#The Englishman and Germany

[37sommz-archive]

✼. COME TO ITALY | 2015.

CH. 01. NOW PLAYING: dreams by the cranberries [fluff, angst]. ✼.⠀summary: prema saves michaela's career, 2.1k.

MICHAELA WAS NEVER GOOD AT SITTING STILL. Her mother used to scold her for the fidgety nature that seemed to plague the young girl when she would bounce around the doctor’s office or disrupt the teacher during storytime. Her father thought it was a good trait to have as a racer. He found it helpful that his daughter’s endless supply of energy allowed her the chance to spend many hours in their garage fixing up a broken kart or reviewing racing footage from that day. She would bounce around, spurting out corrections for her form, or her pace.

I’m breaking too late… 

too early… 

I’m much too wide…

that was a chance to overtake.

As hyperactive as she was, she was also incredibly self-critical. Her uncle always lamented she was much too focused on being perfect—in action, in talent, and in response—that she often missed her chances to celebrate. Her response was always the same, “For every single mistake I make, they give the same amount of grace to the boys on their 10th.” She reasoned that her perfection would eliminate any opportunity for the males in the sport to discredit her. 

Not that they needed much opportunity.

✼.⠀OCTOBER 20, 2015 — surrey, england

“WE CANNOT GUARANTEE YOU A SEAT FOR NEXT SEASON.” That was what the team principal told her after she fell short of the rookie cup. Second to il Predestinato and his shiny Dutch car. Though Michaela was rarely still, she stood still in that moment. Staring up at the older Englishman’s eyes as he continued on with some excuse she had no interest in hearing. 

It wasn’t until he delivered a short, “The team wishes you the best. We’re sure you’ll have your fair pick of teams to choose from next season.” 

Bullshit. 

She muttered to herself as she turned on her heels to leave without her famously permanent smile to comfort the older man. 

“I outperformed those jerkoffs in every single race,” The words stormed into the silent room as Travis, her uncle and manager, stood across from her.

Approaching her with caution, he gently reached to grab her shoulders, pulling her in for a gentle hug. Meant to calm her, but it did anything but. After a beat, Michaela tore herself away from her uncle, a sigh emitting from his chest signaling to her he was just as frustrated as she was. 

“Travis—” 

He cut her off before she could say what they were both thinking. His eyes slowly tracked her movements as she paced from one end of the room to the other. 

“Mickey, we both know that you outperformed Ryan and Gus. But let’s not pretend we don’t know what’s going on here.” 

She scoffed at that, eyes rolling with angry disbelief as her arms found their way back into their pretzel over her chest. Travis, in his stubborn wisdom, continued speaking, “This is a test—”

“A test?” 

She exclaimed, arms thrown from their place on her chest. Her head shook from one side to the other as Travis watched on with a subtle sympathy for his ambitious niece. 

“They tested me all season.” 

The words peaked in tone, hitting Travis’ ear with a sense of pain he hadn’t seen in the 15-year-old since she was back in Australia breaking the news over the phone that her father had been laid off.

“They gave me the least reliable car, they refused to protect me from the pricks who terrorized me off the track. Then, when I get a win in Germany—” 

Her lips pursed together at the memory, stopping in the middle of her words to keep herself from crying. 

“The only win between the three of us—” 

Failure finds her, tears puddled in the corners of her eyes spill over. 

“The engineers abandon me on the podium to talk strategy with the other two.”

“How many times do I need to prove that I’m just as,” Stopped to correct her words her head shook again, “...better than the boys?”

It’s Travis’ turn to fold his arms over each other. His head fell back against the door that stood behind his frame, too pained to watch Michaela fight to hold back the tears that kept flowing down the sides of her face. Their lips equally pursed as the silence filled the room once again.

This was what most of their conversations ventured into. That question of being enough tortured both of them, for admittedly different reasons, but the toll of it weighed upon their shoulders the same. It had been a question Michaela frequently asked her uncle, usually in jest, though revealing the depth of her insecurities just the same. 

They both knew Travis would eventually have to offer her an answer. 

One definitive so she would stop asking. 

But Michaela would be lying if she tried to act as if she was naively unaware of the answer Travis fought back every time the question was posed. 

She knew the answer was never. 

She knew the answer would destroy her if confirmed by the one person who believed she was better than the boys. She knew the answer would tear down every step forward she took in the name of chasing the success she so desperately craved to taste. 

So Travis didn’t answer. Neither of them was sure he ever would.

Instead, with his head pressed against the hardwood behind him, he offered up a solution. As he always did.

“We’ll call around in the morning like we always do. We’ll use every trick, every piece of leverage we have. I’m going to get you that seat. Doesn’t matter where, doesn’t matter how.”

When Michaela didn’t respond, his head broke away from its hold tipped back. His eyes met hers searching endlessly for a sliver of hope in her clouded brown eyes. The same eyes she shared with his older brother. 

“C’mon Mickey—” He coaxed in an attempt to draw an emotion out of the teenager who stood before him. Any emotion would do in that moment. “I’ll make it happen. You believe me? Right?”

It must have been nearly a minute before she broke the staring contest she held over him. She shrugged her shoulders, arms folded over to offer a sense of comfort to her pained self. 

“Yes?” Travis pushed once more, eyebrows raised in a way that reminded her of her father’s own instinctive heroism.

“Yeah.”

A nod was all he needed to cross the space over to her. With a shake of her shoulders, Michaela released the smallest of giggles. His paler hand ruffled at her curly hair, a move to diffuse the tension that hung between the two family members. 

“Right,” He exhaled as his hand retreated to its place. “Let’s get out of this shithole.”

✼.⠀NOVEMBER 05, 2015 — london, england

“In a post to her blog, Susie Wolff has announced her formal retirement from Formula One.”

-

“The prospect of a female driver on the grid.”

-

“The events at the start of this year and the current environment in F1 the way it is, it isn't going to happen."

-

IN THE FEW WEEKS SINCE HER DROP FROM JAGONYA, MICHAELA HAD NOT LEFT HER RACING SIMULATOR IF NOT TO EAT OR SLEEP. The TV directly to her left was left on Sky Sports, news within the racing world kept her both alert and melancholy.

Paradoxically, it worried Travis, and his wife, just as much as it reassured them. The duality of the feeling pulled at their emotions as they witnessed the extent of Michaela’s worries that she wasn’t—and couldn’t be—as good as the boys. That’s what most of her hyperactivity came down to. At least in their eyes.

“Michaela, love.” 

Bea’s words were as gentle as ever given the depths of her concern for the teenager. Her eyes caught the end of Michaela’s racing journal as it perched on the edge of her desk. Battered from her obsessive writings, Bea picked it up carefully to place it down carefully. 

As she turned back to her niece, Michaela’s tired eyes stared up at her, hands still gripped at the wheel of her simulator with the screen paused in wait. 

“It’s been ages since you got up.”

With a softness, her eyes conveyed the true weight behind her words. Michaela was more than aware her obsession with perfection worried her aunt, though she was unwilling to give it up. A relaxed sigh left her mouth as she rose from her chair, the simulator shutting down as Bea observed from her stance just across the room.

“Come eat, Travis has news.”

The casual words stunned Michaela more than she would be willing to relate. A knowing smile pulled at the corners of Bea’s mouth before she shrugged calmly. 

“I’m not sure what it’s about, but he was quite insistent you come down.”

Those words were all it took before Michaela rushed down the stairs, her hair flying behind her in a messy haze of brown and blonde curls, bouncing against the gravity of her run.

“Mickey?”

Travis’ voice beamed with excitement as he caught the attention of his excited niece. 

“We have a guest,” His head shook with a laugh. “Best behavior?” His pinky finger reached for Michaela’s own, an ill-fated attempt to calm her down before the unnamed guest presumably seated in their living room. 

A clear of her throat and a twist of their pinkies and Travis led her to the living room.

A full head of dark hair turned to face the overzealous 15-year-old clothed in a raggedy Lightning McQueen t-shirt. With a laugh, he stood to attention, and a hand reached out to shake hers. 

“René Rosin,” She exhaled with a breathiness that conveyed her amazement. A smile graced his features at her recognition, sure his decision had been reassured in that moment.

“I heard the Brits left you without a seat for next year.”

“Can you imagine?” She muttered, her smile never faltered despite her uncle’s clearance of his throat as a reminder of her ‘best behavior’ promise from just moments before.

“Sorry, I’m really—” 

She cut herself off as René raised a hand to signal he graced the comment. 

“When I found out, I can admit I was shocked beyond belief.” 

The team principal’s Italian accent bled beautifully into his words. Michaela almost found herself distracted by the flourishes he added to the end of his sentences as she hung on to every word he expressed to her. 

“How has your break been?”

Caught off guard by the question, Michaela shrugged her shoulders. With a nervous bite of her lip—terrified and in awe of the principal’s appearance in her living room—she chose her words wisely. 

“Unfulfilling. I miss the track.”

With a nod of his head, René exchanged a knowing glance with Travis who gently chuckled at his niece’s criticalness. 

Michaela’s mind spun at a mile a minute, an infinite number of scenarios of René’s next words ran through her consciousness. Hope was tussled with paranoia at the back of her mind. Hoping that this would be her moment of redemption but paranoid she would be put in her place once more. 

They got someone to convince me to give up.

The thought displaced her for a moment before she snapped back into reality. Her teeth chewed at the inside of her mouth and her fingers pressed into her palms. Both were nervous habits that didn’t escape Travis and Bea’s attention though they exchanged subtle smiles that completely escaped Michaela. With a gentle tap on her shoulder, Travis coaxed Michaela to stop her movement. The action reminded her to exist in the moment before her.

“How soon would you like to be back? Racing?” 

Michaela didn’t need the clarification he offered before she burst with attention.

“Tomorrow—today—I… I don’t care when. Just as soon as possible.” 

René chuckled again at her eagerness. With a clap of his hands that startled Michaela as much as it excited her, René cleared his throat.

“Then tomorrow, I’ll see you in Veneto.”

Michaela tilted her head in confusion, feeling as if she had missed a few words before the statement. 

“Sorry,” She stammered, paranoia crept back into her. “What—what do you mean? V-Veneto?”

His smile did little to calm her until his response accomplished the mission instead.

“How would you like to race for Prema in GP2?”

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[mithliya]

the idea that jewish people have no other homes and have only israel to back them serves (& served) antisemites quite a lot. it plays into the idea that hitler was right, german jewish ppl did not belong in germany and were from some other foreign land, that theyre outsiders to germany. this isn't true. german jewish people have every right, the same as any german, to be in their home (germany). it plays into the idea that all jewish people worldwide actually do not have the right to their homelands nor the right to demand a place within their homelands, because their real homeland is israel (historically known as palestine).

when zionism first came to exist as an ideology, it was a fringe ideology that most jewish people opposed for this exact reason: because it hinges on the idea that jewish people do not belong in their home countries, but rather are eternal immigrants or some sort of invaders. from 1882, georg jellinek:

The Jews have sent out their best men to fight for their recognition and equality in the European states and they have marshalled their intellectual resources in numerous writings, on the speaker's platform and in the pulpit for the lofty goal of emancipation. Have they done all this in order to abandon, in this year of 1882, everything they have achieved, to give up all they have fought for and won, to declare that they are aliens, people without a homeland or a fatherland - or, as you put it, vagrants - and, the wanderer's staff in hand, to set out for an uncertain new fatherland? No! That would mean to accept the view of our implacable foes who deny that we have any true patriotic feelings for Europe. In fact, we are not even capable of doing this. We are at home in Europe and regard ourselves as children of the lands in which we were born and raised, whose languages we speak, and whose cultures make up our intellectual substance. We are Germans, Frenchmen, Englishmen, Magyars, Italians and so forth, with every fiber of our being. We have long ceased to be true, thoroughbred Semites, and we have long ago lost the sense of Hebrew nationality.

edwin montagu in 1917, calling the balfour declaration & zionism antisemitic:

I wish to place on record my view that the policy of His Majesty's Government is anti-Semitic in result will prove a rallying ground for Anti-Semites in every country in the world... it seems to be inconceivable that Zionism should be officially recognised by the British Government, and that Mr. Balfour should be authorized to say that Palestine was to be reconstituted as the "national home of the Jewish people". I do not know what this involves, but I assume that it means... that Turks and other Mahommedans in Palestine will be regarded as foreigners, just in the same way as Jews will hereafter be treated as foreigners in every country but Palestine... I assert that there is not a Jewish nation... It is no more true to say that a Jewish Englishman and a Jewish Moor are of the same nation than it is to say that a Christian Englishman and a Christian Frenchman are of the same nation: of the same race, perhaps, traced back through the centuries - through centuries of the history of a peculiarly adaptable race... When the Jews are told that Palestine is their national home, every country will immediately desire to get rid of its Jewish citizens... I claim that the lives that British Jews have led, that the aims that they have had before them, that the part that they have played in our public life and our public institutions, have entitled them to be regarded, not as British Jews, but as Jewish Britons. I would willingly disfranchise every Zionist. I would be almost tempted to proscribe the Zionist organisation as illegal and against the national interest. But I would ask of a British Government sufficient tolerance to refuse a conclusion which makes aliens and foreigners by implication, if not at once by law, of all their Jewish fellow-citizens.... I feel that the Government are asked to be the instrument for carrying out the wishes of a Zionist organisation largely run, as my information goes, at any rate in the past, by men of enemy descent or birth, and by this means have dealt a severe blow to the liberties, position and opportunities of service of their Jewish fellow-countrymen.

balfour himself said in 1919 that zionism is

"a serious endeavor to mitigate the age-long miseries created for Western civilization by the presence in its midst of a Body [Jewish people] which it too long regarded as alien and even hostile, but which it was equally unable to expel or to absorb."

and therefore even the justification for zionism in the west was about the desire to get rid of their jewish populations, and to have a place to expel their jewish populations to.

robert gessner in 1935 even went as far as equating prominent zionists to nazis & hitler:

The Nationalist Socialists on the other hand are the Revisionists, or the Brown Nazis of Palestine. They believe in the Jewish State 100 percent, with their own Jewish army and even, I might add, a Jewish navy on the Dead Sea! The Fuehrer of the Brown Nazis in Palestine is Vladimir Jabotinsky... Today the young, sternfaced legionnaires of Jabotinsky march through the streets and wear shirts, like their nordic brothers in Germany. In Poland I had seen them marching through the streets (side streets in the ghettoes) singing "Poland for Pilsudski, Germany for Hitler. Palestine for Jews-" The Fuehrer of the Brown Shirted Legions of Judaism is in America because "Revisionism is the genuinest proletarian movement in the world in that it is the poorest." In America about one percent of the Jews are Zionists. What fraction of another one percent will donate money to the Jewish Hitler?

rabbi elmer berger in 1943:

I oppose Zionism because I deny that Jews are a nation …since the Dispersion we have not been a nation. We have belonged to every nation in the world. We have mixed our blood with all peoples. Jewish nationalism is a fabrication woven from the thinnest kinds of threads and strengthened only in those eras of human history in which reaction has been dominant and anti-Semitism in full cry.

rabbi elmer berger also outlined in his work “the jewish dilemma” how zionists held quite antisemitic views.

bevin, another british politician, said in 1946:

"There has been agitation in the United States, and particularly in New York, for 100,000 Jews to be put in Palestine. I hope I will not be misunderstood in America if I say that this was proposed by the purest of motives. They did not want too many Jews in New York."

zionism was also specifically a european, right-wing ideology. left-wing european jews did not believe in it and vehemently opposed it.

so basically, historically, zionism was a far-right ideology that was deemed antisemitic and was equatable to nazism to many jewish people, particularly leftist & communist jewish people. jewish people and non-jewish zionists alike viewed zionism as a means of removing jewish people from their countries.

its baffling that today, the argument is that opposing zionism is hating jewish people, because jewish people themselves overwhelmingly opposed zionism and saw it as antisemitic. to this day jewish anti-zionists continue to exist, yet they face extreme hatred for being against zionism, treated as self-hating traitors.

[dronescapesvideos]

The Bell XP-59-1A The first US Jet Powered Aircraft, 1942.

➤➤ JET ENGINE REVOLUTION (Documentary): https://youtu.be/KHeoTpXvYZA

Back then a short, fussy Englishman checked into downtown Boston’s Hotel Statler and made a peculiar set of demands.

After registering at the front desk (today’s Boston Park Plaza) as “Mr. Whitely,” he demanded a phone installed in his room not connected to the main switchboard. Meals must be served in his room and delivered by the same bellhop. And please, no surprise knocks on the door.

The mysterious little man was actually Frank Whittle, a 34-year-old Royal Air Force (RAF) officer, pilot, and inventor of the jet engine. Earlier in the year, he nearly suffered a nervous breakdown from exhaustion while racing to bring England, under attack from Germany, into the jet age...

[communist-manifesto-daily]

Socialism: Utopian and Scientific - Part 12

[ First | Prev | Table of Contents | Next ]

In England, the bourgeoisie never held undivided sway. Even the victory of 1832 left the landed aristocracy in almost exclusive possession of all the leading Government offices. The meekness with which the middle-class submitted to this remained inconceivable to me until the great Liberal manufacturer, Mr. W. A. Forster, in a public speech, implored the young men of Bradford to learn French, as a means to get on in the world, and quoted from his own experience how sheepish he looked when, as a Cabinet Minister, he had to move in society where French was, at least, as necessary as English! 

The fact was, the English middle-class of that time were, as a rule, quite uneducated upstarts, and could not help leaving to the aristocracy those superior Government places where other qualifications were required than mere insular narrowness and insular conceit, seasoned by business sharpness. [2] Even now the endless newspaper debates about middle-class education show that the English middle-class does not yet consider itself good enough for the best education, and looks to something more modest. Thus, even after the repeal of the Corn Laws, it appeared a matter of course that the men who had carried the day – the Cobdens, Brights, Forsters, etc. – should remain excluded from a share in the official government of the country, until 20 years afterwards a new Reform Act opened to them the door of the Cabinet. The English bourgeoisie are, up to the present day, so deeply penetrated by a sense of their social inferiority that they keep up, at their own expense and that of the nation, an ornamental caste of drones to represent the nation worthily at all State functions; and they consider themselves highly honored whenever one of themselves is found worthy of admission into this select and privileged body, manufactured, after all, by themselves.

[2] And even in business matters, the conceit of national Chauvinism is but a sorry adviser. Up to quite recently, the average English manufacturer considered it derogatory for an Englishman to speak any language but his own, and felt rather proud than otherwise of the fact that "poor devils" of foreigners settled in England and took off his hands the trouble of disposing of his products abroad. He never noticed that these foreigners, mostly Germans, thus got command of a very large part of British foreign trade, imports and exports, and that the direct foreign trade of Englishmen became limited, almost entirely, to the colonies, China, the United States, and South America. Nor did he notice that these Germans traded with other Germans abroad, who gradually organized a complete network of commercial colonies all over the world. But, when Germany, about 40 years ago [c.1850], seriously began manufacturing for export, this network served her admirably in her transformation, in so short a time, from a corn-exporting into a first-rate manufacturing country. Then, about 10 years ago, the British manufacturer got frightened, and asked his ambassadors and consuls how it was that he could no longer keep his customers together. The unanimous answer was:

You don't learn customer's language but expect him to speak your own;

You don't even try to suit your customer's wants, habits, and tastes, but expect him to conform to your English ones.

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[toastmrlord]

HAWK BOY!!!!!!!!!

First full drawing I made of him lol also had more time on my vacation to think about his story

He was born and raised in Germany, his father, an Englishman, left when he was very young so his mother raised him on her own. His mother is very kind and caring and tried to keep any danger away from Theo his whole life. He became a mothers-boy (if that is a word in English?) and never really left her side.

When he was around 19 in 1775 his father however reached out to his family, hoping to rebuild his relationship with Theo. His father suggested that Theo visited his father (and his new family) in England. Though Theo didn’t really like the idea of traveling to a new country he has never visited and didn’t speak the language of on his own, he decided to visit his father.

There things weren’t as fun for him, his father introduced Theo to his half siblings, who weren’t nice and picked on him for not speaking English, they would often make fun of the way he talks and his pronunciation of English words. His fathers new wife also didn’t think much of him, keeping her distance from him. His father tried to communicate with him frequently (he speaks some German), but couldn’t seem to really get into conversations with him. Theodor felt excluded from the world and would spend a lot of time alone. Despise his situation he would write to his mother, telling her about how great it is in England , not wanting her to worry for him.

————————

Hes still a very silly guy and when he found the right person to communicate with he would talk non-stop for hours, ignoring the fact they probably don’t understand a word he says lol.

[expatesque]

And do you know, do you know that mankind can live without the Englishman, it can live without Germany, it can live only too well without the Russian man, it can live without science, without bread, and it only cannot live without beauty...

Fyodor Dostoevsky, Demons (1872)

[hwsforeignrelations]

on the importance of rest

Word Count: 2,814 // AO3 Link

Summary: Following a long meeting between American and English naval leaders, Arthur notices the nation across the table appears unwell and resolves to help. Massages, flirting and tenderness ensues. ********

1910

“Thank you for finding the time, Admiral Wilson. It is a pleasure to finally meet you,” smiled U.S. navy’s Admiral Fredrick Dent Grant, extending his hand to the British Admiral of the Fleet Sir Arthur Wilson.

“Good afternoon, Admiral Grant. The pleasure is mine,” the two men exchanged hands and dove into discussion, behind them a brunette secretary recording away on her glossy typewriter.

Alfred F. Jones, seated amongst other present American navy officers, took a moment to appreciate both men’s impressive mustaches. Beams of light from the wide window caught the shine of petroleum jelly holding Grant’s delicately curved handlebar. The observation was enough to distract him from the fatigue of travel and the sore knots in his shoulder and back that forced his body into a rightward slant. 

An enormous portrait of Lord Horatio Nelson watched over the proceedings from his place on the wall. Every so often, Alfred watched Arthur’s gaze return to the painting, a look on the Englishman’s sharp face Alfred couldn’t name.

The nation looked very well, glowing with the health and energy of his absurdly massive empire. His perfect posture, steely green gaze, and sharp angles made him the most interesting man in the room (in Alfred’s opinion), and he had to avoid staring too long else the other took notice. 

Arthur didn’t need any grander of an ego.

The Admirality’s House in London was always a sight. Artifacts from Arthur’s prized naval victories; every room bathed in abundant natural light from tall, glittering windows shielded by artfully pleated curtains, warm wood tones, intricate engravings, expensive carpets and furniture and, most importantly, the feeling of great importance. 

Everyone in that room, uniforms fresh and starched, buttons and shoes polished to a shine, chin high, felt very important. 

Alfred would too, if he didn’t feel like he’d been run over by an ocean liner and backed over by a tugboat. A twinge in his lower back jolted Alfred straight, and Alfred forced himself to pay attention, trying to ignore what felt like an oncoming spasm,

“... prudent cooperation, Germany’s (amongst others) naval expansion shifts the strategic landscape…” Wilson’s rounded accent droned on, and Alfred soon gave up. How did anyone pay attention to these things?

 It astounded Alfred, that so much intel, responsible for the functioning of militaries, could be so unengaging. Much as he liked to imagine otherwise, it was difficult not hanging onto every word spoken in that crisp London accent. Yet these meetings, unless an argument broke out, managed the impossible.

Rather than listening, he instead decided to address the issue, subtly stretching out the tight muscles. Grabbing his left upper arm, mindful of the stiff stitches in his brand new uniform, Alfred pulled it forward, breathing through the screaming of his deltoid. Conversation droned on and on, after ten minutes of very small tugs the pull no longer made him want to scream. God was he tired. The trip across the Atlantic had been very last minute.

After receiving the telegram from his cabin in Minnesota, during a brief rest of the week’s non-stop days firewood chopping for the nearby town, the American had made a hurried drive to DC, scrambled for two all-nighters over a desk to complete overdue work, then staggered onto the RMS Olympic amongst other Navy personnel. 

Four days of continuous elbow-rubbing, formal dancing, excellent evening company from the young women aboard, smoke-room chatter and very little sleep in between was enough to sap even Alfred’s infinite extroversion. 

He was about ready to drop, and could feel the exhaustion making his neck and face hot beneath the starched uniform, causing his glasses to fog.

_____________________

Arthur listened idly to the admirals waxing diplomacy, looking between Nelson’s proud portrait, the speakers, and Alfred’s worrying behavior. The lad looked half dead, making feverish motions at his arm, albeit subtle. 

But oh, the way the honey-blond hair refused to remain in its gelled prison, the handsome curves of his cheekbones and jaw, the touch of maturity from the lenses balanced over his nose, the broadness of his shoulders beneath the stiff uniform… It would be ridiculous to deny the American his good looks, and Arthur didn’t try.

“... sensible approach. Joint exercises certainly foster strong interoperability. Now, I wanted to address our shared maritime trade routes. Maurtin, share the numbers from last October, if you would…”

The Naval Arms Race of recent years had British and American representatives interacting with increasing frequency, meaning Arthur and Alfred saw one another more often than the last few decades. 

They were mostly past the War of 1812, and Arthur’s sympathies for Alfred’s physical condition during his Civil War had forced the stoic Englishman to admit a singular… fondness (no matter how darling Matthew near scoffed at the admittance. That insolence had won the Canadian a proper talking to.)

“I extend my sincerest thanks, gentleman,” Arthur watched Alfred jump at Wilson’s change in tone. “Your attendance and contributions benefited a discussion making great strides in outlining how we proceed in future collaborations.”

“To the health and prosperity of King Geroge and President Taft,” Grant said, standing to shake  hands in farewell, the mustache beneath his nose still perfectly shaped after five hours of discussion. Impressive, thought Arthur with slight jealousy, thinking of his own unruly hair.

In ones and pairs, people collected their belongings and filtered out of the room, discussing evening plans and the contents of their visit amongst themselves. The secretary’s heels clipped at the floor on her way out, arms filled with confidential papers. 

Finally, only Arthur and Alfred remained. Concern mounted when Alfred didn’t seem to notice Arthur’s presence, instead rubbing at his eyes and tapping Texas against the table in a slow rhythm. Arthur waited in the silence to be acknowledged, and soon realized he waited for nothing. The American startled when Arthur rolled his chair back and stood, rounding the table to stand beside him. Alfred wiped his glasses and slid them up his nose, tilting his head in Arthur's direction. “How do you do, Arthur?” The Englishman’s white gloves pulled back the chair beside the American and sat, crossing one leg over the other and leaning over it to peer at Alfred’s warm face, sweat having revealed eyebags previously powdered over.

“Splendid, actually. You, however, look like death warmed up and rolled into a suit.” Alfred scoffed, leaning back and immediately wincing. “And, if I may be so forward, powder under the eyes? Really, Alfred, starch paste couldn’t conceal those hideous bags.”

No matter how exhausted the American was, unless he was permanently and wholly one with the dirt, Alfred F. Jones was never so incapacitated that he wouldn’t return fire.

“Starch, huh? So thaaaaat’s how you’ve achieved such a pasty complexion,” Alfred smiled, and held up his white starched cuffs against Arthur’s frowning face and ooh-ed with amazement at the apparent color match.

“Marvelous,” Arthur deadpanned, slapping aside the hand and immediately regretting it when Alfred hissed, then laughed it off. “You’re delightful as always, Arthur. But I’m afraid I’ll have to cut our time short.” Arthur didn’t take his green eyes away from Alfred’s slow accent to standing, watched how the American bit his lip through the tight smile breaking his hot face. Arthur didn’t move as Alfred clapped him on the shoulder in passing and forced his pace into something natural towards the door (obviously he failed, lilting to the side).

Arthur disliked the physical discomfort in his own chest at the sight of Alfred struggling. Even if they weren’t on the absolute best of terms, he was still the host country. Arthur reasoned it would be horrible of him not to look after his guest.

Arthur stood to follow. 

“Oh please, allow me the courtesy of walking you back to your hotel. Or were you staying at the Palace?” Arthur asked, ambling up to Alfred’s side and following him in an intentionally straight-postured, even pace. The juxtaposition only emphasized Alfred’s odd gait.

Alfred stopped and turned around, annoyed behind his pearly smile, “That’s alright, thanks though. I’m really not in the mood for company.”

Alfred returned to walking and was almost through the door. Arthur momentarily floundered for another excuse. “W-Well it’s just not proper to be walking alone at night.”

“I can take care of myself,” Alfred replied pointedly and Arthur frowned. He knew that! The lad had shown he could look after himself, and had been doing so long enough that it shouldn’t be a sore spot.

“Oh for the love of- you look awful , Alfred. Truly awful. Worse than death. Despite your insistence otherwise. Pray, let me walk you to your room to see that you are right and I will leave.”

Alfred looked as though the idea were unappealing and Arthur relented the formality, grasping Alfred’s arm and turning him around. “As a favor. I’ll hail a cab, see you to your accommodations. Then I’ll leave.”

“...Fine,” sighed the American, allowing the fatigue to slow his pace. 

Arthur called a cab and they both got in, Alfred relying his lodging’s address to the driver. They both settled into the backseat.

“You’re not sick from something back home, are you?” Arthur asked offhandedly, 

“Nothing like that, thankfully,” said Alfred, ready to pass out. “Just a hectic few weeks leading up. I’m gonna need to find a massage therapist tomorrow, though.”

Alfred rolled his shoulders experimentally and flinched.

“Did you tear something?” Arthur asked, putting aside his papers and feeling his fingers, gently, against the spot. Alfred shook his head in the negative, staring out the window with his eyes closed, and the Englishman pressed into the spot. 

“Argh-” Alfred immediately cried and the cab driver swerved in surprise, but when Arthur persisted he slowly relaxed, sighing with relief and slumped into his seat like a sack of potatoes.

Arthur kept at the spot, and after a minute Alfred cracked a smile, “That was cruel, you know.”

“Does it still feel that way?,” Arthur already knew the answer.

“... Not if you keep that up for another minute. Can you go up a bit?”

“Here?” Arthur moved to the tip the trapezius muscle, and again Alfred yelped before relaxing.

“Yeah. There.”

“We’ve arrived,” said the cab driver, waiting expectantly for his compensation. Arthur handed over a few quid and ushered Alfred out. 

As they took the elevator up and Alfred unlocked the door, he asked, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Bringing that up… would you like me to be otherwise?” Arthur asked pointedly, not waiting for a response before helping himself to a glass of whiskey from the room’s minibar. It was an elegant hotel with a luxurious four-poster bed. Behind the curtains, a full moon stood out against London’s foggy night sky. 

Staff had turned on a few warm-toned lamps, bathing the room in calm.

Alfred wasted no time in kicking off his shoes and shrugging out of his uniforms, leaving articles of clothing scattered over the carpet in his wake to his bed before plopping face-first onto the sheets.

“Hermph. Definitely not… thank you,” Alfred said, muffled against the sheets. “Otherwise I might‘ve fallen asleep at that conference table,” he admitted.

Arthur nursed his whiskey in a reading chair, watching Alfred half hang off the bed, lower legs dangling. “Are you getting under the blankets?” Arthur asked, inwardly surprised by the acceptable quality of the alcohol and Alfred’s sheer, visible tiredness. 

It was a rarity that Alfred exposed anything vulnerable, anything that didn’t conform to his overconfident, tireless American persona. 

“M’too sore,” Alfred muttered sleepily. “Thanks for the escort, I’ll be sure to return the favor next time you’re drunk off your ass.”

“Low blow,” Arthur grumbled, getting up and laying a palm over Alfred's back. The taller nation lurched at the motion but relaxed when he sensed the others' intentions.

After working at a small spot at the base of America’s neck for a moment with one hand, Arthur finished his drink and placed the glass on the side table. “Will you lay properly? I can’t get any leverage like this.”

Alfred groaned but shifted, laying in the middle of the bed face down, still in his underwear, socks and garters. 

From the bed, Alfred sleepily watched Arthur strip his blue uniform jacket and lay it over the abandoned chair, along with his shoes and watch. “Is that this season’s Newsome?” Alfred asked, catching the dial in the light.

“A gift from an acquaintance,” said Arthur, hoisting himself on the bed and straddling Alfred’s waist. The maneuver was smooth and the bed hardly shifted at the added occupant.

Alfred was tense beneath him, and Arthur took a moment to appreciate the sculpted geography of the American’s back. Taking a breath and willing his own anatomy not to betray him, Arthur pressed down with both hands. “Ah-ah ah-ow, ow, ow, ow!” Alfred cried, burying his face in the sheets and biting down to silence himself. Arthur stayed in that position a moment until Alfred relaxed, and began a smooth back and forth motion against his lower trapezius. 

“Uhhuhu…uhgh..” America sobbed quietly and Arthur fought against the sympathy constricting his throat, and the arousal tightening his groin at the delicate sounds.

Blimey , thought England, surprised at his own body. His hands found their rhythm against the smooth skin.

“What on Earth did you do?” Arthur asked, feeling tight knots everywhere he touched.

“Uggh- Ah! … Uhm, I was chopping wood for a week or two for the town,” Alfred said, producing a screech when Arthur jammed his thumb into a tender spot. However, after a moment of rubbing the pain subsided and made room for relief and Alfred slumped. “Might’ve overdone it.”

“And?” 

“And- Opfgdhp! And a few nights sleeping over a desk- Christ almighty!” Alfred punched the sheets and looked over his shoulder, “Crank it down a notch, yeah?”

Arthur stopped completely and glared down at the prone American.

Alfred couldn’t see him but obviously felt its intensity when he relented, “Sorry, I do appreciate this, Arthur. Feels… fantastic - AHHPHrgh,” he yelped, legs jolting off the bed.

Arthur smirked, working down the back where it was less painful and applying even pressure to the latissimus dorsi. Arthur pressed dexterous fingers alongside the spine, had to lean over the spot to properly address the powerful muscles, and was rewarded with eliciting a shaky, whistling breath out from Alfred’s muffled face. Slowly, the Englishman felt the tight knots fade under his efforts. Alfred moaned and Arthur looked up at the canopy, willing the heat to leave his face.

Alfred shifted beneath him and Arthur looked down, flush mostly gone. He raised an eyebrow, “What is it?”

“Err,” Alfred started, shifting again. “Could you do my shoulders again? They’re still pretty tight.” He rolled them as if to emphasize, and Arthur was inwardly pleased with the smoothness of the motion compared to twenty minutes ago.

“Were you raised by wolves, America? What do we say when we want something?” he asked in a patronizing tone, leaning in close to hear Alfred respond in a similar one:

“Oh, oh pretty please , Arthur?”

“Much better.” Arthur’s arms were slightly sore. Nevertheless he felt up to the outside of Alfred’s broad shoulders and used a crawling technique, pressing his thumbs down and inching them towards one another until they met at the spine. 

From the side, Alfred’s eyes fluttered closed in relief. All discomfort in Arthur’s arms vanished in a flash and his heartbeat quickened, and he repeated the movement with renewed purpose while the clock ticked in the dim light.

“I’m gonna fall asleep, England. Thank you,” Alfred finally mumbled, a puddle of contentment beneath Arthur’s sweating form.

I’d forgotten how physically demanding massages were , Arthur panted, forehead bowed to Alfred’s warm back.

“A-hem,” The Englishman coughed, surprised by his own reaction, “Happy to be of service.”

He stepped off Alfred with less elegance than when he’d stepped on, and wasn’t surprised to see those blues hidden from view and the youthful face fast asleep by the time he’d cleaned his flushed face and thrown on his uniform jacket. Stepping closer he noted Texas quashed between his temple and the plush bed.

The American hadn’t bothered taking his glasses off and Arthur mused, gently tugging them off and folding them onto the nightstand beside his empty tumbler, how they remained straight and unscratched with such a neglectful owner.

Blowing on his eyelids to confirm he was fully asleep, Arthur pressed his lips against the sleeping man’s forehead, breathing in to savor the sensation, and was out of the room before his neck turned red enough to warrant a comment of concern from the hotel doorman.

—-------------------

The door shut and Alfred pried one eye open, casting a wink at Arthur’s empty glass and stretching his long limbs along the luxurious sheets with a sigh of bliss.

[jaredhopworth]

"Sitting by the fire, he probed gently into how I came to be there, and I found myself disclosing, with a candor I did not intend, the unvarnished truth of not only the night just past, but my life up until that moment."

okay strange englishman in germany offering cursed items. i know what you are.

[whencyclopedia]

Horatio Gates

Horatio Gates (1727-1806) was an English-born general of the Continental Army during the American Revolutionary War (1775-1783). Initially viewed as a hero for his stunning victory at the Battles of Saratoga, Gates' reputation was later tarnished by both his involvement in the Conway Cabal to replace George Washington as army commander, and his catastrophic defeat at the Battle of Camden.

Early Life & British Service

Horatio Gates was born on 26 July 1727 in Maldon, Essex County, England. He was likely the son of working-class parents Robert and Dorothea Gates; his mother, a housekeeper for the Duke of Bolton, was able to use her position to secure opportunities for her family that otherwise would have been out of reach. For instance, through her friendship with the waiting-maid of the Walpole family, Dorothea Gates managed to get future English writer and politician Horace Walpole (who was 11 years old at the time) to be the godfather of her son. In 1745, 18-year-old Horatio Gates was able to purchase a commission as an ensign in the British Army, largely thanks to the influence of the Duke of Bolton.

The young Ensign Gates has been described by biographers in unflattering terms; one characterized him as a "little ruddy-faced Englishman peering through his thick spectacles" and a "snob of the first water" (quoted in Boatner, 412). He first served with the 20th Regiment of Foot in Germany during the War of Austrian Succession (1740-1748) before volunteering to travel to Halifax, Nova Scotia, to serve under its governor, Edward Cornwallis; Cornwallis was not only an early mentor to Gates but also the uncle of Lord Charles Cornwallis, who would one day face Gates on the battlefield. Promoted to the rank of captain in the 45th Regiment of Foot, Gates saw action against the Mi'kmaq and Acadians in Canada. In 1754, he married Elizabeth Philips, daughter of a Nova Scotia councilman, with whom he would have one son, Robert (b. 1758).

In 1755, as the French and Indian War (1754-1763) was escalating in North America, British General Edward Braddock was sent to lead an expedition to capture the French-held Fort Duquesne and thereby assert British control of the Ohio River Valley. Gates traveled to Fort Cumberland, Maryland, to join the expedition, where he would have met several other men who would one day also play key roles in the American Revolution including Daniel Morgan, Thomas Gage, Charles Lee, and, of course, Lt. Colonel George Washington of the Virginia militia. Braddock's Expedition set out on 29 May 1755 and made it to the Monongahela River a little over a month later, where it was ambushed by French troops and their Indigenous allies. General Braddock was killed in the ambush, and a large portion of his army became casualties including Gates, who was wounded. The survivors retreated to friendly territory.

After the Battle of the Monongahela, Gates was mainly relegated to positions of military administration, something at which he proved exceptionally talented. He served as chief-of-staff first to Brigadier General John Stanwix and then to Stanwix's replacement, Robert Monckton. In 1762, Gates accompanied Monckton in the capture of Martinique. Although Gates did not experience much combat during the expedition, he was nevertheless tasked with bringing news of the victory to England and was rewarded with a promotion to the rank of major. The war ended the following year and Gates returned to England, only to realize he had little future in the British Army; the limitations put on him by his social status meant that he could not advance much further in the military than he already had. Frustrated, Gates sold his major's commission in 1769 and, with assistance from his old army comrade George Washington, moved to Virginia with his family. Gates purchased Traveler's Rest, a Berkeley County plantation next door to Washington's younger brother, Samuel. As Gates began his new life as a Virginian planter, he also purchased several enslaved people to labor in his fields.

Continue reading...

[scotianostra]

On March 11th 1955 Sir Alexander Fleming died.

The discovery of penicillin came in September 1928, when Fleming was forty-seven. His account of it has been questioned and he did not make a note about it at the time, but according to his recollection he returned from holiday to his cramped little lab to find a pile of petri dishes, on which he had been growing colonies of bacteria, still waiting to be cleaned. He noticed that on one of them a mould had grown which had inhibited the growth of a colony of staphylococcus germs. The mould was Penicillium notatum, commonly found on bread, and Fleming called the liquid from it penicillin.

The thing is Oor Alexander could not find any important practical use for penicillin. He wrote a paper about it in the British Journal of Experimental Pathology, but it attracted no attention. He later pointed out that there had been no trained chemist in the St Mary’s lab. Sir Henry Dale summed up in the Dictionary of National Biography that ‘neither the time when the discovery was made nor, perhaps, the scientific atmosphere of the laboratory in which he worked, was propitious to such further enterprise as its development would have needed.’

t was not for another ten years or so that penicillin’s astonishing properties were established at Oxford by the Australian professor of pathology, Howard Florey, a Jewish refugee from Nazi Germany named Ernst Chain and an Englishman called Norman Heatley. They followed up Fleming’s original paper and turned their Oxford department into a prototype penicillin factory.

The relationship between them and Fleming was distinctly prickly. Almroth Wright wrote to The Times in 1942 claiming the credit for penicillin for Fleming and St Mary’s, and Fleming, Florey and Chain shared the Nobel Prize for Medicine in 1945.The media made Fleming the hero of the saga, partly because the accidental discovery was a good story and partly because Florey had no time for the press while Fleming was pleasant and approachable, your archetypical genial Scot.

A national hero he duly became. So much so that after his death at his home in Chelsea in 1955, his ashes were interred close to Nelson and Wellington in the crypt of St Paul’s Cathedral. Flags flew at half- mast and the cathedral bulged with academic and medical grandees, ambassadors, representatives of societies, staff and students from the hospital, as well as personal friends. A memorial plaque was unveiled in the crypt the following year and Fleming’s original lab where penicillin was discovered is preserved in the museum to him at St Mary’s.

[new-berry]

I think the only Jude/Gavi fic that appealed to me was one where Jude finds gavi in a church in Sevilla. It was called Dawn Chorus (I think) by an anonymous writer. It was really well written. I know it’s one of the more popular pairing currently but I just can’t get into it

I have read so many! I vaguely remember that one. But they feel a bit like, I know why, takeaway food? And it’s not that a lot of them aren’t hot, they are hot! I just… why is he driving six hours to visit someone? I remember one where they were trying to make each other jealous by both flirting with other people in a bar in Miami, I enjoyed that one.

I guess I see Jude as being someone who has media polished and trained and who is a little calculating. And the thing is, under it I think he is a decent hard working person. Much like I see Harry Kane as fundamentally a dad -with all the kindness and love that has, and also the responsibility and patrician role that implies- I see Jude as someone who is an older brother. The implicit responsibility and role model and grow up quickly that includes. (I am a younger sibling. It’s way better.)

But he also grew up with the media and the cycle of build them up break them down. And he’s a black Englishman. It’s not like he doesn’t see exactly how the media treat black men and the standards they are held do. And the icky (being generous) way fans talk about black players.

I have always assumed there was a reason he picked Germany and then Spain. I don’t blame him for not wanting to sit in England being slandered every other week.

Anyway to end my ramble, I like fics (and clearly I do I personally write them) where there are cracks in the facade. When he’s had to do a media junket and pretend he gives a fuck about the Beatles and that he has a favourite song. Or when he’s asked if players can be nicer to all fans when someone has called one of his team mates a monkey for the 100th time.

ANYWAY and also Jude has a fanon persona of like a dominant big guy who like has possessive kinky “I’m going make you mine” sex with a smaller player so I know that Gavi is pretty much Y/N but that is one of the reasons I LIKE Gavi /Jude so much. In my heart fanfic should always include people writing down and working out their fantasy. And like, yeah Jude is objectivity hot. I get wanting to fuck (get fucked) by him. So I will also have affection for people just wanting to bone him.

This was all over the place. No sorries! I like fanfic ramble and I encourage you to pick a fic ramble as well.

[index-of-imagination]

Thunderdell, the Most Iconic Giant You've Never Heard of, and a Brief History of Fee Fi Fo Fum

Did you know the giant who said "Fee Fi Fo Fum, I smell the blood of an English man" had a name? Well, sorta.

The first known instance of the phrase was found in the pamphlet (a cheap, unbound book more or less) entitled Have with You to Saffron-Walden in 1596 by playwright Thomas Nashe. However, the pamphlet remarks that the origins of the phrase were unknown. Quote:

"O, 'tis a precious apophthegmatical pedant, who will find matter enough to dilate a whole day of the first invention of Fy, fa, fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman [...]" pg. 20

The first known and documented instance I could find of the phrase being uttered by a giant was in the 1711 Newcastle-on-Tyne text The History of Jack and the Giants, one of the very first "Jack tales." If you're not a folklore geek like me, you may not've paid much mind to the name 'Jack' appearing damn near everywhere in fairy tales. You got Jack and the Bean Stalk, Jack-o-Lantern's, The House that Jack Built, and more modern urban legends like Springheeled Jack. He even has cognates all across Europe, such as Antonio in Italy, Hansel in Germany and Ivan in Russia. Anyway, back on topic, the Newcastle text, though once more not the original version of the story and instead a "modernized" take on it, features the iconic phrase.

"Fee, fau, fum, I smell the blood of an English man, Be alive, or be he dead, I'll grind his bones to make my bread."

The giant that utters this is Thunderdell, a two-headed giant who attacked Jack at his own banquet to avenge the deaths of all the other giants Jack has slayed up to this point, those being identified as Cormoran, whom Jack kills with a pickaxe, Blunderbore, whom Jack kills by hanging and stabbing and an unnamed female giant. Thunderdell was the penultimate of the giants Jack killed, with the final being Galligantus, who is the only of these giants that lacks a Wikipedia article.

I'm unsure if any noteworthy version of Jack and the Beanstalk identified the giant he killed, unfortunately.

[silver-wield]

Yeah, you heard it here first, Cloud Strife is apparently English and somebody summoning KotR in their gameplay is a "secret ultimate ending" and not just somebody using the materia in the game.

Sorry not sorry but I just gotta blow holes in this shit one insane tweet at a time.

Kingdom Hearts is not canon to ffvii. It just isn't. It's not the "canon game for a summon" and are you out of your fucking mind for thinking Kingdom Hearts is making some canonical link between a summon and Disney's Sword in the Stone?! Jfc this is already sounding crazy af 🤦‍♀️

No. There's no "secret ending" to ffvii. You chose a playthrough with a player summoning KotR. Literally every player can do that. Unless they're like you and never played the damn game, you insane carrot. I'm gonna assume you think ffxv's ending where Noctis calls up the kings of yore to defeat Ardyn, which has been confirmed as a callback to ffvii's KotR but at no point did anybody say the endings were identical or that KotR is a mandatory or secret speshul ending appearance. Cloud, at no point in KH, is ever intending to or looking for king Arthur. He is always searching for Sephiroth so they can settle their shit. He never becomes a KotR. Again, you're confusing ffxv with other games. Noctis's father becomes a King of Yore at the end of ffxv and helps defeat Ardyn. I mean, if you can't keep basic plotlines straight why are you even talking in the first place?

Show me where Cloud's an "Englishman"? Show me where England and Germany are on the map of the planet. He's no more English than he is German and you need to stop listening to that nutbar Calli and her made up garbage based on her own HC fap material. King Arthur wasn't a real person, dumdum. Plz don't talk about English history if you haven't ever learned it in school.

Strife isn't a last name. It's a bloody noun. And Strauss is the German word for ostrich.

He's the fucking player character. He doesn't know how to get the materia. You know how to get the materia.

Kh isn't canon to ffvii or the KotR. Kh1 and 2 leaned heavily on squareenix to grab a player base and build its following. Once kh became established in its own right they began to phase out the FF cameos because the characters aren't needed to keep real players interested in the plot. You aren't a real player, so shut up.

You're an idiot who can't accept an in game email talking about things characters have seen and done isn't canon compared to WoFF, another game that isn't canon to ffvii.

Again: WoFF is not canon to ffvii. Serah isn't married at the point her character appears. Zack isn't with Aerith. He's a soldier 2nd class. I know it's hard for your small brain to comprehend but SE takes characters from different points in their own lives to mix and match in cameos for fanservice. Cloud appears in multiple titles as OG soldier Cloud and post AC Cloud. Tifa appears in WoFF as cowgirl Tifa at age 15 before she's traumatized. Get a fucking clue.

Again: Zack is single at that point in his life.

Aerith is lying and sucking as much copium as y'all do. The translation is also shit in OG because she doesn't call him a ladies man in JP, she says he's a friendly guy.

Idky you think kh, WoFF and KotR are some weird ass "canon" link that proves your garbage ship or disproves Zack is a decent guy, but you need to shut up.

That's all. Don't bother trying to educate yourself, just shut up. We don't want to hear from you. At all.

Shut up.

[apilgrimpassingby]

Responding To A Common Zionist Talking Point

The Jews are indigenous to the land of Israel; why don't you support them getting their land back like you do Native Americans and Māori and Aboriginal Australians and so on?

Yes, they are indigenous to it - on the same timescale by which I, a white Englishman, am indigenous to Germany.

The English were originally the Anglo-Saxons, English is demonstrably a Germanic language, we are genetically similar to Germanic people, and so on. But it would be insane to suggest we have a right to Saxony. Because we've been so long apart from there that we have ceased to be indigenous to it.

Similarly, the Jews as a group ceased to dwell in the land of Israel with the suppression of the Bar Kokhba Revolt in 136 AD, and from then to 1948 the Jews were dispersed across Europe, the Middle East and North Africa. For comparison, the Angles and Saxons arrived in the British Isles in the Migration period, from c.375 AD to 568 AD.

And they adapted to their regions. A Sephardi Jew from Italy or an Ashkenazi one from the Netherlands is more native to those respective countries (or to the USA, more likely these days) than to Israel. They speak those countries' languages and have adapted to their culture. Hence, modern Jews are not indigenous to the land of Israel.

Related, Israel is a different situation to Land Back movements in the USA or independence for Tibet. The Roman Empire (and the Byzantine after that, and the Caliphates after that, and to a lesser extent the Ottoman) is long gone, and so any attempt to be just to Jews by giving them the land will punish the Palestinians for something they did not do.

[doueverwonder]

Heam is enabling me; (i lied i can't remember Sam's part 😭)

warning now long post

WELL SAM it's 400 AD and that right there is Britain! and here comes the king! in a bedsheet! Haha no really that's the roman emperor because Britain is under Roman rule as it has been for over 350 years! But all that is about to change because in 410 the unthinkable happens!

so unthinkable I can't think of it now what was it hmmmmmmmm OH

THE ROMAN EMPIRE CRUMBLES! And the romans leave Britain with the immortal line

"don't forget to put out the cat"

or something like that

and that's when the problems really start! with the Romans gone the picts from up in Scotland invade england, so Vortigern king of the Britons hires a load of warriors from Germany & Denmark--places over there--and with them come two chaps named Hengist and Horsa, and they like Britain so much they'd quite like to keep a piece of it. Luckily for them Hengist has a beautiful daughter and in the weirdest deals in the whole of history he gives Vortigern his daughters hand in marriage for Kent!

yep Kent.

And that's just the start of it. Soon seeing how easy it is to get your hands on English lands there are Danes and Germans everywhere! German invaders from the district of Angle take over the east and the midlands while invaders from Saxony take over large chunks of the south, yes that's right England is now overrun with ANGLES and SAXONS making it officially ANGLO-SAXON.

and u thought we just made that term up

And there you have it that's it

end of the story

end of the line

end of the pier

last dance

last chance

lights off

cats out

done.

BUT NOT FOR LONG

under anglo-saxon rule Britain changes shape entirely, though obviously not around the edges. Inside though it's all different as the invaders shape their new lands into seven major kingdoms; places like

Essex

Wessex

Sussex

and so on

But it's not all playing fairly for the Anglo-Saxons because they can't conquer Scotland for toffee!

which is a shame because Scotland's got great toffee

Meanwhile on the other side they aren't too happy about the new neighbors, so much so that king arthur of Mercia

an Anglo-Saxon kingdom shown here in puce whatever color that is

digs a trench separating the west of Britain from the rest of Britain, creating the border for what we now call Wales! Sounds fair! we now have Scotland, Wales, Anglo-Saxon England all living in perfect harmony bar a little name calling and the odd local war.

BUT NOT FOR LONG

YES FOLKS IT'S 865 AND LOCK UP YOUR MONOSTARY BECAUSE

HERE COME THE VIKINGS

In no time at all they take over every major anglo-saxon kingdom except for this one, Wessex, home of Alfred the great

who clearly has a high opinion of himself

And for good reason, because Alfie and his family manage to hold off the vikings!

BUT NOT FOR LONG--well, actually it's for quite awhile but that's not the point. No Eventually Æthelred the unready becomes king and gets so sick of the constant viking attacks

that he's presumably never ready for

that he decides to kill every viking in England, including the king of Norway's sister; which unsurprisingly doesn't go down too well with the king of Norway. Who prompltly Invades England, takes Æthelred's crown and is the first in the line of viking kings!

There's Cnut!

There's Harthacnut!

There's a quarter of a Cnut!

Though not that last one!

and this goes on until 1042 when an englishman gets the crown again

WHOO it's

Edward the Confessor

and then he goes and dies BOO

and three differnt people try to claim the thrown, an Englishman, a Norman, and a Viking

which sounds like the beginning of a joke but really isnt.

Especially when the englishman, Harald Godwinson, takes the throne and is immediatly set upon by the other two! While holding off the viking one up here, the norman one--a certain William the bastard conqueror invades down here

yes folks it's 1066 and the battle of hastings! Which signals not only the end of Harald but also the end of the Anglo-Saxon Era all together

THE END OF THE PIER

THE END OF THE LINE

THE END OF THE ROAD

THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT

and unless i calm down soon it might as well be

THE END OF DEAR OLD BOB HALE

OH IT'S TOO LATE IT'S HAPPENED

It's just heartburn, false alarm, it's just heartburn.

back to you Sam.

[microcosme11]

Englishman tells the English not to take French expressions literally

There is certainly a wide difference between the manners of a polished Frenchman and a polished Englishman, and what the one considers as expressive only of common courtesy, the other looks upon as obsequiousness and insincerity. No allowances are made for the superior vivacity of the French character, or for difference of language. The French language is particularly copious in complimental phrases, and a French man is lavish enough in the use of them; but if the Englishman were well acquainted with the spirit and idiom of the French language, he would know that all this volubility of compliment means nothing more between Frenchmen than is understood between Englishmen in the usual subscription to a letter of “Your obedient humble servant,” which is addressed to a person with whom the writer is a perfect stranger. An Englishman is so accustomed to attach some reliance to very strong expressions of attachment and regard, that he really does not know how to receive such expressions as mere words of form; and the Frenchman uses them without the slightest intention of deceiving, for he imagines that all the world understands them as well as his own countrymen. Thus it is that disgust is so frequently caused to English visitors abroad. They fancy that they have met with some delightful people; and a little English vanity helps, perhaps, to lead them into the error of supposing that these people have fallen desperately in love with them at first sight, a mistaken notion which generally in the end causes disappointment and disgust. On the other hand, that cautious manner and habitual reserve of Englishmen towards each other, as well as towards strangers, is construed into dullness of feeling and moroseness of temper.

A tour through parts of the Netherlands, Holland, Germany, Switzerland, Savoy, and France, in the year 1821-2. Also containing, in an appendix, facsimile copies of eight letters in the handwriting of Napoleon Bonaparte to his wife Josephine, v. 2. by Charles Tennant, 1824.

hathitrust