#Bangor line

[streetsofdublin]

GREAT VICTORIA STREET RAILWAY STATION

Great Victoria Street is a railway station serving the city centre of Belfast, Northern Ireland. It is one of two major stations in the city, along with Lanyon Place, and is one of the four stations located in the city centre, the others being Lanyon Plac

BELFAST 2016 I only visited this station once and that was in 2016 and it was not a pleasant experience because of the lack of space. According to some that I spoke with it cannot cope with demand during morning or evening rush-hour. Great Victoria Street is a railway station serving the city centre of Belfast, Northern Ireland. It is one of two major stations in the city, along with Lanyon…

[widowshill]

mrs collins arc in summary

[iww-gnv]

This is part of a series of frank accounts of the strike from Hollywood writers at different levels in their careers. I guess the AMPTP forgot the first lesson privileged parents quickly learn: Do not short-change The Nanny. Carol Lombardini did just that, and now SAG-AFTRA will strike. First, let’s rewind: The pavement was as hard as it’s ever been. The heat, unbearable. Numbers, thinning. The loneliest place on earth, the picket line by Universal’s Main Gate — where the sidewalk literally fucking ends. Paramount was all airpods and sunburns. (Some gracious restaurant handed out lemonade. God bless them.) Even the family-friendly line at Disney felt a little like a chain gang.  Not gonna lie, we knew it would be hard. But by day 72 our souls were cracking. The distant horizon of the strike loomed long and large. But then the AMPTP fucked up. Big time.  Quite possibly the stupidest exec in the business fed Deadline the most monstrous article, in which they finally let the mask slip and said the unsayable: Let the writers starve. “It’s been agreed for months,” the anonymous source confessed. The studios want to break the WGA, drag this out until the writers are “losing their homes.”   “A cruel but necessary evil” to protect their bloated, unjustified C-suite compensation. Those are real quotes. Even Marie Antoinette winced. Dumb dumb dumb dumb dumb. Writer Twitter lit up with rumors of a morning-after Zoom where screaming studio heads pointed fingers at each other. Whatever moronic flack allowed that to happen will soon be living thousands of miles from Los Angeles, probably printing up flyers offering 2-for-1 Blizzards at the Bangor, Maine, Dairy Queen. The fun, new parlor game on the picket lines this week is guessing who was dumb enough to say the quiet part out loud. But thank you, whoever you are. Because those quotes turbocharged us. They reminded every writer why we’re doing this. Why we can’t give up — and now, you better believe there is not a single writer who doubts this is possibly the most important strike in the history of our craft and our industry. Nothing unifies like a Big Bad. Nothing makes heroes like an unrelenting villain.

[aziraphales-library]

Hello dear mods!! This is kind of a random, oddly specific ask but do you have any fics where one of our lovely Ineffable Husbands uses really cheesy pickup lines?

I’m a sucker for cheesy pickup lines, and I’ve come across one or two in the wilds of ao3 and they were hilarious and adorable.

Human au/other aus or just regular Angel and Demon are perfectly fine!! Thank you!! <3

Hey! Here are some fics with pick up lines for you...

If I told you you had a nice body, would you hold it against me? by involuntaryorange (T)

After several months of mounting frustration, Crowley turns to the internet. Humans seem to have figured out relationships, he reasons; or, at least, they’ve figured out how to get into them, and that’s the part he needs help with. An hour of googling and two rather nice bottles of pinot noir later, he has a plan. a.k.a. the one where Crowley decides to try out some pick-up lines.

Did it hurt? by madlysanecatlady (T)

An exercise in shitty pickup lines.

do him! by orphan_account (T)

Crowley is an astronomer who does a side gig as a stand-up comedian on Fridays. One Friday he sets out to introduce a new segment to his routine, a bit where he makes fun of the audience's expense. Though when he's asked to make fun of a gorgeous man, he says something brash and regrets it, and then later goes to introduce himself and apologize to the kind man. - “Hello there!” Crowley said, chastising himself for being too loud when the man jumped. “Oh, hello. Er, may I help you?” The man said. “Uh, yeah. I’m Crowley.” He said, reaching his hand out to shake. “Aziraphale,” the man said, taking it. “I just wanted to apologize for making that joke, it was wrong of me to cross a boundary like that. I was simply caught in the moment and I thought you looked pretty. I didn’t mean to make you so uncomfortable that you had to run out.” Crowley said.

Wingman by writeonclara (T)

“Do you understand what will happen to you if you don’t smash your demon buddy? And since you’re”—Gabriel paused to search for the proper adjective to encompass all of Aziraphale’s Aziraphaleness, then settled on—“you, God commanded me to help you. And buddy, you need all the help you can get.” Or: Gabriel’s assigned to be wingman for Aziraphale to keep him from Falling. He’s about as good at it as you’d imagine.

The Pumpkin Patch by AppleSeeds (T)

Aziraphale visits a pumpkin patch and meets Crowley, a farmer with a fondness for cheesy seasonal pick-up lines. After a while, he starts to get the impression that Crowley might actually be flirting with him, and tries to work up the courage to reciprocate.

The Steps to Courting an Angel by ReginaPapilio (G)

Crowley entrusts his love life to a "Love Guide" upon finding it in Aziraphale's bookshop. Now he just needs to follow it until the angel is finally his, but things don't go his way that easily.

One Night In Bangor (And the World's Your Oyster) by Atalan (E)

"All right, I know I'm going to regret asking this," Aziraphale says. "What exactly does this wager entail?" Crowley grins like the cat that not only got the cream but has absconded with the entire cow. He grabs the bottle and swigs straight from it despite Aziraphale's tut of disapproval.  "The pot goes to whichever demon can get an angel into bed by the end of the evening."  AKA The Fic That Tumblr Made Me Write. Heaven and Hell share a corporate party once per millennium. This time someone's had the bright idea of issuing a challenge to the demons of Hell. Crowley has no intention of missing the opportunity; Aziraphale's just enough of a bastard to make him work for it.

- Mod D

[amtrak-official]

Which of the Current Suggested but Unfunded Routes seems the best for all of us.

[northwest-cryptid]

Mabiiji is possibly my favorite Mabinogi character challenge I've done yet, because I already have it all mapped out, I know how I'm going to pull this off; and it's very doable if I get good enough at using the skills I have.

However on the surface, if you told someone you were making a Mabinogi character who can't rank any damage skills, or skills that buff your damage (masteries/passives) beyond rank F; I think they'd feel like you're insane.

Sure he may not be a powerful warrior like the game expects him to be, but he's going to become extremely powerful in his own ways. It starts with hoeing in the ground for potatoes to scrounge up the money for a shield and being scared of white spiders, but I assure you that Mabiiji is going to cross that finish line all the same.

Not only am I doing this to prove a point, that you truly can play Mabinogi however you want. I'm also doing this because I have wanted to do a character like this for such a long time to show off the more hidden nuanced mechanics of the game.

Which is silly because there's two kinds of hidden nuanced mechanics I'm talking about, the first is stuff like how despite not saying it ANYWHERE in the game; shields have various size categories that effect their ability to buff Defense.

Small Shields reduce the total damage taken by 50%

Medium Shields reduce the total damage taken by 70%

Large Shields reduce the total damage taken by 100%

Giants (such as Mabiiji) are the only race in the game who can actually use Large Shields, which is why I made him a Giant in the first place. If I can't rank my offensive skills, then I can still make him an absolute defensive powerhouse thanks to how Defense actually works.

I also really hope to show the mechanic that:

Starting at Rank 5, surrounding players gain a defense bonus while Defense is active.

Players do not need to be in the same party.

This does not affect the user.

However, the buff range is extremely small; they must be almost on top of the Defending player to obtain the bonus.

But then you also have the hidden nuanced mechanics like, my favorite Mabinogi mechanic; wholesome interactions with strangers.

Yeah yeah okay I know this sounds cheesy and cliche, but I'm serious; one of my favorite moments from the stream is when a pair of strangers passing by saw me attempting commerce from Dunbarton to Bangor and decided they wanted to tag along to assist me.

At the time they didn't know I was streaming, nor that I was doing a challenge run; they merely saw a player running commerce and decided to lend a hand.

While I don't doubt I could have done just fine without them since I easily avoided bandits without any issue. The fact of the matter is that their assistance not only made it faster, but significantly safer for me.

While I refuse to let people outright give me overpowered items, gold, or assist directly with the run. I have nothing against organic interactions. Mabinogi is an MMORPG, and when I say you can play it however you want; a big reason as to why is because there will always be someone else who can cover your weak spot.

Mabiiji or Mabi Iji, named after the Blacksmith from Elden Ring; is going to become one hell of a crafter. Going hard on the production front is going to be my only way to supplement base stats that I'm sorely lacking, and I recognize that this means I'll not only be needing to make a lot of things; but I'll be crafting some extremely powerful items late in the run.

So I've taken to adding anyone who organically assists me on my journey, when I begin actually crafting worthwhile items they'll be among the first (as will my twitch stream audience) to be given the things I craft but may not be able to use or have need of.

This will be my way to give back to those who have been there for me, or who have supported me through some of the slower parts of the stream. As you can imagine, 4.5 hour streams of gathering and crafting and gathering and crafting; can be a bit slow at times.

So getting to stream the full experience, chatting with my audience, and generally engaging with others while I toil away at my trade; has been greatly appreciated.

[kafka-ish]

DERRY, MAINE | r.t.

richie finds out who the girl he’s been seeing is

word count: 1.1k

warnings/included: angst-ish

a/n: based off tyler the creator’s WILSHIRE. don’t know if i’m back. trying a new writing style. feedback is always nice. 

-

the sharp sound of FUCK erupts from richie’s mouth when his figure collides with another one. you’re annoyed at first, but once you see his face you’re able to keep your temper. something saccharine leaves his lips--an apology--he’s saying, Jesus dollface, if i’d known something as pretty as you were in the area, maybe i’d come here more often. now you’re blushing; wondering if you should tell him you’re not from around here. 

“god, of course not. they don’t make ‘em like you near... so where’re you from? surely a pretty face like that has a strict dad to get home to.” a lanky finger pokes the underside of your nose. if you knew richie tozier any better, you’d figure he’d be calling you a rose. but you don’t know richie. you don’t even know his name. you have to muster up the courage to ask him that, but he’s the first to cut to the chase. “what do they call a face like yours anyway? s’pose i could just call you gorgeous...sweetheart...mine” he takes extra care in saying that last one clear as day. but it’s cloudy outside--forecast calls for rain. he notices this and offers his jacket before opening the door to a record shop. 

he’s a local there; you’ve never stepped foot. he makes a bee -line for the vintage rock section and waits for you with nirvana in his hand, hendrix in the other. 

“is there something you go by?” you realize this is the first thing you’ve said other than telling him your city of residence--bangor (’shit! mom, pops, and i go down there during the winter’). you didn’t even apologize after the run -in. 

“i got the ‘rents calling me richard, but i’m richie on my off days.” 

“are you working today?” he laughs because you catch on quick.

“awh, not with you here next to me. i’d call off any day if that’s the case... hey, how ‘bout a number to go with your name?”

so you’re talking now--you and him. he asks you what things you like and if he’s on that list. he says it again, and again, and you’re at his parents’ place when he’s wondering when you guys will Just Date. 

this is the fifth time you’ve been over. the first, you watched a movie, and it would continue like that until the third. your criterion watchlist slowly deteriorates. movies are replaces for newly cultivated feelings for the person sitting next to you. he’s flipping through films like they’re playboys at the check -out lane. “i’m so tired of this french shit.” it bores him how the way intricately laced bodies don’t do it for a porn addict. “you pick.” you say okay and thirty minutes in, still no one has said anything. richie turns to you and watches your eyebrows furrow. he has that face that suggests he’ll make a move, say something. but he doesn’t. you’re the one to break the silence. 

“we don’t have to watch this.” your eyes are on his. 

“nah, baby, i want to.” but he’s still looking at you. he hasn’t checked the screen since he caught sight of the stray freckle on your cheek. you tense at this. baby was never on the list; nicknames typically vary from sweetheart or gorgeous. it’s never this intimate. there’s tension in the air that’s broken with a kiss. richie’s lips are on yours but he doesn’t go any further than this. 

“i’m seeing someone,” you say, quick. richie’s face falls for eternity. his heart was just pushed off a cliff. 

“shit, i had no idea.” 

“it’s fine. it’s not serious.” but it’s serious to him. his heart just got seriously broken in the matter of minutes. seconds. milliseconds. “i’m into you, though.” these words got him smirking. his curls bounce in a bliss. “i’m into you, too.” 

you still keep up, showing up at his place on the regular. it’s down -low and you were skeptical at first, but now it feels normal. you’re wearing his shirt and his hand holds yours. 

eddie gets on him for missing two game nights in a row. but richie doesn’t care because he’d rather be here, next to you, than here having conversations about the color of bill’s new girl’s underwear. 

denbrough’s got a new girl. it’s all he’s been talking about for the past few months. she’s great. everything about her’s got him hooked. she’s his bait. her lips are the most perfect shade of red and she kisses like she knows how to. she’s got these big eyes that look great especially when--

“yeah that’s enough. thank you.” 

stan mumbles something under his breath about how she’s probably just average and this is just the first time bill got a girl in his pants. 

none of the losers have ever met her until the next game night. ben made a comment about how he hasn’t seen richie in forever, It seems. and eddie goes on about how he’s been ditching the gang; You’re a traitor. 

“in my defense, i had a hot date.” not actual date. but they would get dinner, he would pay, and his eyes would linger on lips. his fingers itching to feel that warm graze. 

“yeah right.” / “what does she look like?” / “did you get to third base?”

richie’s friends become a crowd; asking what she looks like; is she a good kisser; do you think you’ll bring her? 

but she’s already been brought. you and bill enter together. richie’s jaw drops. 

a whistle; eddie’s mouth a circle. your dress is tight; it hugs your hips just right, and falls just above the knees leaving little for bill and his friends’ imagination. 

fuck, bill, how’d you score one like that? is what richie would’ve said if he weren’t stunned with silence and it hadn’t come out of stan’s mouth instead. and bill doesn’t know whether to be flattered or to punch the boy he calls a friend. ‘nice one’ is the line he opts for instead. 

“how ‘bout another round?” richie’s already dealing out the deck conscientiously--his strategy so he doesn’t have to make eye contacr with the girl he had his arm around last week.

“you got a sadistic streak, tozier,” says eddie confidently, who wins that round later.

it’s later when richie calls and you answer as you’ve been doing regularly: “hello?” you answer in the nonchalant voice that he loves to hear and it takes him all the restraint he can muster to stop himself from walking out that door. 

“hey.” his heart pangs and around his throat snakes an invisible chain cutting off any ability he once had to breathe. 

“richie!” you say, as if it never occurred to you why the phone was ringing in the first place, that you were bill’s date. your finger coils around the landline wire. your lips fold and bite into a smirk. richie hears your breath smiling from the other line. richie, with his sharp intuition, knows. 

the phone clicks goodbye. 

[tortoisesshells]

Writing Patterns

Tagged by @jomiddlemarch - thank you, kind friend!

Rules: list the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern.

1. “Miss Winters,” said Jeremiah Collins, stepping out of the night into the gloom of her lamp: he had a half-shuttered lantern of his own in one hand, and a bundle of heavy wool in the other. 2. It had been late when they left the Cushings’ party; it was later, now. 3. In stretches of silence, along the long dark road from Bangor, she had had the strange sense of being alone in the world – that it was only Roger Collins and her left alive, and all the rest had gone. 4. “Spenser, from our Chaplain? Has Holy Scripture been exhausted already?” 5. Things change in Collinsport, Joe Haskell believes – the weather, hourly; Carolyn’s moods, the same – the tides, the light, the seasons. 6. There had been noise – now there wasn’t. 7. “Captain –” an embarrassed cough, trailing into an equally uncomfortable silence; the tall, grim being (thing, some part of Elizabeth Swann thought unkindly) that had been James Norrington in life bowed, and settled on formality. 8. Her mother died twice. 9. Victoria Winters woke thinking of what she had gone to bed dwelling on: that her best handkerchief was missing, and she’d lost it in the dining room of the Collinsport Inn of all places. 10. “It’s unusual, that’s all I’m saying,” said one of the men at the oars to another, shivering.

I tend to do a lot of scene-setting, I think? Not as much as I used to, maybe. I have two starting lines under 10 words, which is possibly a sign of the end times? Collinsport gets namechecked twice, which I suppose is: have I mentioned we're in (fictional) Maine recently? we're in Maine.

Tagging: @boltlightning, @enchi-elm, @kazoobreakdown, @fatherramiro, @admiraleyk, @foolishpsychopomp, @itsalongwaytotipperary, @sagiow, @starsuncounted, @shoshiwrites, and you, tumblr denizen reading this!

[jovialtorchlight]

Ballad of Johnny Kidd

My name is Johnny Kidd. I’m a bad, bad man. I’m cold, on the verge of death, stumbling through a fierce winter storm somewhere just North of Bangor, Maine, a bullet lodged in my thigh. I was following an old logging road out of the deep woods. I got lost, trailing spurts of blood like a breadcrumb trail. I see it; a tiny flicker of light through the lashing white snow. The cabin. I pound on the door. 

“Mister! Please, it’s so cold out here! Please, let me in! I’ll…I’ll freeze to death!”

An old man unlatches the door; I practically fall into the cabin, legs giving out, trembling. He’s walking towards the fire, doesn’t offer to help me up. Doesn’t even look at me. I think shit, I’m bleeding all over his floor, but the bleeding has stopped. 

“Strip to your birthday suit, right there in the mudroom. Hang it up. It’ll dry.  Don’t be bashful, kid. I won’t peek. Got a pair of long johns hanging on the coat rack. Once you put them on, grab the folded blanket, wrap yourself in it tight,” he says. 

I follow his directions. 

“You’re a real kind person, mister. Thank you,” I said, ambling towards a chair by the fire. 

“Kindness has nothing to do with it. Just don’t want to see anyone else freeze to death on this mountain path. Hard times claim enough good folk around these parts. Don’t need to lose anyone else,” he said, staring into the crackling flames. 

            Goodness has nothing to do with it, I think. I’m naked under the blanket, ‘cept for a sawnoff shotgun strapped to my back. 

“I really owe you my life, sir. I can already feel my bones warming. Blood thawing out.” 

“Any frostbite?” the old man asks. I looked down. I was already toasty. Fingers and toes looked fine. 

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“Good, good. Sit. Warm yourself by the fire. Don’t have a bed in this shack, but you can sleep in the chair. Hopefully the storm will be finished by morning.”

I linger, not sitting. I’m scoping out the cabin, ready to pull the loaded gun from my back and spatter this oltimer’s brains on the wall. He doesn’t have much. It’s a bare wood cabin with cedar planks and a woodstove with rusted pots and castiron pants.

“I do appreciate it, sir. Truly. It’s a whitewash out there. Any longer, the snow would have swallowed me completely. My company wouldn’t have found me until the spring thaw.”

The old man doesn’t break eyecontact with the fire. He chuckles. 

“Company. You mean your gang of bank robbers?”

My hand moves to the gun. I’m about ready to end this foolishness.

“Sir, what do you mean?  I work cutting trees.”

The old man’s voice drips with contempt. 

“No you don’t. You’re a much better shot than you are a liar. You’re Johnny Kidd.”

I drop the blanket, naked. I draw the gun from my back. The Old Man doesn’t flinch. 

“Damn. Nothin’ gets past you, old man. Move and this room gets a new coat of paint. Say, you haven’t even looked at me yet. Am I that famous? You can tell who I am just from my voice?”

“I know you, Kidd.” the old man says.

“I guess so. Have we met?”

“I’ve seen the newspaper clippings. A sheriff came by the cabin a few days ago, said your gang might be around. Wanted by the federal government, and every bumbling, whiskey drunk county sheriff this side of the Mason-Dixon line. Look. I know you got a shotgun pointed at my cranium, to your back, and I know you’ve been thinking about shooting me in the head since you first came into this cabin. But I ain’t no lawman, and I ain’t trying to collect the bounty on you…even if I could finally retire down to Rio with your blood money,” the old man says, a soliquiy into the fire.

My hand lingers over the trigger. But instead, I speak. 

“Huh. Well, you marked me pretty good, oldtimer. Most people start cowering, throwing their watches and jewlery at me  when they figure out who I am.”

For the first time, the old man turns to face me. He’s normal, saggy skin and a long gray beard.  

“Kidd, when you first came in here, you said I was a kind person. I ain’t kind.  I could plead, sure. I could beg, say I just saved your life. But that don’t matter. You’re not the type of person that responds well to kindness, are you?”

Ha. Kindness, I think.  Fuck kindness. 

“No, I reckon not. I ain’t apt to “kind” my way out of a shootout.  Kindness ain’t ever done nothing for me. Pops was kind before he was fileted in his sleep by a drunkard he let stay in the hayloft.”

“That’s why I’m here. You ain’t gonna respond to charity, kindness, or the yolk of human compassion, are you, kid?”

His tone drops into a command. 

“Look into the fire.”

I try to pull the trigger, but my finger locks. I start to move towards the fire, like I’m being pulled like a boxcar on a railine. I try to fight the movement, but I can’t. I bend down and gaze into the dancing flame. 

“What do you see?,” the old man asks. 

“Jesus, what kind of witchcraft is--”

“Answer me. What do you see?”

I saw her. The boys and I had the bank on Main Street locked down, about to grab the bags of cash, jump in and speed away to hit the next town. She came out of the washroom, unaware we had the place held down. I shot her through the neck. She choked on her blood. I meant to shoot the wall to scare the clerk into opening the vault…the bullet ricoheted..I didn’t mean to shoot her.

“I see her. Jesus, shot her through the neck. I swear to God, I didn’t mean to--”

“Course not. Is that what you tell yourself when you’re alone at night? Is her throat, ripped open, the image burned in your eyelids?” 

I collapse on the floor, holding my face in my hands. The old man stands up from his rocker for the first time. 

“I’m almost sorry for you, kid. There ain’t any other way to set you straight but raw power, right? A kind sheep is still a sheep, and you’re a wolf, right, kid? You’re a predator, ain’t you? You sink your fangs and take whatever you want from those poor fieldmice cowering in fear, right?”

“Shut up,” I sputter. I gather myself, uncrumple from the floor, stagger to my feet. 

“You’re talking real funny, sir, and I implore you to stop--”

The old man laughs, spittle flying. 

“You ain’t gonna implore me to do nothing, kid.  Like I said,  I ain’t kind. But I’m just.”

He sits down. 

I draw the gun, aim it at his temple. 

“Ha. Just. You mean, you’re an agent of justice? What are you gunna do, old man? Tie me up and take me down to the jail? Kill me? I got a gun pointed at you, but I got a sawblade in my satchel... I’m gunna have some real fun with you.”

Old man sinks back into his rocker. 

“I ain’t going to cower, kid. I’m gunna show you something. Sit. Down.”

Despite everything in my body, I sit. 

“Watch the fire.” 

Depsite every voice echoing in my mind, I gaze again into the fire. 

“A dozen lawmen are tracking you. Been following you since you killed her.  In fact, they’re closing in on your camp now. Budd’s just got pumped with lead. Big Frank’s brain is oozing out. They’re following the tracks. They’re gunna find you, kid. Rather, they’re gunna find your frozen body next to your dead horse.”

I feel the pain of freezing to death; like someone stuck my body into a pit of ice blue flame. 

“Oh my god.” All I can manage. A whimper. 

“God ain’t got nothing to do with it,”  the old man says. “Savor it. Not a lot of men get to see how they die, Johnny.  But it doesn’t have to happen like that. You got a way out, kid.”

I don’t belive him. Ain’t no way out, I’m an cornered cat and he’s a rabid dog.  

“Instead of killing me, get up, take my seat by the fire. You’ll be waiting for a while. For as long as I have. Till some other poor fool gets lost in the storm. You help them, you help them thaw out, you send them away. Keep waiting by the fire. Or, you kill me. Outside these walls, it’s just ice. Ice, snow, and death,” he says.  

“I’m dead either way, ain’t I? I’m dead right now, ain’t I?” The question flashes like an explosion. “Am I dead? Am I dead?”

The old man shakes his head.

“I can’t answer that for you. You got to make a choice, now. Before the fire dies. We’ve been in here for a good bit of time already.”

I look at him squarely. He’s not reacting. Just a dirty, saggy, weathered old face. My fists clench. I want to kill him. But I let the wave of hate roll over me, and I’m left with whatever is left in the wreckage. The old man gestures for me to pass. I sit in his rocker. I look at the flames, for a few moments, an hour, a day, a year. I don’t know. I don’t care to know. The old man is gone. 

It’s cold. Someone is pounding on the door. 

“It’s freezing out here,” someone calls from outside. “You gotta help me, Mister!”

I don’t look up. 

“Come in. Door’s unlocked. Mind you don’t track in too much snow.”

[emmashouldbewriting]

What would you like to see William specifically do better when it comes to Wales? For me it’s just spending more time there, I think Charles’s ‘Wales week’ was a brilliant thing for example. He doesn’t need to do things exactly like Charles, but some things could be worth continuing.

Overall I’m a bit concerned about the cultural life when it comes to William. He doesn’t seem to care for the arts at all, and idk, I can see issues there in the future unless Catherine takes the rains on that. And looking wider it’s long past time for William to take on some official roles in the Commonwealth realms. Nothing against Sophie, but why does she have better ties to the Canadian military than William does for example?

I'm prefacing this by reminding everyone I live in North Wales which is neglected politically compared to South Wales, so my opinion is probably very different from someone in Cardiff/Swansea/the Valleys etc

Which probably doesn't surprise anyone when I say: pay more attention to North Wales. We have the national zoo of Wales, we have Bangor, we have major historical castles/locations, we have culture, we're going to have one of the first two freeports in Wales. We also have a dreadful road network, the iconic Menai Bridge has been neglected to dangerous levels with a third Menai Strait crossing ruled out by the Senedd through nothing but sheer stubbornness, we have a lot of people living below the poverty line. We know they have emotional ties to the area, so they can easily promote at least Anglesey/Gwynedd under that guise. North Wales cannot exist relying on tourism forever.

[justforbooks]

Although there was never any such phenomenon as Whittakermania, Roger Whittaker, who has died aged 87, built a huge international following in a career that spanned six decades. As the Boston Globe noted of his stage performances: “No one gets high. No one gets hysterical with excitement. And yet Roger Whittaker is one of the most popular entertainers in the world.”

Whittaker’s smooth baritone voice and songs of love, loss and yearning endeared him to audiences worldwide. His best known songs, where his voice was invariably accompanied by keening strings, included 1969’s Durham Town (the Leavin’), I Don’t Believe in If Anymore (1970), which reached No 8 in the UK, The Last Farewell (1971, reissued in 1975 to become a Top 20 hit in the US and a chart-topper in 11 countries), and Wind Beneath My Wings (1982).

He also had a trademark whistling ability, which he used to perform The Skye Boat Song in a duet with Des O’Connor, reaching the UK Top 10 in 1986.

Though he did not rack up chart hits as prolifically as the Beatles or Abba, his frequent TV and live appearances made him a household name in many countries. In the mid-1980s, he was acknowledged as Germany’s most successful recording artist. He made several recordings in German, singing the lyrics phonetically since he could not speak the language.

He was never fashionable, but never out of fashion with his audience. When he recorded a song such as Green, Green Grass of Home, it lacked the drama of Tom Jones’s version and his treatment of Song Sung Blue was homelier and more avuncular than Neil Diamond’s original, but it all became Whittaker music.

He liked to say he represented the “silent majority”. He defined this as “the kind of person who when he marries becomes a parent and a taxpayer and devotes himself to bringing up his children properly – all in all, a pretty straight-down-the-line guy”.

In the 70s, when rock music was dominating the record industry, Whittaker was dropped by his label, RCA, despite the fact that he had sold several million discs. He decided to market his 1977 album, All My Best, on TV. “I was the first act to go on TV with records,” he said. All My Best sold nearly 1m copies.

Born in Nairobi, Kenya, he was the son of Vi (nee Showan) and Edward Whittaker, who had owned a grocery shop in Staffordshire, but moved to a farm near Thika after Edward sustained serious injuries in a motorcycle accident and had been advised that a hot, dry climate would aid his recuperation.

Edward developed a new grocery business, while Vi worked as a teacher. Roger, who could speak Swahili before he learned English, attended the Prince of Wales school (now Nairobi school). He had begun learning the guitar at seven.

After school, where he had sung in the choir, he was called up for national service. He was posted to the Kenya Regiment, and for two years was involved in fighting the anti-colonial Mau Mau rebels. He subsequently attended the University of Cape Town to study medicine, but after 18 months he left and trained to be a teacher.

In 1959 he moved to Britain and enrolled at Bangor University in north Wales, where he studied zoology, biochemistry and marine biology. He also began to make his first moves into music, playing gigs to earn some cash and recording songs on flexi discs distributed with the university newspaper.

These provoked interest from Fontana records, and in 1962 his first single releases were The Charge of the Light Brigade and Steel Men.

He played concerts in Northern Ireland and appeared on the Ulster TV show This and That, and his career developed with constant touring around Britain.

“I learned how to entertain in the clubs of the north-east of England, the working men’s clubs where the miners go,” he said. In 1964 he married Natalie O’Brien.

By 1968 he was touring internationally and even had a TV showcase in the Soviet Union. At the 1968 Knokke song contest in Belgium, Whittaker performed If I Were a Rich Man, from the musical Fiddler on the Roof, and his own whistling composition, Mexican Whistler, helping Britain to win the competition, and both tunes were hits in France, the Netherlands and Belgium. In 1969 he scored his first UK Top 20 hit with Durham Town (the Leavin’), which reached No 12. Its easy-listening mixture of sentimentality and nostalgia, with its mournful references to war and bereavement, was typical of Whittaker’s work.

He revisited his African background in the documentary film Roger Whittaker in Kenya: A Musical Safari (1982), and in 1986 he published his autobiography (written with his wife), So Far, So Good. Three years later, he received the news that his parents had been attacked by a gang of robbers in Kenya, leaving his father dead and his mother brutally beaten. She subsequently moved back to Britain.

Outside music, Whittaker had a shrewd eye for antiques. His collection of paintings, furniture and works of art was auctioned by Sotheby’s in 1999 for more than £1m, at the same time as he sold his Herefordshire home and moved to Essex. Latterly he lived in the south of France.

He is survived by Natalie and by their five children, Emily, Lauren, Jessica, Guy and Alexander, 12 grandchildren, two great-grandchildren and his sister, Betty.

🔔 Roger Henry Brough Whittaker, singer and songwriter, born 22 March 1936; died 13 September 2023

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[widowshill]

[lunarlegend]

you know, i actually do want to learn how to cook all sorts of things, and i think moving so far north is the perfect excuse.

where i'm from in Massachusetts, you can pretty much find any kind of restaurant for any kind of food, and all within reasonable driving distance since i'm on the coast (if you are on the coast you're automatically a straight-shot to Boston, so there is tons of stuff around)

but where i'll be moving to in Maine, i'm gonna be very limited to what i can get. there will be a couple of fast food options close-ish to me, and some local restaurants for pizza and seafood, but anything other than that my only real option is Bangor (and Bangor doesn't have everything)

so i was thinking how cool would it be if i taught myself how to make sushi. or udon. or sesame chicken. or pad thai. i could have so much fun with it. my kitchen has a lot of counter space, and i think i would genuinely have a great time mastering different cooking techniques that i didn't get to learn when i was a line cook.

it's making me really excited to finally get to expand on a hobby that i've barely been able to explore here due to how my living situation has been. i can even use fresh veggies from my own garden that i'm gonna grow, too. i can't wait.

[briansolomonauthor]

Riding the Bangor Line on Cloudy Day

We thought about traveling to Derry, but it was a dreary day and we had evening plans, so instead I suggested we take the train toward Bangor. And, no, we were not in Maine! So, Kris and I traveled from Belfast Great Victoria Street Station aboard an NI Railways train, and got off the train at Cultra to visit the Ulster Transportation Museum. The museum has some of the finest preserved railway…

[amtrak-official]

I have decided to scribble in a map of all the cities that have announced their participation in the corridor ID program in March so you can see what may happen over the next few years

Dashes are line that aren't be considered but should, red is a real line, I just can't change the color, and Montana has some plans but no other states have voiced interest in restoring the north coast Hiawatha

The current lines that are coming in the corridor I'd program if all goes well and nobody changes their mind looks to be:

Boise to Salt Lake (orange)

Downeastern extension to Bangor (yellow)

Gulf coast service(both shades of light blue)

3C+D(pink)

Madison extension(purple)

Hiawatha extension to Greenbay(dark blue)