongst themselves while Mrs. S. checked off the roll and fielded a few questions from the group.
Eddie settled in the only open seat right in between Nancy and yourself. He tried not to be offended that you didn’t even glance up from your furious scribbling on the page, seemingly writing a mile a minute, as if you couldn’t get the words out fast enough.
Ink smeared on the college ruled paper underneath your hand.
Eddie found it endearing.
“Okay, okay, let’s get this show on the road.” Mrs. S. set her clipboard on the desk and leaned against it with a casual grace.
She was one of the newer teachers to Hawkins High, from some big name school out west with not one, but two degrees framed on the wall behind her desk. She was young and quick to laugh; the older teachers were a bit weary of her and those “new agey” teaching philosophies, but the results produced were proof enough for her to granted the AP English III and IV courses for this year. According to Nancy, she’d only had AP juniors and regular seniors last year.
Eddie, being one of those regular students, would know.
“Alright, hopefully we’ve brought in our summer reading novels today. The goal is to break you all into thematic groups based on your selected text. From there, you will collaborate with your peers to create a presentation on your findings.”
With this, she steps away from her desk and begins writing on the chalkboard.
“Consider such things as character archetype, thematic resonance, literary merit, of course. But more importantly,” she says, turning to the class with a smile, “How did the story affect you? What new perspective or insights were gained? What concepts were reinforced? Did you despise the protagonist, or did you identify too closely with them?”
The class has fallen to a hush, you’ve stopped writing and are rapt with attention. Eddie, used to overworked teachers and coaches who could care less, is shocked.
“I remind you, as always, that there are no right or wrong answers in here. As long as you can support your interpretation—” She begins.
“With evidence from the text,” The class choruses in reply.
“Good, exactly.”
At that, students break away into smaller groups and begin talking in hushed tones about the project.
“Whatcha got there?”
This, from Robin, who unceremoniously plucks Eddie’s book from his grasp. She flips through it, eyes lighting in interest, just as Mrs. Seguin makes her way over.
“Eddie, always good to see you.”
“Right back at ya, Mrs. S.”
She smirks, eyeing Robin scanning through Dostoevsky. “Had a feeling you’d gravitate toward the nihilists. Got a chance to start reading yet?”
He swipes the book back from Robin and ignores her petulant pout.
“Uh, kinda. Started it during lunch today.”
She nods knowingly, “Well, I’m sure you’ll be caught up in no time.” Surveying the classroom she nods to herself, “And now that I think of it,” She turns back to Eddie, “Looks like you’re in the right group over here.”
He almost says there is no group over here, but then he notices Nancy and Robin chatting with you. Feeling his stare, you turn back from where you’ve set up shop on Robin’s desk and jerk your head, an invitation by any other name.
“C’mon Munson, we don’t have all day.” You say this softly, chidingly, with no real heat behind it. Your eyes narrow as a group gets particularly loud across the way, “Because I’m certainly not about to let Phillips show us up.”
“Oh, bite me!” Phillips crows from his desk.
“You wish, you cretin!”
Eddie does his best to hide the curl of his lips and stifle a laugh while Phillips sulks at his desk.
Robin thumbs through a worn copy of Nausea while Nancy talks Eddie through the plan thus far. She’s read The Death of Ivan Ilyich and come to the conclusion that the novels in the group are both deeply depressing and deal with themes of existentialism, and in some cases, nihilism.
“I dunno. Philosophy is all well and good, but,” you pipe up, “Mine had elements of magical realism and a satirical critique of Soviet Russia.”
Eddie attempts to process what you and Wheeler have just said. Sensing a lull in the conversation, you slyly pass your novel over to Eddie and start to take notes over whatever it is Nancy is rambling on about.
The Master and Margartia.
Huh, weird title.
He reads the blurb on the back cover and kind of regrets not choosing this one to read. Maybe you’ll let him borrow it after the project is over. Setting it back on your desk, Eddie peruses the syllabus Mrs. S. must’ve slipped him.
“So, will that work for you Eddie?”
Lost in a daze of genres and titles, he looks up. “Sorry, what was that?”
Nancy sighs, “We’re going to meet at my house on Thursday for a study group. I know you and Mike have that thing on Fridays, so.”
“Oh, yeah. Thanks Wheeler; that’ll work.”
With a smile, she goes back to chatting with Robin.
“Psst.”
A neatly folded paper lands on his desk. Eddie glances at you, curious, taking in your arched brow and smirk.
Scary smart, he reminds himself as he unfurls the page.
I know Nance is your NHS tutor, but if you feel like you need to catch-up for this class, give me a call.
Your deft hand and neatly printed letters dance across the page, an errant smear of ink where the heel of your hand drug across the paper. The digits of your phone number underneath your missive make his heart race.
Annotating your copy of Dune without permission was one thing. And at that you didn’t even bat an eye, but this…
Well, this had potential.
He tries not to let the possibility of what if turn to ash in his mouth.
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Rewind 2023 - Proud Author Spotlight
WangxianFicRecs - Rewind 2023
Here are some recommendations from 2023 sent in by our fandom's authors themselves. Make sure to give them much love. PS: Authors, don't be shy! Submit more Proud Author Spotlights!
~*~
I published my first MDZS fic this year.
It's a 60k time travel fix-it fic from the POV of several outsider characters who are all witnesses to Wei Wuxian's change in behaviour and the events following that change.
I tried really hard to stick to canon (novel-only) characterization and I'm really proud of what I wrote so don't hesitate to give it a try (it's complete too!) :D
We'll Build A Dynasty (one the heavens can't shake)
by One_eyed_God (@oneeyedoctogod)
T, 66k, Wangxian
Summary: Wei Wuxian is well-known as a trouble-maker, someone who likes jokes and chaos. He promptly proves this by disappearing without a trace from the Cloud Recesses, in the middle of the Lectures. But when war is on the horizon and tensions boil over, can his actions really be summarized as a simple prank?
Or, the unbelievable story of Wei Wuxian, time traveller, told from everyone's point of view but his.
~*~
Hi there! I don’t know if anyone remembers, but I posted my first ever fic on Ao3 this year!
Jailbreaking
by CullenBlue (@cullen-blue23)
T, 21k, NHS & WN
Summary: During the Wen indoctrination, we see everyone escape during the fight with Xuanwu… except Huaisang, who had fainted earlier. So, in short… how TF did he escape??
The story of how Nie Huaisang broke out of Qishan, and the events that happened afterwards
~*~
Mod Kay himself here :D I published a fic this year where novel canon Lan Wangji transmigrates into the CQL-verse and saves post-canon Wei Wuxian, who struggles to keep himself alive during his lonely travels. It goes hard on the It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, but I promise there's a happy ending.
the roots
by thelastdboy (@thelastdboyy)
E, 30k, Wangxian
Summary: In one universe, Wei Wuxian had been left by the side of the road while Lan Wangji had become the Chief Cultivator. He found himself alone again, discarded and heartbroken. He also found himself to be a target again, as people started hunting the Yiling Laozu once more. He was all alone and just so fucking tired that he couldn't even bring himself to fight back. Some part of him yearned to return to the peaceful oblivion that had been death.
In another universe, Lan Wangji's world fell apart in a single day. He was forced to bury not only his son, but his husband as well. Sizhui's Wen heritage had been discovered and Wei Wuxian's past had once again inspired animosity. While Sizhui would hopefully find peace at least, Wei Wuxian's soul had been destroyed and Lan Wangji would rather destroy his own soul than never be re-united with Wei Wuxian again. However, his late husband had left him one last gift: a path into a different universe.
Or: MDZS!Lan Wangji transmigrates into the CQL-verse just in time to save post-canon CQL!Wei Wuxian. Together, they grieve and eventually, they find a home for themselves.
~*~
(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for these hard-working authors if you like – or think others might like – these stories.)
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