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I've noticed that a lot of fan treatments of Fifth necromancy show them using needles and syringes for all the blood libations to the ghosties.

And yes, that would be sensible and hygienic. But this is a world where necromancers sign paperwork in blood using communal thumb spikes and consider poking their gums with a nib pen an appropriate ink replacement. And the Fifth are doing necromancy straight out of the Odyssey and issuing formal invitations for casual dinner parties. Modern efficiency is not their jam.

Abigail describes her own necromantic abilities as generalist, but aside from ghost summoning, she mentions specifically that she can "settle skin into a gash."

Maybe first aid is just a popular hobby for necromantic toffs, but it's also the sort of skill set you would develop if your ritual kit is less syringes and vials and more ye olde spring lancets and intricate knives...

The Cotard delusion, which is also commonly known as the “walking corpse syndrome,“ is an extremely rare psychiatric disorder in which the sufferer holds a delusional belief that they are genuinely dead. The disorder was named after French neurologist, Jules Cotard, whom first described this disorder.

Below is a snippet from a case study on a man whom suffered from Cotard delusion:

“[The patient’s] symptoms occurred in the context of more general feelings of unreality and being dead. In January, 1990, after his discharge from hospital in Edinburgh, his mother took him to South Africa. He was convinced that he had been taken to hell (which was confirmed by the heat), and that he had died of septicaemia (which had been a risk early in his recovery), or perhaps from AIDS (he had read a story in The Scotsman about someone with AIDS who died from septicaemia), or from an overdose of a yellow fever injection. He thought he had “borrowed my mother’s spirit to show me round hell”, and that he was asleep in Scotland.”

Happy wip Wednesday folks <3 this is a snippet of my currently untitled post-canon, hospital era fic! I wanted to really explore the gap between vegas being shot and the end credit scene.

I hope to finish it by the end of the year, lets see if I can do it🤣

Day twenty-one:

Macau had gone back to hating him. It was a routine at this point. He would hate him, then cry and lean on Pete for support, then tentatively get along with him before going back to hating him again. 

His whiplash was getting worse.

Vegas was stable, according to the doctors, though the last time they said that, he had Septicaemia. So Pete tried not to get his hopes up.

He longed for the day he would open his eyes. Even if it were to curse him out or if he were to fall straight back to sleep. At least Pete would know he was still in there. Without a sign of life, Pete was struggling to hold on. So long it had been since he had heard his voice or felt his warm hands on Pete's skin. He craved his touch like his body craved sleep. He would die without it.

Pete walked into the hospital room only to be met with an air of hostility. Macau glared at him like he had spat on his food, and Pete wished he wasn’t as tired as he was so he could do something about it. Alas, there was no will or energy left in his body to care about this sullen teenage boy’s moody behaviour.

It was lunchtime, and he had walked out of the building to the market down the street to pick up some food. There was a hesitance in him to even blink when Vegas had first been brought into the hospital, yet now he would go insane if he didn’t allow himself to leave the room at least once a day. That, and one of the nurses, June, who reminded him of his grandma, had lovingly bullied him into it. Saying that it would be good for him to leave to sleep, eat or simply go for a walk.

Pete secretly thought it was because he was annoying everyone by constantly being around. But it didn’t matter; he could grudgingly admit that leaving Vegas for a short period each day wasn’t the complete end of the world.

“Here,” he said wearily, holding out a container to Macau, “I got you lunch.” He stared at Pete’s hand for ten seconds too long before snatching it from him without so much as a thank you. Pete felt frustrated; he didn't know how to deal with this vast and overwhelming situation, and Macau wasn’t helping.

“You’re welcome,” he said pointedly, returning to his familiar seat and tucking into his own food. 

He didn’t have an appetite but had grown used to choking down meals so his body could function.

“What, you want me to thank you graciously, oh great main family bodyguard,” he sneered, a poor imitation of his brother, “thank you for doing your job and looking after me.”

Pete laughed, flat and with no humour. “My job? You think I would be here, all day, every day, handing you food and letting you shit all over me if it was my job?” Macau looked at him in silence, his expression a mixture of confusion and shock. “I’m not a main family bodyguard anymore; I resigned.”

There was a live wire in the air, sparking with electricity, and Macau was the one who held the power switch.

“Then why are you here?” He asked quietly, voice an echo of sincerity that Pete didn’t know he was capable of.

“I…” he paused, not knowing what to say. His deep feelings towards Vegas had no name; he didn’t even understand them in his own head, let alone speak them out loud, “I’m here because I want to be. I care; is that not enough?”

Macau didn’t reply.

It had to be enough. 

There wasn’t anything else left in him.

drowning as euphemism, the many mundane resurrections:

pale skin & bloodshot sclera, lacerations under dark skies,

permanent injury blistering flesh & burrowing infections;

toxic septicaemia leaking afflictions throughout infinity.

Well that was a tough winter!

After many months of constant rain there wasn’t much of the farm not deep in mud.

It was impossible not to bring what seemed to be most of that into the house, which was leaking, cold, damp and mouldy anyway.

Over half of the animals I really loved passed away this winter, including both our beautiful boys (Harry and Wynter), our original pet lamb (Lilly) and one of last years pet lambs Ffi among several others.

Then an infected tattoo combined with a new puppy and lambing toward the end of all that, together with a stretched healthcare system that is on its knees, almost reunited me with them all through septicaemia.

But then, when it does eventually start to dry up and the long sunny days replace the darkness, as I sit outside in the sunshine in a T-shirt with a nice coffee and some porridge, listening to the birds singing and watching the puppy play, the world all starts to feel a little friendlier and it’s hard not to raise a smile. 🙏😊💙

(T)

On 28th September 1928 Alexander Fleming, a Scottish researcher discovered penicillin.

Often described as a careless lab technician, Fleming returned from a two-week vacation to find that a mould had developed on an accidentally contaminated staphylococcus culture plate. Upon examination of the mould, he noticed that the culture prevented the growth of staphylococci. Staphylococcus is a bacteria that can be found normally in the nose and on the skin.

An article published by Fleming in the British Journal of Experimental Pathology in 1929 reads, “The staphylococcus colonies became transparent and were obviously undergoing lysis … the broth in which the mould had been grown at room temperature for one to two weeks had acquired marked inhibitory, bactericidal and bacteriolytic properties to many of the more common pathogenic bacteria.”

Published reports credit Fleming as saying: “One sometimes finds what one is not looking for. When I woke up just after dawn on Sept. 28, 1928, I certainly didn’t plan to revolutionize all medicine by discovering the world’s first antibiotic, or bacteria killer. But I guess that was exactly what I did.”

Though Fleming stopped studying penicillin in 1931, his research was continued and finished by Howard Flory and Ernst Chain, researchers at University of Oxford who are credited with the development of penicillin for use as a medicine in mice.

Penicillin made a difference during the first half of the 20th century. The first patient was successfully treated for streptococcal septicaemia in the United States in 1942. However, supply was limited and demand was high in the early days of penicillin.

Penicillin helped reduce the number of deaths and amputations of troops during World War II. According to records, there were only 400 million units of penicillin available during the first five months of 1943; by the time World War II ended, U.S. companies were making 650 billion units a month.

To date, penicillin has become the most widely used antibiotic in the world.

the viola player sadly well he contracted septicaemia

For archive purposes: August, 2016

Pretty much every summer since he was a little boy, the Irish actor Cillian Murphy has taken his summer holidays in Dingle, a small fishing and market town in Co Kerry. It’s a curious mix of Graham Greene’s 1930s Brighton — all colourfully painted pubs and no flashing amusement arcades — and organic restaurants and sushi bars from the cosmopolitan 21st century. It seems entirely appropriate for Murphy, 40, who can wrap a dangerous hardman from the past, like the Peaky Blinders gangster chief Tommy Shelby, in a soft cloak of contemporary vulnerability.We meet a few streets back from the front, in a pub so Irish, you’d think it was a film set. On one side, there’s the bar; on the other, a hardware store counter. He walks in as I’m trying to buy a drink and finding they don’t take debit cards. It takes a couple of seconds to recognise him. He’s slender, hunched into his denim jacket, slim legs in black jeans, a mop of hair almost covering his startling blue eyes. I explain that I’m wondering if it’s wise to drink while interviewing, and he gives a small smile. “I think it would be rude not to, don’t you?” And he buys me a Guinness.

Settling in a chair at the back of the pub, he talks about Dingle, suggesting places to hear live music. “My father’s been coming here since he was a boy, so the holiday tradition goes back a long way,” he says. It’s briefly disconcerting to be sipping a pint and chatting about family holidays with the piercing gaze and paper-slicing cheekbones of the chillingly dangerous Shelby.

When Murphy leans forward on screen, someone’s probably about to die. “He has movie-star stillness,” says Caryn Mandabach, the executive producer of Peaky Blinders. “It’s when the camera loves to stay on your face, and you can just think what the character is thinking, and it comes across. You’re born to that, you can’t learn it.“When I met him for the role of Tommy Shelby, he was so slender for a gangster, I asked how he could convey the physicality of a violent man. He leant forward, looked me in the eyes and said, ‘I’m an actor’, in such a way that I backed down instantly. There’s something in his eyes.”

In Foxy John’s pub, however, if he leans forward, it’s because he’s excited, discussing Stevie Wonder’s drumming groove or how he can’t fall asleep if he’s not listening to Radio 4, or — a favourite topic — his constant grappling to understand modern notions of masculinity.His latest movie, Anthropoid, is part of that study. It’s an unconventional war film and he plays an unconventional hero. The script is based on the true story of two Czech soldiers in the republic’s London-based army in exile during the Second World War, who were sent back to Prague by the clandestine British Special Operations Executive. Their mission was to assassinate Reinhard Heydrich, the SS officer running the Nazi-designated protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia.

The operation was successful, although luck played a significant part. Murphy’s character, Jozef Gabcik, jumped in front of Heydrich’s open-topped car and began to fire, only to find that his British-supplied Sten gun had jammed. His accomplice, Jan Kubis (played by Jamie Dornan), threw a bomb, which narrowly missed. The pair fled, assuming they had failed, not realising that Heydrich had been hit by a jagged chunk of shrapnel and would die, days later, from severe septicaemia.

Unusually for an action film, the assassination comes at roughly the halfway point. The story moves on through the destruction of entire towns in SS reprisal attacks, and the horrific torture techniques the Gestapo used to drag information from civilians suspected of helping the duo, before they’re hunted down in a church.All the time, they are battling doubts about the point of their mission. Dornan can’t bring himself to shoot a fleeing collaborator, and Murphy is consumed by guilt at having recruited local women to give the pair a convincing cover story.

“Their fear and paralysis is very relatable — they’re not presented as invincible superheroes, and that was the appeal for me,” Murphy explains. “Even though it was a small act, it had huge global repercussions. But they did not have the benefit of history to see that they did the right thing. They heard that 10,000 people had been massacred because of them. Imagine trying to live with that. Are there contemporary causes you could be that committed to, that would demand taking innocent lives? I don’t know.”He wonders what path he would have chosen, might still choose, if heroic action were demanded of him. He recently saw Force Majeure, a Swedish film that’s “like a meditation on masculinity”, he says. “This father is with his family on a skiing holiday. They’re having lunch when an avalanche roars down on the restaurant. He grabs his iPhone and runs — but the avalanche just passes over. It was dust. The mother had grabbed the two children, and they watch him walk back. For the rest of the film, they have to figure out what this has done to their family, what it’s done to him as a man and as a father.”

He gives a little shiver. How to be a father is something he’s working through carefully. His sons, Malachy and Aran, are in primary school in Ireland — Murphy and his wife of 12 years, the artist Yvonne McGuinness, recently moved back there from Kilburn, northwest London, because they wanted their boys to be Irish, to live by the sea, to know their grandparents. At the same time, he worries about protecting them from the iron casket of being an Irish man.“I’m firmly of the belief that women are the superior sex. It became apparent to me pretty early on as a young man,” he says. “Men, and particularly Irish men, project this macho facade. They still find it hard to express emotions. It’s why we’re great storytellers — it’s internalised, and it comes out through great drama or after 11 pints of stout, but it’s not the default setting. I hope my boys aren’t growing up that way.”

When he was an adolescent, emotion came via music. Both his parents were in education: his mother is a French teacher, his father a civil servant in the Irish education department. “My dad was one of those people who could pick up any instrument and play it. He’s a traditional music aficionado, so we went to a lot of sessions as kids. It was my first experience with an art form that could change you emotionally.”He rebelled against his father’s tastes, preferring the Beatles, Stevie Wonder and Van Morrison, although “by the way, I also bought a lot of terrible 1980s music... my first record was probably Europe’s The Final Countdown”. By luck, Stevie Wonder’s Superstition comes on the pub stereo, and for a moment he’s lost, recalling his days in a Frank Zappa-esque band that almost signed a five-album deal with Acid Jazz Records back in August 1996. He suddenly pauses, frozen for a second, thinking things through.

“So that’s 20 years ago this month,” he muses. “That’s the month everything in my life changed. We turned down the record deal, I failed my law exams, I met my wife and I got cast in Disco Pigs... It was the ultimate turning point.” He raises his glass and we silently toast this anniversary.

Disco Pigs, Enda Walsh’s play about a pair of strange, inseparable teens on a night out in Cork, was his first proper acting job after school and student am-dram. It was supposed to run for three weeks at an arts centre in Cork, but blew up, transferring to Dublin, then Edinburgh and London, then Europe, Australia and North America. He was on the road for 18 months and, in 2001, reprised his role for the film version. That’s where Danny Boyle saw him and cast him as a bike courier battling the zombie apocalypse in 28 Days Later — which is where Christopher Nolan saw him and cast him in Batman Begins and Inception.And on and on, until his movie-star stillness and piercing blue eyes placed him in the rare position noted by Mandabach: “He’s both a movie star and an actor, and almost no one gets to be both.”

All of which surprised him completely. “I’d never seen a zombie movie before 28 Days, so I really thought they were making a film about the problem with rage in our society.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t know it was a hit in America until Chris Nolan flew me over. To be honest, with Tommy Shelby, I saw it as a show about the generation unmade by the First World War, trying to figure out how to be a man... I’m always drawn to stories about damaged men.”By now, two pints down, I’m getting overfamiliar. He played a transgender foundling in search of a mother in Neil Jordan’s Breakfast on Pluto, in 2005, and an Irish republican soldier in Ken Loach’s The Wind That Shakes the Barley (2006). These feel like pioneering, campaigning roles, I say — and it’s as if shutters crash down behind those eyes. He suddenly becomes watchful and cautious. “It was the roles, really — I had no particular desire to bring the issue of transgender to the public,” he says carefully. “If that was a by-product, I’m really happy, but that was not the primary motivation. You have to be careful. You can annoy people by being righteous, preachy and privileged. And the IRA...” He shrugs. “I’m not going to be drawn onto that particular minefield.”

There’s a brief pause, then he starts gathering his things, heading back for dinner with the family. “Look,” he says kindly, “there are things I don’t like talking about in interviews — no one really wants an actor’s opinion. But also I’m wary of this whole thing.” He waves at the tape recorder. “Unburdening your soul in public. All my male mates are Irish, at ease with slagging each other off. Like Jamie on this movie — we slagged each other off all the time. With Irish men, slagging is code for love, but it’s never really articulated.”He still feels music is the safest place for him to feel emotion. “It’s much more instinctual than intellectual, and the words are secondary. I don’t think I cry at a song because the lyrics are so affecting. It’s generally the melody that gets me first.” He still plays guitar and writes songs. “Which makes me bad news at parties,” he says with a grin as we shake hands. “People ask me to play something, and all I’ve got is this thing I’m working on that no one’s heard of.

“Even in Dingle,” he says over his shoulder, “they don’t let you get away with self-indulgent crap like that.”

it’s going to be an absolute shitshow though, not just the fourteen year old rape victim but the mother with three children who unexpectedly falls pregnant again or the woman whose baby has already died but doctors are reluctant to help until after she develops septicaemia, we’ve been here before and it’s an absolute shitshow.

August 7th summary

We watched from 2016/01/18 p1 to 2016/01/19 p4.

Gordon suggests to Chas that he buy the other half of the pub himself. Diane doesn't find any serious prospects during the open house. Vic and Robert overhear Chrissie saying that Rakesh tried to kiss her and Vic is curious why Robert isn't bothered by it - she thinks it's because he's more interested in Aaron. Aaron follows Chas into town and sees her kissing Gordon. He begs her to break up with him, saying all he remembers about them is the two of them arguing. He agrees to give it a try but later packs a bag and asks Ed if he can go to France to stay with him for a while.

Rhona and Paddy celebrate getting through the referree stage of the adoption process. Robert comes to the scrapyard while Aaron is getting ready to leave and can immediately see that something is up. He finds the note that Aaron wrote saying that he is leaving, then Aaron collapses and Robert rushes him to A&E. Aaron tells him "my dad did this", though Robert can see that they're self-harm wounds. Aaron is diagnosed with septicaemia and Robert begs him to talk about it.

By the standards of the hapless Greek monarchy, Constantine II, the last king of the Hellenes, who has died aged 82, led a comfortable life in exile after a brief and turbulent reign. Of the seven Greek monarchs of the 19th and 20th centuries, three were deposed, one assassinated, two abdicated and one died of septicaemia after being bitten by a barbary ape in the royal gardens.

The Glücksburg monarchy was German-Danish in origin, imposed on Greece in the 1830s. During prolonged wrangling after Constantine’s deposition, the Greek government refused to give him a passport until he acknowledged that he was Mr Glücksburg, whereas he insisted he was just plain Constantine. As the last of Greece’s deposed monarchs he escaped lightly. But decades of exile in London, as one thing the Greeks did not want back from Britain, were not how he would have chosen to spend his life.

In Hampstead Garden Suburb, Constantine lived in some state – apparently supported largely by donations from Greek monarchists – and visitors were expected to address him as Your Majesty. He was included in many invitations by the British royal family, to whom, like most of Europe’s monarchies, he was related. Prince Philip was his father’s first cousin, King Charles III his second cousin and Queen Elizabeth II a third cousin, and he was a godfather to Prince William. His wife was a Danish princess, the sister of Denmark’s Queen Margrethe II, and his sister Sofía became queen of Spain. Only in Greece was he unrecognised, and he was not allowed to return to live there until 2013, long after the events that had toppled him from the throne after a military coup in 1967 and resulted in the abolition of the monarchy in Greece in 1973.

In many ways, Constantine was a victim of the vicious political infighting that has characterised Greek politics and its society for much of the period since the second world war. It perhaps needed a stronger, more experienced and more resolute approach to surmount the crises of his three-year reign than the young man in his early 20s could manage. In later life he said in an interview that he might have liked to be an actor or a journalist, but his fate was to spend his life as an ex-king, harried by Greek politicians and in turn harassing them in a prolonged legal fight for compensation for his family’s lost property, eventually through the European court of human rights.

Born in Athens, Constantine was the son of the Greek crown prince, Paul, the younger brother of King George II, and his German-born wife Princess Frederica, and was taken into exile as a baby following the Italian and then Nazi invasions of the country in 1940-41. His early years were spent first in Egypt and then in South Africa, before the family returned to Greece following the referendum that restored George to the throne in 1946. George died the following year, and Paul became king.

Constantine was educated at a private high school in Athens, modelled on the same lines as the German educationist Kurt Hahn’s principles at Gordonstoun, and afterwards attended Athens University to study law. A keen sailor, Constantine was a member of Greece’s winning sailing team at the 1960 Rome Olympics – the country’s first gold medal in nearly 50 years.

He succeeded to the throne aged 23 on his father’s death in March 1964, becoming head of state in a country that had not got over the civil war between communists and the Greek government of 1946-49, and where political tensions and divisions continued to run deep. The CIA, desperate to avoid Greece falling into communist hands, was also active in Athens. Greece was a strategic pawn between the US and the Soviet Union, each anxious to pull the country into its sphere of influence in the eastern Mediterranean. At the same time, it was attempting to modernise with social and economic reforms as an associate member and applicant to join the Common Market.

The month before Constantine came to the throne, a general election had produced a centrist – moderate, leftwing – government under George Papandreou, following 11 years of rightwing government. Within a year, relations between the king and his prime minister were breaking down. Conservative army officers were alarmed by a perceived leftwards drift among the junior ranks, who were supported by Papandreou’s Harvard-educated son Andreas. When George Papandreou announced that he would take over the defence ministry himself, Constantine refused to allow him to do so, and the government resigned. In the hiatus that followed, the king attempted to appoint a government without holding an election and was accused of acting unconstitutionally.

When elections were finally called in April 1967, the likely re-election of Papandreou was forestalled by an army coup led by colonels. Constantine initially appeared to go along with the insurgents. He argued later that he had had no choice as the palace was surrounded by army tanks, but there were also persistent suggestions that he had been urged by the American embassy to do so in order to avoid another radical government. Many Greeks and civilian politicians never forgave the king for acceding to the coup, but within months he attempted a counter-coup of his own, fleeing to loyalist troops in the northern city of Kavala that December in an attempt to create a rival military support and force the junta to resign.

The operation was poorly organised and, although the air force and navy declared their support, the army and its officers rallied to the coup leaders. Support for the king melted away within 24 hours. Fearing bloodshed if it came to a military confrontation, Constantine and his family fled into exile, first in Rome and then a few years later in London.

There was no going back for the king. The junta, led by Colonel Georgios Papadopoulos, brutally consolidated their regime using censorship, mass arrests of opponents, torture and imprisonments, and were not going to reinstate Constantine after his attempted coup. When monarchist navy officers unsuccessfully attempted to overthrow the colonels in June 1973, Papadopoulos declared the country a republic, endorsed subsequently in a plebiscite widely assumed to have been rigged.

Nonetheless, when the regime fell following the Turkish invasion of Cyprus in 1974, to be succeeded by a civilian government, a further referendum was held to determine whether the king should be restored. Constantine was not allowed to return in order to campaign on his own behalf, though he was allowed to broadcast an address from London in which he apologised for his previous errors. But his maladroit interference with the civilian governments before the coup was held against him and the outcome of the vote in December 1974 was heavily in favour of a republic: by 69% to 31%.

Thereafter, for decades, Constantine was prevented from visiting Greece except briefly and on rare occasions: for his mother’s funeral in 1981 and for an attempted holiday in 1993, when he found his yacht was constantly harried by torpedo boats and aeroplanes. The following year, the Greek government revoked his citizenship and passport and seized the royal family’s property. “The law basically said that I had to go out and acquire a name. The problem is that my family originates from Denmark and the Danish royal family haven’t got a surname,” he said, adding that Glücksburg was the name of a place not a family: “I might as well call myself Mr Kensington.”

In 2000, the court of human rights found for the king in relation to the property, though it could only order compensation, not the return of his extensive estates nor the royal palace at Tatoi and awarded him only 12m euros (around £10m), rather than the 500m he had asked for: a reduction that the Greek government counted as a triumphant vindication. It nevertheless took another two years to pay the money and, when it did so, the government took it from its extraordinary natural disasters fund rather than general reserves. In retaliation, Constantine used the money to set up a charitable foundation in the name of his wife to assist Greeks suffering from natural disasters. He said: “I feel the Greek government have acted unjustly and vindictively. They treat me sometimes as if I am their enemy – I am not the enemy. I consider it the greatest insult in the world for a Greek to be told he is not a Greek.”

Generally, while expressing a wish to be allowed to live in Greece, which was granted in 2013, Constantine seemed equable about his fate and did not attempt to regain the throne. “All I want is to have my home back and to be able to travel in and out of Greece like every other Greek. I don’t have to be in Greece as head of state. I am quite happy to be there as a private citizen,” he told the Sunday Telegraph in 2000. “Forget the past, we are a republic now. Let’s get on with the future.”

Constantine is survived by his wife, Princess Anne-Marie of Denmark, whom he married in 1964; and their three sons, Pavlos, Philippos and Nikolaos, and two daughters, Alexia and Theodora.

🔔 Constantine II, former King of Greece, born 2 June 1940; died 10 January 2023

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

sometimes i remember the "I never made that journey to Balham. So the scene in which I confess to them is invented, imagined. And, in fact, could never have happened… because Robbie Turner died of septicaemia at Bray Dunes on the first of June 1940, the last day of the evacuation… and I was never able to put things right with my sister Cecilia… because she was killed on the 15th of October, 1940 by the bomb that destroyed the gas and water mains above Balham tube station. So, my sister and Robbie were never able to have the time together they both so longed for… and deserved. Which ever since I've… ever since I've always felt I prevented. But what sense of hope or satisfaction could a reader derive from an ending like that? So in the book, I wanted to give Robbie and Cecilia what they lost out on in life. I'd like to think this isn't weakness or… evasion… but a final act of kindness. I gave them their happiness." and i go insane

Anyone else noticed this?

I really don't quite know how to formulate words to convey what I'm talking about in a way that doesn't make me sound like the most boring, shit-headed navelgazer, but, it's one of those things that, like, it's that nagging tiny bit of confusion that just won't go away, you're like waiting for that moment where you open the fridge door and suddenly just go "OH, I GET IT", but it hasn't arrived yet and it's looking less and less likely that it's ever going to happen, so, might as well send out my thoughts in the vain hope that someone can explain this to me. Still pisses me off just how much of a stupid thing to get this borderline obsessed over this is, but, man, I'm desperate.

So, like, basically everyone is familiar with the varying stages of, like, product placement in various places, and publicity stunts that every corp does from the tiniest startup to the huge giants who get sway in global politics. Like Mr. Peanut dying of septicaemia and then age regressing into a nutlet and then getting over it. The Mountain Dew-centric The Walking Dead episode. That one male BPD movie that was an elaborate commercial for Kraftwerk. The UK bread brand Hovis pivoting into beer and doing the annoying yeast connection and then getting it incorporated into the third season of Succession for all the alcoholism scenes. TF2 crossover items. It shows up in the weirdest ways, and sometimes it's "Char Aznable car" funny, sometimes it's sneaker war crimes. Gut punches and tummy ticklers.

Anyway, uh, I was with a few friends, playing the new Don't Starve Together special event. It's like a, I dunno some sort of "oh people are playing this game again, time to do a welcome back event to keep 'em coming" kind of thing, whatever, it's kind of neat, no weird season pass things just some cool largely aesthetic-only events that you can see if you frot a bush too weird. So like, I'm foraging, kind of just waiting around for everyone else to finish up with their really important thing they're doing, since I'd already finished up my chores like a handsome cherub of a boy boy, and I notice I pick up an item I haven't seen before. Some sort of junk, kind of thing you can probably refine into some basic resource, but I look at it, right? It's a can of Coca Cola. Like, unambiguously. Except, like, it doesn't say Coca Cola on it? Or even like, Coke? It just says "COLA'S" on it. That's weird, like, I heard they got this kind of brand deal, but why would they then just completely fake it for the joke, like McDoneits? And like. It's not uncommon to put references to things in item descriptions, it's cute sometimes. I read over this Coke can's description over and over again and I just can't fucking parse it. It just says, "WITH OR WITHOUT, CAN YOU TAKE IT?" It's some completely bullshit, absurd, over-the-top creepypasta "hyperrealistic blood from the eyes" type wording. Never seen it before.

So I like, look it up, boolean my DuckDuckGo searches, safe search off just in case, and it, like, takes me to just the regular old Coke website. On the front page, where they've got their current events and whatnot usually, it's just this huge diatribe about this new, "healing, feedback-responsive" re-branding effort they're doing? Which, first of all, makes no fucking sense. Like, the Pepsi UNIVERSE thing, where that one guy just went cummy about that peculiar and homely sphere, was unfathomable, but there was something comprehensible about it. And the time that the 7-Up Insurgency Split-off company made weird new flavors in celebration of their new creative freedoms like "CHERRY HELL" and "BLUE PINEAPPLE" and "CANDLEJACK SAUCE" and "TOP SHOT NASTY", a little unsettling, sure, but there have been weirder things. Like binky-inspired Victims of Communism merch you can buy to support your favorite loser and go sucksuck. "COLA'S" is just someone pretending to be excited the product, and they made it the new name of their whole company.

Whatever, I think, you know, I really don't care about what they do with their canned beverages and their skins, I won't be hocking any more or less loogies into strangers' cans while they're distracted by my long and awesome length, it really doesn't affect me. But nobody else is talking about this. It's, like, right on the website. I asked my friends, who I was gaming with in our TeamSpeak 3 polycule server (I'm not a part of any of that but like I'm cool so I get the member's pass) and they said they hadn't seen the item, so when they get back from chewing the cud I give it to them, and they pass it around like a biscuit, and they go "huh, weird". Completely reasonable reaction, the one I wish I could have had. I tell them this is apparently just the new great venture for Coke. They call me a retard, and it harms me a lot more than I made obvious because like, whatever, who cares? And I like, log onto my computer, and I send them screenshots of the Coke website. They call me a dumbass, it's fake, which humor man X account did I get this one from, when did I make this, dude we were gone for like five minutes what's your issue, you're pushing this way too hard. So I give them the link. They see it and then they go "okay". EUREKA! THANK GOD THEY UNDERSTOOD ME! WHAT WOULD I FOR MORE HAPPY!! But they kind of just leave it at that, they don't have much of an opinion about shit. That's why I'm not in the polycule, you know? Because I care.

Cut to the next day, we're not gaming anymore, I turned off your computer, I'm waking up from my new nightmare where no matter what I do I just can't stop that rat fuck Marley & Me from dying. I'm on my plane to my job at the biggest train on the country, I'm the one they let drive the train because I'm frequently the one so savant enough to track which button I have to push or lever I have to tug like a senior's pud to make the fuel squirt, the wheels whirl, the tracks widen, my fingers happen, the house on the other end of the house, and the pessengers hear my voice so I can tell them about the foods available at every station we'll be stopping at. Obviously I start my day at a train station, one of the ones at the very end, where the train is sheathed. First shift isn't until 20 minutes from now, so I'm just waddling around like a detective, get to see the guys who get paid to salivate on the walls so all the posters stick. Say hey, how're you doing, quite the weather to have, right? Yeah yeah, they say, kind of brushing me off like I'm a wasp but I slick back my wet hair and take it so cool. See the posters they're currently lubing up with tongue and buds.

It's a Coca Cola poster. An "old" one. Just completely normal. It's got "HAVE A COKE WITH THRUPPENCE" on it, like the good old days. I can hardly contain my anger. So I grab this guy by theHey guys does anyone have any recollection of this one TV show were it was, like, it wasn't Too Many Cooks, it was about these two guys where one of them was really, really huge, and the other one was about as tiny as a regular old thumbtack. I don't remember a damn thing about any of it, I'm pretty sure they just fucked around with recipes? Like one of them made a huge loaf of cake and the other one made a tiny little slab of cake instead, because he's approximately the size of a man if he were scaled exactly proportionately down to about two inches with like a ray gun or something. Heh. So like these chefs were, I think one of them could fly? I'm pretty sure it was the big guy who could fly and the small one could hop into one of his folds and travel around the world, helping people solve their cooking conundrums wherever they may end up. I don't think any of the lore of the show was all that well established in the show, they had too much action to get out of the way, it really sometimes did feel like they just, HAPPENED to show up at the place where someone gummed up their grandma's special recipe cup of spum. It really wouldn't surprise me if these charlatans were responsible for cursing all of these cooking appliances so they could engage in heroic deeds to spread their fame and famous, they really did seem like opportunists. Pinstripe personified. A real barberslop quartet.

At last, it's whatever, I'm completely spent, it's like, every single day for months and months goes like this, nobody's believing me, acting like I'm some kind of guy who cried hello, telling me like my information is at war because I'm conspiring about something stupid, it's just another day in the life of a monosexual. I'm getting the plane home and I have my check in hand, with all of those sweet, sweet dollars in my hands, the sweat from my palms is making the ink run but that's how I like it, give those thankless fuckheads at the bank something to challenge themselves with during their workday, I see them, always on my phone, looking at TEXTS, useing YOUBE. Yutube I mean. God, what would you do without me. You're kind of weird for ordering oinge juice with ice though, by the way. And your hair is dripping into my food. So, anyway, as I was saying, cokes just tugging my rump all the time with this shit. I don't wanna start going ME ME ME about everything but I'm fucking APPARENTLY the only guy in the world who knows anything about this, even though it's RIGHT FUCKING THEIR, and the COLA COMPANY, who is basicly like your teacher if you've lived in America, is just changing itself so weirdly and not even the lowest common denominator social meteor jokester is willing to go "uh, THIS just happened" about it. I can't fucking stand it, man! You can't just, do this to a guy. I'm fucking sick to my stomash. God. Oh, yeah, hey, waiter, any idea how long my mancakes will arrive? "Did I say pancakes", is that what you said? Yeah, that's what I said. Boing. Right, where was I, what are we here for... ah yeah, so like, I heard this Formula 1 thing is going well. Is that like a new thing? It seems really cool, nothing way cooler than a bunch of latex clad dudes sucking as fast as they can in big lead chambers of invisible fire. You think I could get into that? Like, I got my license when I was younger, zero points on it, I think there's no way that they can just refuse a guy fWait hold on what was that I said earli

Never look up symptoms on webmd cause now I think I have diabetes and/or chronic kidney disease

I've been convinced I'm dying of a brain tumour for the past year and also septicaemia because my blood feels weird sometimes

On the 17th November. I had MY PUENOMIA vaccination. Its one vaccine for life. I lost my mother Doreen and my Dad Vincent. To this illness I will be the first in my family ever to have the vaccination. KCAIN 💪 Pneumococcal vaccine

The pneumococcal vaccine (or 'pneumo jab' or pneumonia vaccine as it's also known) protects against pneumococcal infections.

Pneumococcal infections are caused by the bacterium Streptococcus pneumoniae and can lead to pneumonia, septicaemia (a kind of blood poisoning) and meningitis.

A pneumococcal infection can affect anyone. However, some people need the pneumococcal vaccination because they are at higher risk of complications.

People over-65 only need a single pneumococcal vaccination, which will protect for life. It is not given annually like the flu jab.