#Gold Star Award Near By Me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pocket-vvardvark · 2 months ago

Text

WIP whenever

Sorry I was dead for most of this week lmao 😭! Finishing for Christmas break has me scrambling away to turn shit in. Anyways!! I've got some Verandis stuff to share >:) this was supposed to be smut, but Verandis kept cockblocking me 😩 also I just have no idea how to write him tbh lol.

This isn't smut, but there ARE things written that are sexual in nature/allude to sex! So, just a warning!! Be safe <3

Always on the move, Angelica refused to settle down. Imagining the shock of her sister’s expressions left her stifling a chuckle between a pale palm. The novelty of mercenary work left her bored, and she was sure the affairs back home were twice as boring. No, Angelica needed a breath of fresh air; somewhere she could work at leisure with a side of temptation. Temptation being the throes of pleasure. Men or women, it mattered not, as long as it was rough.

Passing through the crowd, she recalls her latest tryst with an older mer. Shivers prick her skin with gooseflesh, a similar reaction coaxed from her body when the riding crop cracked across her bare skin. Blood rushes to her nethers, eliciting a huff at her predicament. So long ago had that elf managed to cloud her vision with stars, it had her itching for more. Nearing the man who held the deed to her newly bought house, Angelica smiles pleasantly.

“Morning, dear.” Charming others was second nature, even when it was unnecessary.

“Good morning, ma'am. I've got the deed for you, right here.” A freshly made scrap of parchment is pressed into her hands. Quickly swiping her eyes over its contents, she plops the gold pouch onto the counter when satisfied.

“Deal. No need to send anyone with me; I know the way.” Flashing another award-winning smile, she bids the Breton farewell with a sneaky kiss on the cheek. His surprised but pleased expression leaves her needy, so she blows a kiss before turning tail.

Walking through the crowd was far slower this time. Summer in Rivenspire was grueling. It was always dry, but now it’s even more so. The ground nearly rivaled that of a desert; soil cracked and lacking any ounce of moisture. Making a disgusted expression to herself, she continues on her way. The little hamlet she bought is just beyond the horizon, and little sparks of excitement well inside her. Excitement of another kind drifts through her mind. Buying property was spectacular in its own right, but that's not entirely what raised the corners of her lips. It had the perfect layout she so meticulously searched for, right beside House Ravenwatch. No one dared to set foot in the surrounding village, which was abandoned and run-down at this point. Some blood fiends stalked the area still, but what was a little danger? She looked through a lens with her string of positive thoughts. A lens of lust, she thinks, as her grin grows ever wider. House Ravenwatch was among the most dedicated researchers and investigators she’d ever known. Each member had a good heart; even if not formally introduced, her sister had told her that much. Their leader—Count Verandis Ravenwatch—was unaware of her existence. Ever the mischievous one, Angelica intended to keep it this way until she had to give up her identity. Keeping possible trysts lost in the dark of the bottomless pit that is her nature is something she’s always kept spotless. Only the best of herself was shown, and the rest needn't be spoken on. After all, no one bedded her for conversation; it was business. Delightful business, but only there to satiate her desires. Methodical in her ways, Angelica twisted things purposefully to match her narrative. Perhaps it was manipulative, but peace was a far better option than bloodshed in any matter. Angelica stands before the modest shack. It lacked in some areas, cracked, and a little more than rugged across its exterior, but it would be worth it. She would make sure of that.

Setting up shop would come after cleaning; she couldn't do with any more cobwebs after shimmying her way through them past the doorway. Divines, no wonder she got such a strange stare from the Breton who sold her this place. It was decrepit.

Working hastily, Angelica works a wet rag against a particularly stubborn stain on the floor. The pattern continued for nearly the entire day—scrubbing, washing, rinsing, and drying. Her arms ached with how much pressure she fought the grime with. Angelica stands, wiping sweat from her brow as she searches for any more grimy areas. Basking in sweet silence, she leans back against the bar. Surprisingly, the air was beginning to settle—a sign of night approaching. She moves, ending the deafening silence by her boots scraping against hardwood. Admiring her handiwork, Angelica tosses the rag into a nearby bucket she procured from storage. It plops heavily into stale water, kicking up a few droplets. Finally, she could start setting up a workstation and fill the bookshelves with tomes. With a smile, she summons a few undead from the earth. A cheap imitation of what they once were, the skeletons chatter after her commands.

“Over here, bring that tome this way, darling.” Gentle chattering and hisses fill the small abode as her summonings get to work. Sitting with one thigh over the other, Angelica watches with tired amusement. Not unlike marionettes, the skeletons hobble to and fro with haste, carrying alchemy ingredients and tomes alike. One stops near her, appearing to regard her for a moment.

“Yes?” She inquires softly, watching the hollowed sockets for a pinprick of light in acknowledgement.

With a mild-mannered bow, it bends its head downward in request. Fond laughter slips past her lips, and she has to stifle her guffaws once the skeleton inches its head only slightly upwards. The pinpricks of light narrow in its sockets, as if it's offended by her laughter.

“Oh, I didn't mean anything by it, my sweet.” She strokes the smooth, cold cranium of what was once covered in hair.

“I suppose we all crave love, hm? Even in the afterlife?” A hiss of what she assumes is agreement leaves the gaps between chattering teeth as the skeleton slumps against her hand.

The squeaking of bone against bone had become a calming sound for her. During dark hours, sometimes her research could only be fulfilled with these lovely undead by her side. Long-lost relatives, or simply those who left Nirn with unfinished business, she only raised those who allowed it. She could feel it—the bond between necromancer and undead. If you were considerate of what the dead wanted and listened with a keen ear, one could understand them. Some were young, strong, old, happy, or sad. Every spirit had unique desires, and some were even kind enough to tell her stories about mundane happenings that transpired when they walked Nirn. It was nice to not always be alone. Together, she would carry these spirits with her as long as she did good—just as she promised them.

A sharp knock brings her back to reality, accidentally knocking into an undead companion in front of her. Unfortunately, recently undead lack coordination, and it sends the poor fellow’s skull rolling further than she can catch. The door opens, and a boot stops the skull’s descent.

“Ah, my apologies if I startled you.” A smooth voice utters, strained as they bend to pick the skull up. Her gaze follows them upwards until she recognizes his face.

A strange color—rich and sunset-hued like any Altmer, but she could have sworn he was a vampire. She smiles sardonically once the illusion disperses, finding it hilarious this man believes she’s caught by a cheap parlor trick.

Wordlessly prying the skull from his cold digits, she fits it back onto her companion with a smile.

“Better?” She coos as if speaking to a child who just sustained a bruise. The skeleton bobs stiffly, exuding a faint touch of gratitude.

“You may rest.” She turns, facing squeaking bones, “All of you, get some rest. You did well, my loves.” She praises with a soft smile before snapping.

Faster than either can blink, skull and bones are whisked away by magic. Nothing could provide evidence that there were once skeletons ambling around her house, laboring to put her things away.

“A necromancer, I assume?” There’s something in his voice that suggests a distaste for her vocation. Although that was to be expected, necromancers are usually met with pitchforks and torches. She chuckles at the irony—between his condition and her profession—either of them could be met with that sort of doom.

Turning on her heel, she angles him with a coquettish smile, fingers sweetly linked in front of her.

“I don’t recall inviting you in.”

There’s a beat of silence between them, and the man appears bewildered with a twitch of his lips. Angelica reassumes her facade, busying herself once more with settling in. She grabs any strewn alchemy ingredients and files them back into their rightful jars.

“Apologies, but…I sensed a peculiar amount of magicka and decided to investigate.”

Thin brows raise in mock interest, “Ah, did you, now?”

Courteously closing the door, he steps forward with his hands neatly folded behind him.

“I do hope you aren't planning anything nefarious. Rivenspire has had enough dealings with necromancers for a good, long while, I think.”

Fitting a tome in place, she doesn't turn to face him.

“Ironic, isn't it? That someone like you would be afraid of a necromancer.” Confusion overtakes his wary expression, mouth subtly pulled in a neutral line.

“And what exactly is someone like me?”

She shakes her head with a chuckle. “A vampire.”

Every person he’d met had been so easily fooled by his illusion. As a necromancer, she already possessed some measure of ability with magicka, but it cannot be of a dubious quality if she can see through his disguise so easily. He was ancient even by Altmer standards and had a much better grasp of magic than any younger man or Mer. The woman standing before him—grinning proudly—clearly knew more than she was leading him to believe.

“I would refute that claim, but I have this distinct feeling you aren't bluffing.” Tilting his head, he regards her with the utmost interest.

“Mm, very smart of you!” She exclaims with mock praise, craning her head with a playful squint.

“Go on, then… shed that pitiful disguise.” Her eyes darken. “I want to see those crimson eyes of yours. I hear the women go mad with want for them.”

Off it goes, peeling from his body like a second skin. The illusion fades, leaving only pale flesh, tired eyes, and beautifully carmine orbs. Gods, were they beautiful. Any woman would have spread for a sight like that.

Whistling, she smirks, “Well, well, well…look at the eyes on you. Smoldering. I like it.”

“Smoldering? I’d expect any response but your own, I'm afraid.”

With a roll of her eyes and a shrug of her shoulders, she resumes working.

“The name’s Angelica, by the way.”

Walking forward, he pulls a tome from a bulging leather sack to slide into the bookcase in front of her.

“Count Verandis Ravenwatch.” His hand pauses when it brushes against her knuckle. It was as if a fire raged beneath her veins—she was so delectably warm. A heat he hasn’t felt in some time slowly creeps into his own flesh.

A tome is balanced against her forefinger as she slows her ministrations to scrutinize him instead. He watches as her silver eyes rove along his face, stopping briefly upon his neck, jaw, and nose. Slowly, they guide upwards to meet his own look of quiet contemplation.

Sliding the tome in, she lifts the same hand to his cheek.

She watches as his lashes flutter against her touch—nearly flinching against her smooth pads, which touch him with reverence.

The words she whispers are so quiet, yet he can hear the taint of something passionate behind them.

“Are you afraid of me, Count?”

Blinking, Verandis raises his own hand to cover hers. Caught in the tide that is her soul, the count finds himself drowning in the very depths of her longing stare.

Feeling the same longing in his chest begin to swirl from the deepest parts of him leaves Verandis perplexed. How could this woman rouse the hunger he so meticulously held down? Not even her blood was safe, he muses, as his eyes flicker to her jugular. The sweet, heady scent of liquid sustenance sings to him the finest melody. Divines, he’s losing himself so readily to a woman he only just met.

“...Forgive me.” Jerking away, Verandis stands abruptly, masking his growing desire with a shake of his robe.

Offering what she thinks is a comforting smile, Angelica drapes herself across the bar.

“Oh, don’t apologize, handsome. It’s not you, you know.”

Swaying the knee upon her crossed thighs, she procures a quaint vial full of mysterious liquid. Giving it a derisive shake, she winks.

“It’s this.” Upon further inspection, the color is reminiscent of blood, but the mystery liquid exudes such a powerful pull he’s never felt from any living being’s ichor before. It sloshes around almost like oil—viscous and heavy—unlike anything he’s ever seen.

Sighing heavily, Verandis stares pointedly. “I’ll ask again, then. What are your plans for Rivenspire?" No longer in a questioning mood, Verandis’ voice is tempered with the slightest bit of irritation.

Maintaining eye contact, Angelica pushes herself off of the leather-skinned seat beneath her shapely rear. She walks forward, heeled boots clicking faintly across wood. A wild card, her actions are far from predictable, as Angelica offers a tender touch across the count’s tense bicep. Caressing his robed arm, she offers insight into her motives.

“Don’t worry, Count, I’m not that type. I’m perfectly harmless, I swear.” Again, her words are so sweet—carefully crafted to lull him into a false sense of security. Delighted by his cautious reaction, she continues to swipe her thumb further along the expanse of his shoulder.

“I’m an alchemist and translator for the mages guild. Vampirism is a…rather interesting condition, so I decided to settle down here.” Skimming past the real reason—orchestrating a little rendezvous with herself and the count—she answers as truthfully as she can.

Their eyes meet again with an intoxicating amount of heat that nearly knocks the breath from her lungs. Excitement and temptation were the true reasons for buying this sorry excuse of a house on the outskirts of Crestshade. Tempted by the agonizing thrum of her beating heart beneath her skin, Verandis almost envisions his fangs sinking into the delicate slope of her neck. Unbidden thoughts of what type of moan she would elicit have him stepping backwards, prying her hand off his shoulder.

“Oh, Count.” She coos, brows upturned in faux concern. “I’m offering respite, darling.”

“Respite? In the form of…what, exactly?” Inquiring was probably foolish, but Verandis needed to know what this gregarious little thing was up to.

Swallowing carefully after suddenly downing the contents of the vial, she answers.

“I have the key to curing the nasty side effect you call restraint of your charming little curse.”

Crossing his arms, Verandis eyes her warily, “Even if that were the case, our souls are bound for Coldharbour. Curing any number of our ilk would agitate Molag Bal. Surely, as a necromancer, you understand how terribly risky meddling with the prince of brutality would be.

“Yes, yes, that’s but a snag in the seam.” She teases before offering honest consolation. “Look, Verandis…I truly am offering a light within the darkness. Overwhelming forces are around us nearly every waking moment—a few souls no longer tethered to Coldharbour will be the least of that overgrown imp’s worries.”

Her caricature of Molag Bal draws a chuckle out of him. “I’m sure the logistics of such delicate research are far greater than what you’re willing to tell me.” Angelica leans forward with an eager expression, forcing him to continue with what he will most likely regret.

“I do hope this is out of the goodness of your heart, Angelica. But, I suppose another alchemist and translator on the Ravenwatch’s side would be rather beneficial.”

Deciding now is probably an opportune time to leave before she can tempt him any closer, Verandis bids her farewell. Showing her teeth, she offers a flirty, little wave and a kiss.

“Bye, handsome.”

It would be too soon the next time their paths crossed.

#ok ya this is long asf sorry guys #lol idk how to write him!!#also vampirism?? does molag bal know if u get cured? does he care?? i dunnooo #missing gaps in lore im sorryyyy 😭#verandis whyyy you guys were supposed to have sex why did u run away bro?? shes only slightly insane

10 notes · View notes

niallerspayno · 2 months ago

Text

Faking It - Chapter Eleven

Masterlist

The next public appearance is a charity football match, and the atmosphere at the stadium is buzzing with excitement. Fans line the barriers, waving signs and screaming as you and the band arrive together. Cameras flash incessantly, and you can feel the weight of a thousand curious eyes on you. The headlines about you, Harry, and Liam have only escalated since the awards show, and the media frenzy is palpable.

Liam walks just ahead of you, his posture stiff, as if he’s trying to shield you from the onslaught. Harry hangs back, walking beside you with his usual calm composure, though he gives you a reassuring nudge when he notices your nerves.

Once inside the players’ lounge, the band gathers around a long table filled with snacks and drinks. The tension from the past few days lingers, but Louis seems determined to break it in his own way.

“Well, if it isn’t the star of every tabloid in the country,” Louis announces loudly, grinning as he flops onto a chair. He gestures dramatically between you, Liam, and Harry. “The love triangle of the century. It’s like a bloody soap opera!”

“Louis,” Liam mutters, his tone a warning, but Louis just smirks.

“What?” Louis says innocently. “I’m just saying, it’s impressive how you’ve managed to drag Harry into your little PR romance. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Niall snickers, taking a bite of a sandwich. “Yeah, Harry’s got a fan club all his own now. Did you see that one headline? ‘Harry Styles: The Accidental Homewrecker’? Absolute gold.”

Harry groans, dropping into a chair. “Brilliant. Exactly the legacy I was going for.”

“It’s ridiculous,” you mutter, sinking into the chair next to him. “Anyone who looks at those pictures for more than two seconds can tell nothing’s going on.”

“Apparently not,” Zayn chimes in, smirking from the other side of the table. “You and Harry have been deemed the scandal of the year. Congrats.”

You groan, dropping your head into your hands. “This is a nightmare.”

Louis leans forward, his grin widening. “Well, you could always kiss Harry at the next event. Really give the press something to talk about.”

“Louis!” Liam snaps, his face darkening.

“Oh, come on, Payno, lighten up,” Louis retorts, leaning back in his chair. “It’s not like anyone here actually believes it. Right, Harry?”

Harry holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, don’t drag me into this. I’m already in enough trouble as it is.”

Despite the teasing, you can sense the undercurrent of support from the rest of the band. It’s their way of breaking the ice, and while you appreciate the humor, you can’t ignore the tension radiating from Liam.

As the conversation continues, you glance over at him. He’s sitting at the edge of the group, arms crossed, his jaw tight. You know he hasn’t had a chance to talk to you yet, and it’s clear the weight of everything is still on his mind.

Before you can say anything, Louis speaks up again. “Alright, alright, let’s focus on the real question here. Who’s going to score the first goal today? I’ve got money on myself, obviously.”

The group dissolves into a lively debate, and for a moment, the tension eases. But as you catch Liam’s eye across the table, you know the conversation you’re dreading is still looming.

…

As the team heads out to the pitch for warmups, the chatter and teasing fades into the background. You’re hanging back, tugging at the hem of your jersey, when Liam approaches you. His expression is softer than it’s been all day, but there’s still a storm of emotions behind his eyes.

“Hey,” he says quietly, motioning toward the empty hallway leading away from the pitch. “Can we talk? Just us.”

You nod, following him down the corridor, the muffled roar of the crowd growing quieter with each step. He stops near a storage room, leaning against the wall, his hands shoved into his pockets. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just looks at you like he’s trying to find the right words.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, his voice low but steady. “For how I acted yesterday. And at the meeting. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”

You shake your head, crossing your arms as you lean against the opposite wall. “You were upset. I get it.”

“No, you don’t,” Liam says, stepping closer. “You didn’t deserve that. None of this is your fault, and I let my frustration get the better of me. I hate that you’re stuck in the middle of all this.”

You glance down, unsure how to respond. The warmth of his presence is comforting, but the weight of the unresolved tension still lingers between you.

“I hate it too,” you admit quietly. “But what I hate more is feeling like I’m losing you because of it. I don’t want this fake thing between us to ruin what we already had.”

Liam exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “That’s the thing,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “It doesn’t feel fake to me anymore. Hasn’t for a while.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and you look up at him, your heart pounding. “Liam…”

“I’ve been trying to figure it out,” he continues, his eyes searching yours. “Why seeing those photos of you and Harry got to me so much. And it’s not just because of the press or the fans or the headlines. It’s because the idea of you being with someone else…” He trails off, his voice breaking slightly. “I can’t stand it.”

You’re silent for a moment, the weight of his words settling over you. “I care about you too, Liam,” you say softly, your voice trembling. “I think I always have. But this… everything that’s happening, it’s so overwhelming. I don’t know where we stand anymore.”

Liam steps closer, the space between you almost nonexistent now. “I know it’s complicated,” he says, his voice steady despite the vulnerability in his eyes. “But I don’t want to keep pretending. Not with you.”

His hand brushes against yours, hesitant at first, as if he’s waiting for permission. When you don’t pull away, he laces his fingers with yours, his touch warm and grounding.

“Whatever this is,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, “I want to figure it out. With you. No more pretending.”

Your chest tightens, a mix of fear and hope swirling inside you. “What if it doesn’t work?”

He squeezes your hand gently, his gaze unwavering. “Then we deal with it. Together.”

Liam’s hand stays intertwined with yours, his thumb gently brushing over your knuckles. His gaze drops to your lips for a split second, and then back to your eyes, his expression soft but full of emotion.

“I mean it,” he says, his voice quieter now but no less intense. “I want this with you.”

You don’t have time to process his words before he steps even closer, his free hand reaching up to cup your cheek. The touch is tentative at first, as if he’s still giving you a chance to pull away. But when you don’t, when you lean into his touch instead, his resolve seems to strengthen.

“Liam…” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

He closes the gap between you, his lips pressing softly against yours. It’s gentle at first, almost questioning, but as you respond, your hands finding their way to his chest, the kiss deepens.

It feels like the world falls away—the noise of the crowd, the chaos of the headlines, the pressure of management—all of it disappears in the warmth of his kiss. It’s just the two of you, standing in the quiet hallway, finally breaking through the tension that’s been building for weeks.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and he lets out a shaky breath. His eyes meet yours, a mixture of relief and something deeper shining in them.

“That wasn’t pretending,” he murmurs, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips.

You can’t help but laugh softly, your own smile breaking through despite everything. “No,” you agree, your voice steady even as your heart races. “That definitely wasn’t pretending.”

His fingers linger against your cheek for a moment longer before he pulls you into a tight hug, his arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid to let go.

“Whatever happens next,” he says quietly, his voice muffled against your hair, “we’ll figure it out. Together.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you believe him.

Next chapter

#liam payne fanfiction #liam payne x reader #liam payne x y/n #one direction fanfiction #faking it fanfic

10 notes · View notes

grits-galraisedinthesouth · 2 years ago

Text

Worldwide Privacy Tour Part 2, it seems, is well underway.

"Yes, the night was pure Meghan Markle: A manufactured build-up of anticipation, a highly dramatic entrance afforded no other actual activist — Meghan climbed on stage to the Alicia Keys she-ro anthem ‘Girl on Fire’ — and then... a whole lot of nothing...This crowd was checking their watches."

"If anything, as the night dragged on and the event slipped an hour behind schedule – a sudden break announced so we could finally have dinner – the crowd bristled...Notably, not one person I spoke to nor one speaker or honoree mentioned Meghan. Not one said how exciting it was to have her there. Not one expressed the slightest curiosity at what she’d have to say."

"And this image, our renegade duchess without a palace-worthy advance team to prevent such cheap optics as the Hertz hiccup, set the tone for the evening: Fatuous, irrelevant, high on its own self-regard, all sense of purpose lost. Gloria Steinem, once the face of women’s rights, reduced to star-f***ery. It was a bizarre night."

MAUREEN CALLAHAN: Meghan's word-salad Manhattan gala appearance

She so badly wants to be the Queen of Hearts.

But, as she arrived on Tuesday night, making her grand entrance in Midtown Manhattan, sauntering past that rental-car backdrop, it was more like the Queen of Hertz.

Of course, as the world is now all too aware, Meghan Markle capped off winning a meaningless award with what we’re told was a ‘near catastrophic’, ‘two-hour’ car chase through the streets of Manhattan.

Yes, according to a spokesperson, Meghan, along with hapless Harry and mom Doria, were the subjects of a wild, impassioned hunt by the paparazzi.

Some sympathetic commentators have already made the gruesome comparisons to Princess Diana’s tragic final fate.

But to echo the statements made by New York City’s own mayor Eric Adams and the police department: Perhaps it didn’t quite happen the way it was painted.

Recollections may vary.

Naturally, their mouthpiece Omid Scobie is whining that no one from the Palace has yet reached out.

Wonder why?

One also wonders what Gloria Steinem, the 89-year-old feminist icon who chose to honor Meghan as a ‘Woman of Vision’ at Tuesday night’s Ms. Foundation Gala, must be thinking now.

After all, the car ‘chase’ debacle soon stole all the thunder from her event, which I was lucky enough to witness first-hand.

Now, it was hardly the red carpet one might expect. Hardly the pomp and circumstance of, say, a coronation.

Yet Meghan forged ahead as she always does, as if this were her crowning moment, sheathed in gold as if to symbolize a crown.

Or an Oscar statuette.

Same difference, really, if your only goal is fame. That’s our Meghan, none too subtle as ever, literally going for the gold as Harry and Doria took their positions three steps behind.

Harry may be a prince of the blood, but never forget — Meghan is The Star. Her Norma Desmond-ing is among the great spectacles of our modern age.

And this image, our renegade duchess without a palace-worthy advance team to prevent such cheap optics as the Hertz hiccup, set the tone for the evening: Fatuous, irrelevant, high on its own self-regard, all sense of purpose lost. Gloria Steinem, once the face of women’s rights, reduced to star-f***ery. It was a bizarre night.

Upon entering the Zeigfeld Ballroom, guests were asked whether they were ‘VIP’ — seems even feminist movements have their echelons — and turfed to the lobby.

My $1,500 entry-level ticket got me a hard seat with a front-row view of coat check.

After ten minutes, circumstances having changed inexplicably, the riff-raff were allowed up to the second floor.

Here were two open bars serving top-shelf liquor and the shock of post-pandemic dress code slovenliness. One unkempt guest was wearing sparkly Birkenstock sandals and a black stretchy minidress under a pink puffer jacket.

These were the VIPs?

The only recognizable person I saw was Peloton instructor Ally Love, and that’s saying something. Where were the stars? Where were the notables of the movement? The Malalas? The Fondas? The Beyoncés?

Perhaps no one was meant to outshine Meghan. Only one feminist icon was going to enter via rental car office!

Down in the ballroom, the plated salads on our banquet tables were ready waiting for us – dry, unsightly, stringy greens that resembled nothing so much as regurgitated hairballs. Notably, not one person I spoke to nor one speaker or honoree mentioned Meghan.

Not one said how exciting it was to have her there. Not one expressed the slightest curiosity at what she’d have to say.

If anything, as the night dragged on and the event slipped an hour behind schedule – a sudden break announced so we could finally have dinner – the crowd bristled.

It says something when a table of size-6 women tear into their heavily glazed steak and buttery mashed potatoes with abandon.

Yes, the night was pure Meghan Markle: A manufactured build-up of anticipation, a highly dramatic entrance afforded no other actual activist — Meghan climbed on stage to the Alicia Keys she-ro anthem ‘Girl on Fire’ — and then... a whole lot of nothing.

Verbiage and word salad that were content-free, except when speaking on her favorite subject: herself.

Here, in real time, we observed Meghan’s inability to read a room. She thanked the ‘other honorees’ without naming them.

‘Congratulations,’ she said, ‘and frankly, well deserved.’

It was all so smug and supercilious, this glorified podcaster telling these boots-on-the-ground activists — no matter what one thinks of their politics — that they had, in fact, earned their place on the same stage as the great Meghan Markle. That ‘frankly’ was so typical. It was meant to redound to Meghan’s benefit, as the lone wolf daring to speak the unspeakable.

There was the cringe-inducing humblebrag, calling her new friend Gloria ‘Glo’.

It brought to mind the forced intimacy of meeting Kate Middleton barefoot and insisting that the pair share lip gloss.

It's 'Glo' to Meghan, but Meghan is 'Duchess' to us.

‘We all bear witness,’ Meghan continued of her fellow honorees, ‘to you standing in elegance and the power of your strength.’

Huh?

This crowd was not convinced. This crowd was checking their watches. There were trains to catch, children to kiss goodnight. Alas, we were stuck with the vapidity of La Markle.

Her speech didn’t even deliver fresh content! She repeated the story, as told on her podcast, of poor little Meghan coming home from school to her TV dinner, cat collars and copies of Ms. Magazine strewn about courtesy of her mother — even though it’s well-documented that her father primarily raised her.

‘Having these pages in our home,’ she went on, ‘. . . signaled to me that there was so much more than the dolled-up covers and those images that you would see on the grocery store covers. It signaled to me that substance mattered.’

Says the former D-list actress and former briefcase game-show girl who used her looks to get ahead. Who has posed for those very same magazine covers.This warmed-over speech, less heated than our steaks, was Meghan’s greatest hits:

‘Change is just one action away.’

‘You can be the visionary of your own life.’

‘Daily acts of service, in kindness, in advocacy, in grace and in fairness.’

‘The imprints that were forged in my mind — I can now connect the dots in a much better way to understand how I became a young feminist and evolved into a grown activist.’

A feminist who, let us not forget, has publicly demonized her famous sister-in-law — ‘Waity Katie’ to Oprah and an audience of millions.

Kate made me cry! WAAAGH!

In truth, Meghan's a self-identified 'grown activist' who has done nothing. The pontification, her sing-song-y cadence as she luxuriated in her own praise, was as insufferable as it was revealing.

‘Ms.’ she said, ‘was formative in [my] cocooning. It piqued my curiosity, and it became the chrysalis for the woman that I would become and that I am today.’

Right: The woman who vilified the institution headed-up by Queen Elizabeth II in her final years. The woman who heavily alleged institutional racism until her husband finally backed away from that terrible smear.

A woman with no substance and no accomplishments as a feminist. A woman who is still trying to one-up the royals, even from a car-park adjacent ballroom with no red carpet. Meghan is the personification of Ms. as an organization that has lost its way.

Indeed, most of the night was spent advocating not for women but for trans rights and Critical Race Theory.

‘Abortion is racist,’ we were told.

Beware the ‘the white supremacist patriarchal system.’

Yes, even the Ms. Foundation – established for biological women out of a deep, and enduring, necessity – has been subsumed by men who identify as women.

How fitting then that the night was overshadowed by a grasping phony whose empty platitudes on stage failed to make headlines, whose spokesperson told a wild story of a high-stakes car chase.

Pity Meghan, but recognize her strength. Admire her, but never laugh at her. And never, ever question her veracity.

Worldwide Privacy Tour Part 2, it seems, is well underway.

#worldwide privacy tour #waaagh #megxit #fraud and fraudess #jussie smollett #maureen callahan #ms #gloria steinem #hertz #hertz dress #hertz so bad #sparry #word salad #low rent #participation trophies #participation awards #south park

87 notes · View notes

bangtanhoneys · 1 year ago

Text

BTS MOMENTS: OT8 - CHRISTMAS COOKIES

It was difficult to plan Christmas around being a member of BTS. Their diaries were planned to the last second, December being the worst month with performances and award shows, two members’ birthdays in between and barely getting to see your family. In the early days, there was no money to do anything, now there was no time.

Christmas was important as well. Grace had grown up in a mixed household in England where Christmas was all about spending time together, eating food, Christmas shopping and presents, and decorating the tree. Koreans did things a little differently but her mother made sure that was Christmas still the same until Grace entered the idol world.

And from there Grace had to take what time she could.

The dorm always had a tree, stuck in the corner near the large windows, decorated in a mix of red and gold. There would be a hint of Christmas in every room including the bathroom where she swapped out the towels for Christmas themed ones. Every bedroom door had a wreath hanging from it, decorated and designed to match who it belonged to.

Dinner and presents were never an option as they didn’t have time so it was always done at the company where they could spend time with staff who had given up their own Christmas’ for whatever BTS was doing.

This year, Grace was determined it was going to be different.

They had three days off where they could enjoy Christmas, albeit a little early.

She had gone into full Christmas mode - starting with her mother’s famous gingerbread cookies.

“Oh it’s started,” Jimin grinned as he came out of his bedroom, still looking half asleep as he wandered into the kitchen. “Ooh gingerbread.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Grace gently slapped his hands away from where some gingerbread cookies, shaped like stars, were chilling on the counter after being in the oven. “I’ve got plenty to make and I’ve got some decorating things if you wanna decorate them.”

“Let me call in the reinforcements then,” Jimin spun around and headed back down the hallway.

Taehyung was first, already awake and showered with a Christmas jumper on then Hobi followed soon after, pulling a ridiculous Christmas hat. They turned on the music speaker that was near the TV, putting on the classic Christmas playlist they found on Spotify.

The two of them soon cleared off the dining room table, Jimin joining them after taking a quick shower himself.

Namjoon clambered out of his room at the sound of the noise coming from the kitchen, taking one look at the chaos before grinning and soon returning dressed and ready to go.

And finally, the last three slowly crawled out of their pits to join in on the Christmas cookies. Most of the cookies went into six mouths while Seokjin and Grace took over the kitchen, getting more cookies out and starting to organise their Bangtan dinner.

It wasn’t much in terms of a Christmas weekend but it was enough for them to spend time together, Christmas cookies, dinner and movies and do nothing for three days until their manager came knocking.

#bts 8th member #bts additional member #bts eighth member #bts female member #bts fic #bts fanfiction

39 notes · View notes

changingplumbob · 11 months ago

Text

Rotation 8 Wrap-up

3 promotions: Calista, Marta, Adam

6 skills maxed: Calista 1, Aaron 2, Keira 1, Rahul 1, Bob 1

4 new house builds: York, Villareal, Pancakes, Knightstone

3 renovations: New Goth 3rd floor, Moonwood Mill Library, Reece and Samir's Dusty Murder Shack

1 recreation centre: Tartosa

1 set build: Police station

10 birthdays: Deanna, Paris, Milton, Alfred, Rillian, Onyx, Bob, Reece, Silas, Carson (I don't think I've ever had so many before)

1 birth: Viola

2 new pets: Turtle, Seven

York Household, Chapter 8

Calista got promoted and is now a Captain in the military. Aaron worked hard and maxed a couple of skills. Deanna aged up to YA and was awarded valedictorian for her graduation. She dabbled with robotics and asked her girlfriend to move in. Kelly hosted a gold level slumber party and became bracelet BFFs with Anya.

2. New Goth Household, Chapter 3

Hamlet aged up from a kitten to a cat, he and fellow cat Gertrude became companions with James. James looked after Milton who aged up to a child while Alexander and Keira worked on finishing university. Joey started in the tech guru career and woohoo'd two more women. Finally the reappearance of Marta's ex Liam almost resulted in arrest, but he couldn't keep Keira from proposing to Marta.

3. Chopra Household, Chapter 5

Cassandra got a work rival but pregnancy and the near constant need to express milk has pushed him to the back of her mind. Rahul adopted a mini goat and mini sheep and discovered he's a perfectionist. Savannah and Mercedes were busy plotting against new baby Viola who is a cautious infant.

4. Villareal Household, Chapter 5

The household moved to a new home. Devin won a starlight accolade for her acting, discovered she was self-assured and became a 4-star celebrity. Luna mostly worked from home, bonding with the twins. Alfred showed me infants can push plates and Rilian blew a million raspberries before they became toddlers.

5. Pancakes Household, Chapter 8

We found our Pancakes in Brindleton Bay. Bob aged up to an adult amid working at his food stall and chef job to become a level 2 celebrity. Eliza completed 3 out of 4 promotion requirements, and the two agreed to try for a baby once Fergus is a teen. Onyx had their birthday, joined the cheer squad and expressed the wish to have a horse. Fergus bonded with his friends.

6. Woods Household, Chapter 1

In Moonwood Mill Samir got to work trying to figure out what happened to his parents. Following an encounter in the tunnels it became clear they were killed by a werewolf, but he doesn't know why yet. Being bit he has embraced becoming a werewolf. His boyfriend Reece mainly coped with helping Samir through the chaos but did fit in a birthday and some zen time before he commits to university.

7. Knightstone Household, Chapter 8

Adam and Suzanna traveled to Sixam only to find it devoid of aliens like them. The on earth aliens decided to move out to Chestnut Ridge, an area much friendlier to their kind. Silas aged up to a music loving kid and Pollock hit many milestones as he approaches toddlerhood. Adam was promoted to a syndicated superstar.

8. Foster Household, Chapter 8

Carson aged to a teen which turned out to be more difficult than anticipated. Between discovering he has asthma and getting a detention while sitting in class, he has developed OCD. Kayleigh completed two new masterpiece paintings and started to go grey. Harvey spent time with his fishing club and caught a couple of new ones for his collection.

9. Nishidake Household, Chapter 5

Clover was spayed meaning no chance of puppies. Charlie invited her parents around to give them a break from managing Carson and reached level 5 rock climbing. Kaori talked to the mayor and his wife about purchasing a neighborhood park. This led to her seeing Kiyoshi again, who says he will buy the park and gift it to her.

I think I'm allowed to say I'm proud of keeping up with the writing despite some ick bugs and am happy for all the stories and sims I see on simblr that keep my imagination running. Thanks for tuning in everyone, adieu Rotation 8! Here's to Rotation 9!

#RotationWrapUp #Rotation8 #sims 4 #the sims #the sims 4 #sims 4 gameplay #simblr #my sims #gif warning

11 notes · View notes

doimaru · 1 year ago

Text

Swan Lake (Teaser)

pairing: ballerino!renjun + ballerina!reader genre: ballet?? competitive idk how to describe, u'll see wc: (teaser) 0.8k, (full) undecided but around 5k+ synopsis: Your first professional performance for Dream Opera Ballet is a piece you've prepared your whole life to perform. But, you didn't expect to find love on the stage, especially within an evil sorcerer. note: I'm so messy with everything I'm so so sorry!!! I also did a lot of researched while writing this piece, so hopefully it isn't too horrible to read...

It was all once a dream to you. Ever since you were younger, you immersed yourself into the art of Ballet.

“Hurry, ! We mustn't miss the show… We’re already late.” Your mom hushed into your ear. Once a ballerina herself, she had an extraordinary career before she had succumbed to old age. The theater was full, as always. You felt yourself scanning the area for too long; unfamiliar and peculiar faces were all you could see. “Don’t stare!” She warned before pulling you into a loud room. You saw the gold and red room laid out across your vision. The bright stage was adorned with a golden frame, bright yellow curves and swirls; but sadly, the real show was covered by red curtains. Taking your seat, your mother ushered the stage mannerisms into your ear; reminding you to be respectful. But, you weren’t listening. Instead, you were staring at the curtains slowly opening. As the first act started, you rolled your eyes and stared boredly at the stage, at all the men prancing around the stage with such synchronization and grace. You decided ballet was boring. It wasn’t upbeat and energetic like hip-hop, or snazzy and exciting like salsa. Your mom’s thrilled face meets your weary one, making her frown. “… Not everyone gets to see a performance like this. At least pretend to enjoy it for Mommy, okay?” She nudged you, her face serious. You sighed before nodding, slumping in your seat watching your mom’s face soften as she looked back at the stage. You stared back at the stage per your mom’s request, eyes widening as you saw a flock of thin, pale ballerinas appear in white. You scooted to the edge of your seat when you saw her. The most angelic, elegant ballerina you’ve ever laid eyes on emerges from the center of the stage. Your mom excitedly wraps her arm around you to pull you closer, “That’s Juliette Ya Zuo, amazing isn’t she?” She whispered into your ear, making you nod over and over. She was even more than amazing, you thought.

Since then, your lifelong love for Juliette Ya Zuo began. You became obsessed with how she performed, how she moved. You watched her every performance, hours of studying how she is so captivating, how to be like her. She never fails to overshadow her co-stars, what would you expect from a world-class ballerina like her? Not only was she a ballerina, but an entertainer, a performer. She lived on the cover of sports magazines and at the top of dancing awards. You want to be a ballerina too, not just a ballerina, but someone who could potentially be the next Juliette Ya Zuo. After her extraordinary performance of Swan Lake, your mom brought you to the Stage Door. “Why are so many people here, mom?” You asked her while she smiled gently. She pointed at the door as soon as it opened wide, a crew of ballerinas and ballerini exiting the stage. Fans stormed near them, holding out their programs as your mom handed hers. “Can you get an autograph from Juliette Ya Zuo for me, baby?” Your mom turns your body towards the strawberry blonde woman before pushing you forward. Slowly, you walked cautiously toward her. Up close, she was even more beautiful than you thought. You felt your heart lurch as she glanced at your childish figure, sending you a sweet smile before finishing up her conversation with a brunette teenager. She kneeled down as you sheepishly handed her your program. “Did you like the show, printsessa?” She asked, her euphonious voice tickling your ears. You nodded as she signed the program you were previously holding, and you suddenly felt the urge to tell her what you were thinking. “I want to be like you when I’m older, a good ballerina! I want to perform like you too.” You said, voice timid as she chuckled lightly. “It’s not easy to be a ballerina… But you have to persevere, only so many people can succeed.” She told you, her blue eyes softening. She gently held your hand as she spoke to you, “Become comfortable with critique, not everyone is going to be nice to you.” You listened to her carefully, smiling with acknowledgement. She looked around before leaning closer to you, whispering, “I hope to see you perform one day.”

You look at the program everyday, caressing her signature and message as you reread it again and again. The protective wrap on the program wrinkled under your touch as you reminded yourself to buy a new cover soon. Tucking it away in your tote, you lean your head against the railing of the train. The cool metal of the rail makes you forget about the pain you felt in your toes, before you snap back to reality from the ring of your phone.

Mina Coming to practice yet? Announcement of Audition Results for Dream Opera Theatre today! ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و

Your eyes bulged as soon as you saw her text, you forgot.

#nct #nct dream imagines #nct dream scenarios #nct fanfic #nct fic #nct scenarios #nct series #nct x reader #nct renjun #renjun #renjun x reader #nct dream #renjun fluff #nct teaser #idk what im doing #nct drabbles #renjun nct

31 notes · View notes

aerinis · 2 years ago

Text

A Demographic Survey of 1200 Chocobo Races

The other week I finished up the achievement for participating in 3000 chocobo races. For the last 1200 of those races, taking place over roughly a month, I took demographic data on the other players I encountered. But first, here’s a timeline of my progress:

The fastest possible race time I was able to achieve with the Super Sprint/Choco Cure III combo was 1:17:xx. This is assuming optimal conditions – zero interference from the other races, and at least one stamina-restoring item used. Assuming I solo queued into a race (which happened approximately 75% of the time), the max queue timer of 30 seconds, combined with the loading screen in and out of the race, and the forced waiting at the start and end of the race, each race lasted approximately 2 minutes and 30 seconds. This means the 1200 races took me about 50 hours of pure gameplay. My chocobo was completely maxxed out by the time I had participated in 600 races, so that’s about another 50 hours of gameplay. Those 600 early races would have been much much slower, so I can confidently say that this achievement will be at least a 120+ hour time investment.

DEMOGRAPHICS

Over the course of 22 days and 1200 races, I encountered 89 unique chocobo names. I raced against other players 342 times (this doesn’t mean 342 discrete races – several races would be against 2 or 3 additional players). Of those 89 birds, 24 (27%) were named after their coat color, 3 (3%) were a dirty joke, and 62 (70%) were miscellaneous. Surprisingly, in my 1200 races, I didn’t see a SINGLE JoJo’s Bizare Adventure reference (that I was aware of), which is strange because before I started recording data I saw Star Platinums and Stardust Crusaders constantly.

Of those 24 birds named after their coat colors, red was the most popular color. I kind of wish I had specifically recorded the color of every player’s bird, but unfortunately 1.) there’s approximately 5 billion coat colors that I don’t have memorized and 2.) I use a blue light filter at night that messes with color accuracy

Of the 89 birds, 10 (11%) had alliterative names, and 6 (7%) of them had chocobo-terminology names (i.e. wark, kweh).

Chocobo names are created by picking from hundreds of different pre-selected words from 19 categories. Colors were most popular as a first name, while the land and sky category (which includes words like comet, meteor, and proper nouns like Uranus) were the most popular as a surname. Surprisingly enough, the Eorzean category (which includes location names such as Gridanian, Sharlayan, etc) was not represented in either category.

TRIVIA BREAK

Did you know this guy here is a reference to FFVII? If you pay close attention during R300 races, you can see him riding Teioh, one of the most challenging birds in the bracket. In FFVII, he’s called Joe, and he also rides a black chocobo named Teioh. In that game however, the pair “cheats” in the sense that their racing stats will always be better than the player. While their FFXIV counterpart is quite fast, they thankfully seem to cap out at the player’s max speed.

MGP Winning first place in the R300 bracket awards you with 1,009 MGP. Assuming we go off of that 2 minutes 30 seconds race time I calculated earlier, this means that chocobo racing gives you an effective MGP of 404 MGP/min or 24,216/hr. During the course of my racing tenure (along with the daily mini Cactpot, weekly Jumbo Cactpot, weekly Fashion Report when I remembered to do it, and the frustratingly rare MGP cards from Khloe), I was able to buy every single registerable item except for the Gold Paper Parasol (200k MGP), Angel Wings (500k), and the Blackjack mount (4mill). Speaking of the mini Cactpot, I started doing it when I started chocobo racing. I’d say I did it near every single day – I have a lot of fun doing it, it’s like a little daily brain teaser – and over the course of the year I’ve gotten very close to finishing the final achievement for it. I’ve gotten 2 10,000 MGP rewards several times, but I’ve never seen a 3 streak.

In my opinion, I think chocobo racing is probably the best way to actively farm MGP if you’ve exhausted your weekly challenge log. If you run the Super Sprint/Choco Cure III build it’s incredibly hands-off and braindead. Just pop Netflix on a second screen and go to town, you don’t even have to hold W!

In conclusion, I was incredibly impressed with how in-depth the chocobo racing system was. I think the only thing I’d change about it is making it so that players could sell their chocobos in some way, either to the Gold Saucer itself or to other players as a sort of endgame. Imagine what sort of emergent gameplay we’d see if you were able to sell chocobo coverings to other players!

#ffxiv #chocobo tag

3 notes · View notes

blogger360ncislarules · 2 months ago

Text

[Dec. 3, 2024; Boston, MA] The Gold, a critically acclaimed crime drama inspired by the true story of one of the largest robberies in British history, will air on MASTERPIECE on PBS. A second season, which delves into the decades-long aftermath of the historic crime, will also air on MASTERPIECE. Produced by Tannadice Pictures and Objective Fiction, part of Objective Media, for BBC , The Gold is the latest All3Media International drama secured by MASTERPIECE, adding to titles such as All Creatures Great and Small, Van der Valk, Mrs. Wilson, Baptiste and Annika.

The first season of The Gold tells the story of the 1983 Brink’s-Mat robbery. On the 26th November 1983, six armed men broke into the Brink’s-Mat security depot near London’s Heathrow Airport, and inadvertently stumbled across gold bullion worth £26m. What started as ‘a typical Old Kent Road armed robbery’ according to detectives at the time, became a seminal event in British criminal history, remarkable not only for the scale of the theft, at the time the biggest in world history, but for its wider legacy. The disposal of the bullion led to a vast international money laundering operation, provided the dirty money that helped fuel the London Docklands property boom, united blue and white collar criminals and left controversy and murder in its wake.  Inspired by extensive research and interviews with some of those involved in the events, The Gold is a pulsating dramatization which takes a journey into a 1980s world awash with cheap money and loosened morals to tell this extraordinary and epic story for the first time in its entirety.

Following the conviction of some of those involved in the theft and handling of the Brink’s-Mat gold, the police realized that those criminals only ever had half of it. Season Two explores what happened to the other half, and the criminal fortune it created. As the police investigation continues, it becomes a tense, high-stakes journey into international money laundering and organised crime, while the police embark on dramatic manhunts as they desperately try to solve the longest and most expensive investigation in the history of the Metropolitan Police.

The Gold features a star-studded cast including Hugh Bonneville (Downton Abbey, Paddington in Peru), Jack Lowden (Slow Horses), Dominic Cooper (The Devil’s Double), Charlotte Spencer (The Duke), Emun Elliott (Guilt), Tom Cullen (Becoming Elizabeth), Stefanie Martini (The Last Kingdom) and Amanda Drew (Ellis). Season One is directed by Academy Award-winning Aneil Karia (The Long Goodbye) and Lawrence Gough (The Last Bus), and season two by Patrick Harkins (Tin Star, Guilt).

Susanne Simpson, MASTERPIECE’s Head of Scripted Content and Executive Producer commented “MASTERPIECE is thrilled to be bringing Neil Forsyth’s exceptional storytelling to our viewers with seasons one and two of The Gold .We cannot wait to showcase this thrilling tale of an epic real-life heist, featuring a stellar cast led by Hugh Bonneville, Jack Lowden, Dominic Cooper, Tom Cullen, Charlotte Spencer and Emun Elliott.”

Sally Habbershaw, EVP Americas at All3Media International, added, “It’s fantastic to see North America embracing this genuinely fascinating drama inspired by true events. With its stylish narrative, outstanding on-screen performances, and acclaimed creative team,The Gold brings this audacious heist vividly to life, revealing how the proceeds of the crime filtered through all layers of society, with far-reaching and often tragic consequences. The Gold has already proved a hit with viewers and critics alike in the UK, and we’re confident the first season and the highly anticipated second season will be just as popular on the global stage.”

The Gold is written by Neil Forsyth (Guilt; Eric, Ernie & Me) and is produced by Tannadice Pictures, the joint venture between Neil Forsyth and Objective Fiction, part of Objective Media Group, an All3Media Company.

#the gold

0 notes

thelenazavaroniarchive · 4 months ago

Text

8th October 2024.

𝐓𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟖𝐭𝐡 𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟒. Dutch newspaper Limburgsch Dagblat mentioned Lena in an article and included a photograph.

Translation:

ESSEN-GELSENKIRCHEN — Via the television screen (ZDF — ‘Die Drehscheibe’) you already received some flashes last night of the RTL festijn, the Löwenverleihung’ of Radio Luxemburg in the Grugahalle in Essen.

More than 15,000 fans followed this spectacle that LD’s show page with a few nice photos shows today. A number of well-known stars with whom I spoke afterwards at the midnight party in hotel Maritim in Gelsenkirchen, will reveal in the coming days in the Limburgs Dagblad what plans they have for the near future. THE ARTISTS who performed in Essen were: the English group MUD, the Spanish formation SANTABARBARA, BERND CLÜVER, JüRGEN MARCUS, the band of JAMES LAST, GÜNTHER KALMANN CHOIR, CHRISTIAN ANDERS, ABBA from Sweden, UDO JÜRGENS, the 10-year-old LENA ZAVARONI, GTJNTER GABRIËL, HOWARD CARPENDALE and the orchestra “Die Studiker”.

Guests were PEGGY MARCH and PETER ORLOFF.

Jochen, HELGA and RAINER HOLBE (employee of RTL and ZDF) took care of the presentation.

The artists who were awarded honorary, gold, silver and bronze lions by radio director FRANK ELSTNER were Abba, James Last, Jürgen Marcus, Christian Anders and Bernd Clüver.

Photos: Frits Widdershoven • LENA ZAVARONI. the 10-year-old Scottish who with “Ma. he’s making eyes at me” stole the show of the evening.

𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟒. At around this time Lena was in the same restaurant as ABBA but was to shy to ask them for an autograph. She was also photographed on a train which looks to be from the same time in Germany.

𝐖𝐞𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟖𝐭𝐡 𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟎. The Evening Times had an advertisement for Lena’s show at The Pavilion.

𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟖𝐭𝐡 𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟓. The Evening Times ran an article about Lena’s cousin Margaret.

𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟖𝐭𝐡 𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟗.The Hoddesdon and Broxbourne Mercury devoted three pages to news of Lena’s death.

𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟖𝐭𝐡 𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟗. Following Lena's death, The Manchester Evening News ran an article about Anorexia and Bulimia.

𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟖𝐭𝐡 𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟗. In The Daily Record, Joan Burnie said that Lena had effectively committed suicide, readers also wrote in about Lena.

Friday 8th October 1999.

The BBC reported on the inquest into Lena's death.

A photograph by Barry Bachelor of protesters outside Lena's inquest. Protesters from the Citizen's Commission on Human Rights demonstrate outside the inquest, in Cardiff, into the death of former child star Lena Zavaroni, who died from a chest infection four week's after undergoing neurosurgery for depression. * South Glamorgan coroner Dr Lawrence Addicott recorded a verdict of death by natural causes following the Scottish star's death.

8th October 2021.

The Times and The Scotsman have both reported that a new play about Lena is going to open in Greenock during March 2022.

https://www.thetimes.com/.../child-star-lena-zavaronis...

https://www.scotsman.com/.../lena-the-play-the-life-of...

𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟗𝐭𝐡 𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑. The website S A Singles Charts remembered Lena.

𝐓𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟖𝐭𝐡 𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. Theatres of Glasgow: 14 famous acts who played The Pavilion Theatre.

#lena zavaroni

0 notes

pallabhowlader · 11 months ago

Text

American author receives prestigious literary award for newest book.

Oliver Phipps, a best-selling author recently received a major accolade for his newest book, Sane Grace. Reader’s Favorite, one of the largest book review and award sites on the internet, awarded Phipps the Gold Medal in the Fiction – Visionary category. Ghost mansion please visit.

Readers’ Favorite International Book Award Contest featured thousands of contestants from over a dozen countries. Works ranged from new independent authors to New York Times best-sellers and celebrities. The contest is broken into 140+ genres, where each work is judged against others of the same category. Ghost story for more.

“It’s truly an honor to be chosen by Readers’ Favorite for such an award. I appreciate their review and want to thank not only Readers’ Favorite but those who have read and supported my work,” stated Phipps.

Phipps’ passion for writing began with his pursuit of music in the 1980s and 90s. The former Army veteran played percussion and wrote song lyrics for popular bands before eventually moving on to short stories and articles. Phipps was a world traveler and adventurer exploring areas across the globe before settling in the US and publishing his first book in 2004. Visit true ghost story for details.

Sane Grace, is a sci-fi adventure taking place in the future offering a witty main character and plot line that will keep you reading. Readers can find Sane Grace for purchase on Amazon at

People who have experienced McKamey Manor have shared truly horrifying accounts of what has allegedly taken place from near drowning and possibly being buried alive to much worse. While there is a safe word, people have claimed that it's pretty much useless and the experience isn't over until McKamey says it is. Visit real haunted house

While much of the mansion's interiors were created on soundstages, exterior shots of the mansion feature the stunning Garden District home known as The Buckner Mansion, which is located at 1410 Jackson Avenue.

In terms of scariness this film has infrequent jump scares, when they do appear they are scary (the scariest is at the beginning) the music adds creepy vibes and the ghosts themselves do have scary designs Characters are chased and axes are thrown and the hatbox ghost is menacing.

throughout haunted attractions and they will escort you out if you ask nicely. They'll also let you out if you have a panic attack and freak out. The first way just lets you keep your dignity intact.

McKamey Manor describes itself as “an extreme haunted experience” where guests are promised the most terrifying and mentally exhausting 10+ hours of their lives. No one has ever completed the experience and the longest anyone has lasted is about 1 hour. When I dug in, it didn't take me long to realize that what they had was a true story about people all around the world wanting to be the stars of their own real-life horror film. They seek out the most extreme experiences to satisfy this urge and McKamey Manor was where they all found themselves.

#GhostStory #TrueGhostStory #ghostmansion #RealHauntedHouse

0 notes

vickiabelson · 11 months ago

Text

OMG, where has George Schlatter been my whole life? I could've been a contenda!

George Schlatter relishes the accidents and has made a career and created a legacy spinning them into comedy gold. Sock it to me! Here comes the judge! Look that up in your Funk and Wagnells! It’s not everyone who creates language that becomes part of the lexicon. 25x Emmy Nominee, 3x Emmy Winner, Golden Globe WInner, Producers Guild Winner, and Directore’s Guild Man of the Year, George Schlatter is all that and so much more. A television icon, I’m beyond thrilled to have had this opportunity to chat and get to know him with y’all.

Creator and producer of Laugh-In, for that alone he should be canonized, George changed the face of television. He also created and produced Real People, produced the first 5 years of the Grammy Awards plus series and specials starring Frank Sinatra, Judy Garland, Eddie Murphy, Cher, Elton John, Bette Midler, Goldie Hawn, Liza Minnelli, Michael Jackson, Doris Day, Jonathan Winters, Richard Pryor, Shirley MacLaine, Bill Cosby, Lucille Ball, Jackie Gleason, Diana Ross, Lena Horne, Dinah Shore, Nat King Cole, Placido Domingo and scores of others. George Schlatter created and for 15 years produced the American Comedy Awards.

Most recently, George produced a comedy collection for Sirius Radio and Still Laugh-In: The Stars Celebrate for Netflix.

Besides his work in television, George has been honored for his showmanship and involvement in many charitable causes. To further his support of comedy and the people who perform it, George has become an active supporter and Board Member of the National Comedy Center in Jamestown, New York. He's donated much of his material to them and they've named their theater, The George and Jolene Brand Schlatter Theater, in his honor.

George’s book, Still Laughing: A Life in Comedy, which dropped in July, is a feast for show biz and comedy lovers. I devoured it. And he shares so many gems from it with us here, from the creation of Laugh-In, finding Goldie, Lily, Artie, Judy, Henry, Ruth, Dan, and Dick, Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr, Robin Williams, Lucy, Steve Lawrence, Judy Garland, Cher, Diana Ross, more, more, more!

We had a near-miss encounter 37 years ago when he was producing Comedy Club and I was visiting my Laughter Company Improv cohort, Bob Nelson. I didn't let him get away from me this time! Where has George Schlatter been my whole life? No matter, he's here now. And that's no accident!

George Schlatter Live on Game Changers with Vicki Abelson

Wednesday, March 6, 5 PM PT, 8 PM ET

Streamed Live on my Facebook

Replay here:

0 notes

frankterranella · 1 year ago

Text

The greatest composer you don't know

He was born Salvatore Antonio Guaragna in Brooklyn, New York in 1893. He had more than 500 songs published in his 60-year career as a composer. Unlike Irving Berlin, he wasn't primarily a Tin Pan Alley composer. Unlike Richard Rodgers, he didn't write songs for Broadway. No, this prolific musical genius wrote in near anonymity. The only way you might know him is if you searched the credits of movies such as Forty Second Street, The Harvey Girls and An Affair to Remember. Only there you will find the name Harry Warren. Harry Warren began his career in the movie business way back in 1915 with Vitagraph Motion Picture Studios. There, among his other duties, he played mood music for the actors in silent films. He later would play piano when the silent films were shown in theaters. He started working as a songwriter in the 1920s, publishing some popular novelty songs of the times such as "Rose of the Rio Grande" and Where Do You Work-a John?". When talking pictures were introduced in the late 1920s, Warren headed to Hollywood. By 1932 he was working at Warner Brothers and was assigned to write the tunes for the musical extravaganza Forty Second Street, starring Ruby Keeler, Bebe Daniels, Warner Baxter and Dick Powell. His songs (with Al Dubin providing lyrics), were the background to kaleidoscopic choreography provided by the great Busby Berkeley. Hits from this show included "Shuffle Off to Buffalo," "You're Getting to Be a Habit With Me," and the title song "Forty Second Street." Warren went on for the next nearly 50 years composing for Hollywood. He was nominated for eleven Oscars and won Oscars for "Lullaby of Broadway" (written for Gold Diggers of 1935), "You'll Never Know" (written for Hello, Frisco, Hello) and "On the Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe" (written for The Harvey Girls). But along the way, he wrote many other great songs that were in less-than-great movies. Here is just a small sampling of the hit songs Warren wrote: "I Found a Million Dollar Baby (in a Five and Ten Cent Store)" I Only Have Eyes For You" "Chattanooga Choo Choo" "She's a Latin from Manhattan" "I've Got a Gal in Kalamazoo" "September in the Rain" "Jeepers Creepers" "You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby" "I Had the Craziest Dream" "That's Amore" "There Will Never Be Another You" "At Last" "The More I See You" "You'll Never Know" This last song bears further examination. "You'll Never Know" was written for a 1943 movie called Hello, Frisco, Hello starring Alice Faye and John Payne. The movie was not a big hit, but Warren's song, with lyrics by Mack Gordon, won an Oscar. It was the only award the movie won. Mack Gordon's lyrics are especially noteworthy: You'll never know just how much I miss you You'll never know just how much I care And if I tried, I still couldn't hide my love for you You ought to know, for haven't I told you so A million or more times?

You went away and my heart went with you I speak your name in my every prayer If there is some other way to prove that I love you I swear I don't know how You'll never know if you don't know now

(You went away and my heart went with you I speak your name in my every prayer) If there is some other way to prove that I love you I swear I don't know how You'll never know if you don't know now

It was a fabulous marriage of words and music and deserved the Oscar recognition it received despite the vehicle for which it was written. Harry Warren worked almost his entire career in the film factory that was Hollywood. He was paid to write songs and was a star employee, unlike Broadway composers like Jerome Kern, Richard Rodgers and George Gershwin, who were usually their own bosses. In the words of critic William Zinsser: "The familiarity of Harry Warren's songs is matched by the anonymity of the man … he is the invisible man, his career a prime example of the oblivion that cloaked so many writers who cranked out good songs for bad movies." But his status as a cog in the Hollywood movie machine should not lessen the regard in which he should be held. He was a great artist whose songs have become classics of the Great American Songbook. They will live on and provide enjoyment for generations to come.

Harry Warren's grave includes the opening notes of "You'll Never Know (Just How Much I Miss You)"

0 notes