#The Englishman and Germany

[laswells-ashtray]

I don’t know if anyone’s done this yet but another captain trying to recruit sergeant Price to their team after seeing his capabilities and Macmillan getting possessive as fuck over the kid(he’s 21) because— excuse you? That’s his sergeant, and he’d rather shoot the kid’s kneecap than give him away to someone else.

"No."

"I don't believe it's up to you, captain."

"He's my fucking sergeant, you can rip him from my cold, dead, bloody hands, Derek."

Another captain had his eyes on John. Mac wasn't surprised, his sergeant is a far more competent solider than half of the lieutenants Mac has ever met but this captain didn't want John as a sergeant, he wants John as a weapon.

"I'm sure that little lapdog of yours could bare to part with you if he knew how much more suited he would be working with me. Don't get me wrong, Mac, the kid clearly enjoys working with you but you don't exactly allow him to branch out much, do you?"

He takes a deep breath to stop himself from lamping the man standing across from him.

"You could ask John but he wouldn't take up your offer, he isn't interested in working with your types. Lad prefers a bit of loyalty amongst his people."

The other captain lets out a laugh so obviously false and clasps a hand on his shoulder, staring him down with his typical over confident smile.

"Oh, come on. Don't get snippy just because I'm asking about your little pound puppy. I just think he could achieve more under my leadership."

MacMillan takes a noticeable step back, knocking the hand off of his shoulder as he glowers at the Englishman facing him.

"Sorry if I've made the mistake of letting you think this is up for debate. If you so much as approach John then you'll have to deal with his lapdog. Let me ask you something, Derek. You ever pissed off a Russian arms dealer? Let me tell you, kid is as friendly as get out but there's a reason we keep him on our side. And I haven't even told you what I'll do to you, I don't have to. You remember Germany in 98, don't you?"

He doesn't talk to John, Nikolai spars with three of his soldiers and "accidentally" breaks four bones in the process, none of which were his. They never tell John either.

[mellifluouaamor]

ENGLAND ⍣ GENDER-NEUTRAL READER

synopsis. he tries to kabe-don you but ultimately fails.

with a skip in your step, you walked up to ireland and pinched the back of his green shirt, pulling on it like a child trying to get their father's attention. feeling your persistent tugs, the irish man turned his head with an arched eyebrow and the moment he recognised you, his lips curved into a friendly smile.

"dia dhuit, (y/n)! you look like you're in a good mood," he remarked, only to blink when you suddenly shoved a book into his face. he immediately took a step back, startled by your sudden enthusiasm. "wh-what's this?"

"you've gotta read this light novel that japan let me borrow. it's so good!" you said, opening the book as you begin explaining the plot of the story so far to him.

sitting two rows behind you, england perked up upon hearing your remark, the hand holding his rose-patterned teacup pausing in mid-air. after germany had proposed for a break in the middle of the chaotic world meeting, he had been observing you, intently watching you chat away with japan as he presented you with one of his light novels. he wondered why you're so obsessed with japan's light novels and was a tad bit curious about the one you're trying to get ireland into. however, he's been struggling to work up the courage to approach you these days, which left the englishman quite frustrated with himself. he's afraid that you might reject his attempts to talk to you and act very passive-aggressive towards him; he'd rather save himself from the heartbreak.

"aww..."

having been so preoccupied with his thoughts, england didn't notice that ireland had left you to continue reading on your own. the soft giggle you let out as you flipped the page made his heart flutter inside his chest, and france, who spotted the red tint dusting his cheeks, gave him a disturbed look before quietly scooting his chair away from him.

"i really want to go kyun kyun like the high school girl in the story... when will i meet someone who can make my heart go doki doki?" you mused with a sigh.

england was perplexed by the unfamiliar terminology you had mentioned. lowering his teacup on the saucer, he pondered the words with a hand on his chin.

what does "kyun kyun" and "doki doki" mean?

❀

japan was surprised when england approached him to ask about the japanese onomatopoeia frequently used in his media.

"hmm... to put it simply, kyun kyun is the momentary tightening of one's chest caused by powerful feelings. it's meant to sound like your heart is getting squeezed, and is used most commonly in a romantic context," japan said.

"you say that it's supposed to be romantic, but that sounds terrifying instead!" england exclaimed, slightly shaken by the thought of his heart literally getting squeezed, "and doki doki?"

"doki doki is the sound of a heart that's beating fast."

"i see. then how do i make (y/n) go kyun kyun?" he asked, making america who was sitting next to him spit out his cola.

as japan suppressed the laughter that was bubbling up in his throat, he replied in a shaky voice, "y-you probably want to do the kabe-don to them then. it's a gesture that prevents escape - you just have to use all of your strength to trap them against a surface."

england knitted his eyebrows together as he tried to visualise what he's to do. "use all of my strength to trap them against a surface? that sounds rather... barbaric." but it definitely sounds like something he would have done during his olden days as a brutish pirate. "i suppose it wouldn't hurt to try..."

as soon as he left to search for you, america grabbed japan's shoulders and proceeded to shake his soul out of his body. "yo, why did you have to give him that idea?! it's totally not going to end well!"

the englishman easily found you strolling through the corridor just outside of the meeting room, holding a drink in one hand and the light novel in the other. he waited until you were close enough before calling your name, prompting you to lift your gaze from the book; the moment your eyes met, england shoved you against the door beside you as his hands landed on either side of your head with a resounding slam. you shrieked, the sheer terror you felt writing itself all over your face as you dropped the things you were holding, your drink spilling all over his polished shoes.

your reaction was the complete opposite of what he had hoped to elicit from you, and the commotion got the countries inside the meeting room curious. some poked their heads out the door only to see england cornering your terrified self, causing them to gawk at the sight as misunderstandings began to brew in their minds.

"m-mr england, did i upset you somehow?" you timidly asked. his eyes widened when he picked up on the fear laced in your voice, and to add insult to injury, ireland walked past the two of you, muttering what a "weirdo" he is.

[alpaca-clouds]

So, some theories about Coyote and/or Mephistopheles

Alright, I will throw my proverbial hat into the ring in terms of trying to come up with a theory about this. Because I am not exactly sold on the most popular theory right now that old man Coyote and/or Mephistopheles is a new manifestation of Death. The main reason for that is, that Coyote is a bit too important in regards to indigenous mythologies. So having Coyote be Death, who is a fairly one-note villain, would definitely feel quite a bit disrespectful.

Well, y'all know where you are. So of course we will talk about some history. Duh.

Mephistopheles

I think most of us will know that Mephistopheles originates with the Faustus myth. So let me talk shortly about Johann Georg Faust, who was a real person, who lived in Germany around the change from the 15th to the 16th century. (From all we know, he lived from 1466 to 1540, though the dates are not fully certain, as it often is the case with older dates.) Details about his life are really hard to construct, because he became such a popular character in fiction very shortly after his death, that it is just super hard to differentiate fiction from reality. We know, however, that he was an alchemist, astrologist and magician - whatever the latter is supposed to mean at the time. Later people also claimed he was a con man. From all we know (though again, this is not certain) he died by blowing himself up with an alchemical experiment, which definitely is on brand.

If it was just that, we would probably not really remember the guy. Sure, he might have a Wikipedia article still, but hist name would not be recognized by thousands if not millions of people. No, this happened because in 1587 a book was printed, called "Historia von D. Johann Fausten". We don't know the author, just the publisher (Johann Spies). And this story then caught the attention of the Englishman Christopher Marlowe, who made something of a rewrite and translation of it a few years later as the play "Doctor Faustus", which a long while later would then serve as inspiration for Goethe and his interpretation of the story.

The rough outline however is always the same: Faust is a theologist, who wants to acquire knowledge and finds himself limited by the at the time slow advance of science. A devil Mephistopheles shows up, who serves Lucifer, and offers Faust a lot of knowledge and magic in exchange for his soul. Faust accepts. Depending on which version you read, what follows is either tragedy or a lot of magic hijinks, though the moral of the story is always: "Do not be too greedy with knowledge."

Since we do not have any sources referencing Mephistopheles prior to the printing of the Historia, we are fairly certain that whoever wrote that book made Mephistopheles up. Meaning: This figure was not based in prior myths or historical believes. Or to put it differently: Mephistopheles goes back to 1587. He did not "exist" in the real world - not even as an idea - prior to this date.

After the Faust story got so popular, though, other stories definitely picked up on Mephistopheles and put him into a variety of other stories as a trickster demon, who would often seduce good men into doing back things - often with the goal of gaining power or knowledge or both.

Old Man Coyote

Meanwhile, Coyote is a character who shows up throughout indigenous North American mythology, and - as someone has rightfully pointed out - somewhat also in Nahua mythology (Nahua = Aztec, I am trying to use the endonym rather than the exonym).

See, in Nahua mythology there is a god called Huehuecoyotl, and as you might guess: Coyotl indeed means coyote. To be exact the name translates to "Old Coyote", which indeed is quite close to "Old Man Coyote". ;)

Huehuecoyotl is (according to Wikipedia, because I still have not found a good book on Nahua mythology - please, someone, recommend me something) the Nahua song of song, dance, mischief and also of uninhibited sexuality. Because of this, he was - like so many trickster gods - also technically genderfluid, as he could take whatever form he liked. He would often play tricks on other gods and on humans too, at times even cause wars. But like with other Coyote stories, these often would fall back on him.

Which brings me to all those other versions of Coyote.

While Coyote does not show up in every North American indigenous culture, he certainly shows up in many of them. The most well known Coyote myths are obviously of Navajo origin, bout the Navajo are not the only culture featuring Coyote.

Coyote is pretty much always a trickster, and like many tricksters he is generally a positive figure, but also morally grey. While in many myths he is responsible for some creations of the world, he will usually also often cause misery to others and also himself. He also often dies gruesome deaths, but finds then ways to come back from them.

In some myths he will also take up the role of a culture hero, meaning that he will be responsible for bringing the human certain things, like fire or language. Even as Coyote he does at times appear as a shapeshifter of sorts, though this is not always a given.

Coyote shows up in more than 20 different mythologies that we know off. While his general role as a trickster is often the same, the finer details will definitely differ a lot.

So, the Theory

So, the Spanish conquest of the Nahua happened in 1519. And we also know that in general around the turn of the century the genocide in the Americas was so bad that it possibly created a fucking climate change! (It got colder because so much CO2 got sucked from the atmosphere.)

And so my suspicion here is, that Coyote, the trickster (I am not fully sure if it is specifically Huehuecoyotl, or a generic Coyote), went over to Europe after the indigenous cultures were genocided, to exact revenge. And when he went over to Europe, he took up an identity that worked better with the believes of the people in Europe: Mephistopheles.

He might also have taken some other identities in some other cultures.

The reason I do not really think it is Death (even though timeline wise it could obviously also match up, given that the entire Faust thing mainly happened just after the events of the first four seasons) is really that Death was a very one-note villain. And it just would not feel right to me to make Coyote - who is definitely not one-note - as Death.

[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?”

✼. view:⠀masterlist⠀⸻⠀join the taglist⠀⸻⠀request. ✼. taglist:⠀@cha-hot @certifiedlesbianbaddie @nichmeddar @d3kstar @thewannabewriter

[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

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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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[camisoledadparis]

THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … January 25

1800 – The Commonwealth of Virginia reduces the penalty for free peoples who commit buggery down from the death penalty to one to ten years in prison, but did not remove the death penalty for slaves who commit buggery.

1874 – British novelist and playwright W. Somerset Maugham (d.1965) was born in Paris, where his father Robert Ormond Maugham was an English lawyer who handled the legal affairs of the British embassy.

Maugham was sent back to England to be cared for by his uncle, a Vicar, in Kent. The move was damaging, as Henry Maugham proved cold and emotionally cruel. The boy attended The King's School, Canterbury, which was also difficult for him. He was teased for his bad English (French had been his first language) and his short stature, which he inherited from his father. Maugham developed a stammer that would stay with him all his life.

Miserable both at his uncle's vicarage and at school, the young Maugham developed a talent for making wounding remarks to those who displeased him. This ability is sometimes reflected in Maugham's literary characters. At sixteen, Maugham refused to continue at The King's School. His uncle allowed him to travel to Germany, where he studied literature, philosophy and German at Heidelberg University. During his year in Heidelberg, Maugham met and had a sexual affair with John Ellingham Brooks, an Englishman ten years his senior.

On his return to England, the local doctor suggested he enter the medical profession and Maugham's uncle agreed. Maugham had been writing steadily since the age of 15 and fervently wished to become an author, but as he was not of age, he refrained from telling his guardian. For the next five years, he studied medicine at St Thomas' Hospital in Lambeth, London.

Maugham kept his own lodgings, took pleasure in furnishing them, filled many notebooks with literary ideas, and continued writing nightly while at the same time studying for his medical degree. In 1897, he wrote his first novel, Liza of Lambeth, a tale of working-class adultery and its consequences. Liza of Lambeth's first print run sold out in a matter of weeks. Maugham, who had qualified as a doctor, dropped medicine and embarked on his 65-year career as a man of letters. He later said, "I took to it as a duck takes to water."

The famous playwright was twenty-one when Oscar Wilde was put on trial. It was enough to make him "publicly straight." Frightened by the Oscar Wilde trial, Maugham avoided treating homosexual themes and characters in his novels and plays. He later said that his biggest mistake was "I tried to persuade myself that I was three-quarters normal and that only quarter of me was queer — whereas it was the other way around."

By 1914 Maugham was famous, with 10 plays produced and 10 novels published. Too old to enlist when World War I broke out, Maugham served in France as a member of the British Red Cross's so-called "Literary Ambulance Drivers", a group of some 23 well-known writers, including the Americans John Dos Passos and E. E. Cummings. During this time, he met Frederick Gerald Haxton, a young San Franciscan, who became his companion and lover until Haxton's death in 1944. Throughout this period Maugham continued to write. He proofread Of Human Bondage at a location near Dunkirk during a lull in his ambulance duties. Maugham also worked for British Intelligence in mainland Europe during the war, having been recruited by John Wallinger; he was one of the network of British agents who operated in Switzerland against the Berlin Committee. Maugham was later recruited by William Wiseman to work in Russia

Although Maugham's first and many other sexual relationships were with men, he also had sexual relationships with a number of women. His affair with Syrie Wellcome produced a daughter named Liza. Syrie's husband Henry Wellcome sued his wife for divorce, naming Maugham as co-respondent. In May 1917, following the decree absolute, Syrie and Maugham were married. Syrie and Maugham divorced in 1927-8 after a tempestuous marriage complicated by Maugham's frequent travels abroad and strained by his relationship with Haxton.

The gap left by Haxton's death in 1944 was filled by Alan Searle. Maugham had first met Searle in 1928. Searle was a young man from the London slum area of Bermondsey and he had already been kept by older men. He proved a devoted if not a stimulating companion. Indeed one of Maugham's friends, describing the difference between Haxton and Searle, said simply: "Gerald was vintage, Alan was vin ordinaire."

Despite his wealth, his fame, and the love of his secretary-companion Gerald Haxton and later, Searle, Maugham died a bitter man but among the pantheon of the most prolific and read writers of the 20th century. And if you haven't read him, you've watched his stories. No less than 35 film shave been made from his novels and short stories including The Razor's Edge, Of Human Bondage, Being Julia, The Moon and Sixpence and Sadie Thompson (later called Rain.)

1892 – Lesbian writer Virginia Woolf was born in London (d.1941). The most celebrated of the Bloomsbury set, her writing is cerebral, and subtle.

Woolf was born Adeline Virginia Stephen on January 25, 1882, in Hyde Park Gate, London, the daughter of Leslie Stephen, a man of letters, and Julia Pattle Duckworth. Virginia's mother's first marriage ended with the death of her husband, leaving her with three children, one of whom, Gerald Duckworth, is known to have sexually molested Woolf as an adolescent.

Her adolescence was marked as well by a sequence of deaths and the first bout of a mental illness that would haunt her for the rest of her life: Her mother died in 1895; her half-sister Stella, who served as mother-substitute, in 1897; her father in 1904 and her brother Thoby in 1906. She experienced her first mental breakdown at the age of thirteen following her mother's death, while the final one ended with her suicide when she walked into the river Ouse on March 28, 1941.

Woolf developed her closest attachment to her sister Vanessa, what she called "a very close conspiracy." The two sisters functioned as co-conspirators in their alliance as women artists, on the one hand against the tyranny of the father who repeatedly sought to enlist their services as surrogate wives; on the other hand, against Victorian mores that considered marriage the only suitable profession for middle-class daughters.

Following Leslie Stephen's death, the four siblings moved to Bloomsbury, a section of London that would eventually give name to a group of artists and intellectuals, the Bloomsbury Group. This group began when her brother Thoby and his Cambridge friends moved back to London and met every Thursday evening to discuss art and literature, as well as pressing political issues such as pacifism and socialism. Initially, Virginia and Vanessa were the only two women present, as Thoby's sisters but also as intellectuals and artists. Several of the male participants were avowed homosexuals, including Lytton Strachey, who proposed to Virginia in 1909, although the engagement was almost immediately broken off.

Woolf's relationship to gay men remained an ambivalent one. On the one hand, she appreciated a lack of sexual interest that made it possible for her to have access to an intellectual environment based on an indifference to her gender; on the other hand, the absence of women meant a lacking female eroticism that for her prohibited creativity. Much later, on August 19, 1930, she wrote in a letter to Ethel Smyth: "It is true that I only want to show off to women. Women alone stir my imagination."

In 1912, she married Leonard Woolf, "a penniless Jew," also a member of the Bloomsbury Group, a political writer who had recently returned from service in India. This marriage is considered to have been a supportive although passionless one. In 1917, the Woolfs established Hogarth Press as an attempt to engage Virginia in more practical work in the hope of keeping at bay further bouts of mental illness. The Press published the works of several lesbian and gay writers, including E. M. Forster, Christopher Isherwood, and Vita Sackville-West.

Woolf had several intense friendships with women throughout her life. They often resulted in literary works, not always published, written as tribute to friendships that greatly fostered—but were ultimately confined to—writing. Often these women were older, unmarried, more masculine in appearance, and highly successful artists; often they offered Woolf some form of maternal protection as she struggled with another incident of physical or mental illness. None of these relationships is known to have had a sexual component.

Woolf's first passionate friendship was with Madge Vaughan, the daughter of the well-known writer and sexologist, John Addington Symonds, whom Woolf met at the age of sixteen and who was to serve as a model for Sally Seton in Mrs. Dalloway (1925). Violet Dickinson, almost twice Woolf's age when she nursed her during the mental breakdown following the death of her father, was an unmarried Quaker for whom she wrote "Friendship Gallery" (1907), a spoof biography that anticipates Orlando (1928). Much later Woolf looked back on this friendship as the one that enabled her to say for the first time with confidence, "I am a writer." The final of such friendships was with Ethel Smyth, a well-known composer, whom Virginia met in 1930, when Woolf was forty-eight and Smyth seventy years old.

Woolfe's greatest love was probably Vita Sackville-West, with whom she had the only intense friendship to include a physical relationship. Although married to Leonard Woolf, the ethos of Bloomsbury discouraged sexual exclusivity, and in 1922, when Woolf met poet and novelist Vita Sackville-West, after a tentative start they began a relationship that lasted through most of the 1920s. The sexual affair began in 1925, the point at which Woolf wrote in her Diary, "These Sapphists love women; friendship is never untinged with amorosity" (December 21), and is thought to have lasted until 1928. During that time, Vita took two trips to Persia to visit her husband who was working in the British embassy in Tehran. The second time she traveled in the company of another woman, which began to create a rift as Woolf became less and less tolerant of Vita's other affairs.

In 1928, Woolf and E. M. Forster wrote a letter defending Radclyffe Hall's Well of Loneliness, not as a good novel or because of its lesbian content, but in the name of free speech. Various members of Bloomsbury appeared at the obscenity trial prepared to testify as expert witnesses, including Woolf, who described her presence as a way of also defending Vita's Sapphism.

In 1928, Woolf presented Sackville-West with "Orlando," a fantastical biography in which the eponymous hero's life spans three centuries and both genders. It has been called by Nigel Nicolson, Vita Sackville-West's son, "the longest and most charming love letter in literature."

After their affair ended, the two women remained friends until Woolf's death in 1941.

1915 – Josef Kohout (d.1994), German concentration camp survivor and author, was born in Vienna. By age sixteen, he was already aware of his homosexuality. His love for the son of an Nazi party functionary led to his arrest in late 1938. Kohout served a seven-month prison sentence.

After a second arrest, Josef Kohout was sent to the Sachsenhausen concentration camp in mid-January 1940. Four months later, he was transferred to Flossenbürg. He worked as a Kapo in forced labor in the loading commando at the train station. His position as a Kapo was unusual for a homosexual inmate. He survived, as he himself explained, because of his good relations with other “green” Kapos. During the death march in April 1945, Kohout succeeded in escaping near Cham.

Male homosexuality remained a crime after 1945. For decades, Josef Kohout fought for recognition as a victim of National Socialism. The years of his concentration camp incarceration were not counted toward his pension until 1992. Using the pseudonym Heinz Heger, his experiences were published under the title “The Men with the Pink Triangle” in the 1970s. The unique testimony was accorded great respect within the gay movement.

Josef Kohout lived with his male partner in Vienna until his death on March 15, 1994. He never received reparations for his persecution.

Aaron Fricke (R) with Paul Guilbert

1962 – Aaron Fricke is an American gay rights activist. He was born in Providence, Rhode Island. He is best known for the pivotal case in which he successfully sued his high school for not allowing him to bring his boyfriend, Paul Guilbert, to the senior prom at Cumberland High School in Cumberland, Rhode Island.

At the age of 17, shortly after he came out in 1980, Frick decided to take a male date to the high school prom. "The simple thing would have been to go to the senior prom with a girl. But that would have been a lie — a lie to myself, to the girl, and to all the other students." When the high school informed Fricke he could not bring him to the prom, he filed suit in U.S. District court. The presiding judge, Raymond J. Pettine, ruled in Fricke's favor, ordering the school to not only allow him and his partner to attend as a couple but also to provide enough security to ensure their safety. He recounts the battle over that date in in "Reflections of a Rock Lobster: A Story About Growing Up Gay."

He later collaborated with his father, Walter, on a book about their relationship and of the elder Fricke's coming to terms with his son's homosexuality. That book, "Sudden Strangers: The Story of a Gay Son and His Father", was published in 1989.

The suit brought by Aaron Fricke against his school is considered a major milestone in the history of gay rights. Each year cases of young same-sex couples being discriminated against by their schools happen around the world, and when these cases are brought to court, the suit first brought by Aaron Fricke and Paul Guilbert is invariably cited by the plaintiff's counsel.

1963 – Don Mancini is an American screenwriter, producer, and film director. Mancini is best known for creating the character of Chucky, and writing all of the films in the Child's Play series. Mancini was also the executive producer of Bride of Chucky, and he directed, Seed of Chucky, as well as the latest installment in Child's Play franchise, Curse of Chucky.

Along with Michael McDowell and Clive Barker, Mancini is one of the few openly gay writers in the slasher film genre.

In 2007, he won the EyeGore award for career contributions to the horror genre. He sometimes goes by the pseudonym Kit Du Bois (also spelled Kit Dubois).

1970 – Stephen Chbosky is an American novelist, screenwriter, and film director best known for writing the New York Times bestselling coming-of-age novel The Perks of Being a Wallflower (1999), as well as for screenwriting and directing the film version of the same book, starring Logan Lerman, Emma Watson, and Ezra Miller. He also wrote the screenplay for the 2005 film Rent, and was co-creator, executive producer, and writer of the CBS television series Jericho, which began airing in 2006.

Chbosky was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He was raised Catholic. As a teenager, Chbosky "enjoyed a good blend of the classics, horror, and fantasy." He was heavily influenced by J. D. Salinger's novel The Catcher in the Rye and the writing of F. Scott Fitzgerald and Tennessee Williams. Chbosky graduated from Upper St. Clair High School in 1988, around which time he met Stewart Stern, screenwriter of the 1955 James Dean film Rebel Without a Cause. Stern became Chbosky's "good friend and mentor", and proved a major influence on Chbosky's career.He wrote, directed, and acted in the 1995 independent film The Four Corners of Nowhere, which got Chbosky his first agent, was accepted by the Sundance Film Festival, and became one of the first films shown on the Sundance Channel. In the late 1990s, Chbosky wrote several unproduced screenplays, including ones titled Audrey Hepburn's Neck and Schoolhouse Rock. In 1994, Chbosky was working on a "very different type of book" than The Perks of Being a Wallflower when he wrote the line, "I guess that's just one of the perks of being a wallflower." Chbosky recalled that he "wrote that line. And stopped. And realized that somewhere in that [sentence] was the kid I was really trying to find." After several years of gestation, Chbosky began researching and writing The Perks of Being a Wallflower, an epistolary novel that follows the intellectual and emotional maturation of a teenager who uses the alias Charlie over the course of his first year of high school. The book is semi-autobiographical; Chbosky has said that he "relate[s] to Charlie[...] But my life in high school was in many ways different."

The book, Chbosky's first novel, was published by MTV Books in 1999, and was an immediate popular success with teenage readers; by 2000, the novel was MTV Books' best-selling title, and The New York Times noted in 2007 that it had sold more than 700,000 copies and "is passed from adolescent to adolescent like a hot potato". As of May 2013, the number of copies in print reached over two million. Wallflower also stirred up controversy due to Chbosky's portrayal of teen sexuality and drug use. The book has been removed from circulation in several schools and appeared on the American Library Association's 2004, 2006, 2007, 2008, and 2009 lists of the 10 most frequently challenged books. As of July 2013, The Perks of Being a Wallflower had spent over a year on the New York Times Bestseller list, and is published in 31 languages.

Chbosky lives and works in Los Angeles, California. He is an active gay rights supporter, and he continues to work on films.

1993 – South Africa adopted its post-Apartheid constitution. The breathtaking freedoms declared in this document made South Africa the first nation to bar discrimination based on sexual orientation.

[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)

[alexanderwales]

Reading through a translation of the Red Baron's autobiography, which was done by an Englishman. Still on the preface, which gives some context and was written in 1918, not long after the autobiography itself.

Another touch of that nature which makes all aviators akin is seen in his accounts of how he and other pupils under instruction used to fly off on cross-country training trips and suffer from opportune forced landings in the parks of their friends or in likely-looking estates. One imagined that this manifestation of "wongling" was an essentially English trick, and would not have been tolerated for a moment under the iron discipline of the German Army. In the early days of the R.F.C. this looking for opulent hosts used to be known sarcastically as "hunting for Jew-palaces."

I found this to be a charming little anecdote, the "faking a forced landing at opulent estates" thing, until he got to "Jew-palaces", which ... I mean, it was 1918, I don't expect any better. But I went to go look up the man who wrote the preface, and:

Grey founded The Aeroplane, remaining as editor of the influential weekly until November 1939. He was a man of decided opinions as evidenced in his editorials for the magazine over three decades. Unfortunately for him, these included strong support for the fascist dictators of Italy and Germany, which played no small part in his leaving the magazine. Grey was a man of fascist sympathies and an ardent supporter of Hitler; in the 1930s he aired his anti-Semitic, anti-Bolshevist and pro-fascist opinions in his editorials.

Welp.

[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.