#United Voices of Labour

[nando161mando]

Harrods refuses to engage with the workers or the United Voices of Labour union representing them. The company has been in the spotlight over serious allegations of rape and sexual abuse against its former owner, Mohammed Al Fayed.

https://freedomnews.org.uk/2024/12/04/harrods-workers-vote-for-xmas-strike/

[indigenouspeopleday]

Advocating for the Visibility and Rights of Mobile Indigenous Peoples: The Dana+20 Manifesto (UNPFII Side Event).

This side event aims to amplify the voices of Mobile Indigenous Peoples and review the challenges faced by Mobile Indigenous Peoples to achieve rights, recognition and self-determination.

The side event will serve to disseminate the Dana+20 Manifesto of Mobile Peoples (2022) and will offer an opportunity to support the UN Special Rapporteur on the rights of Indigenous Peoples in his preparation for a thematic report on the situation of Mobile Indigenous Peoples to be submitted to the UN General Assembly in October 2024. This is a critical time to focus on the situation of Mobile Peoples, especially women and youth within these groups, and find avenues that affirm their rights and self-determination. The event will identify initiatives to recognize and respect the rights of Mobile Peoples including existing UN mechanisms, ILO instruments and their gaps.

Related Sites and Documents

Watch the Advocating for the Visibility and Rights of Mobile Indigenous Peoples: The Dana+20 Manifesto (UNPFII Side Event)!

[rileyslibrary]

You burst into the office and slam the door behind you. Ghost jumps from his seat and looks up from the paperwork he’s been filling out. His eyes widen as you sprint towards him.

“What the f-”

“Just play along,” you interject, dragging a chair and plopping down. You grab two sheets of paper from the pile next to him and snatch the first pen within reach.

He keeps staring at you dumbfounded before managing to utter something.

“Can you at least-”

“Nope,” you cut him off while focusing on the papers and nibbling on the pen. “No, can’t do. You need to trust me on this one.”

“Define what ‘this one’ is.” He demands.

“Shhhh,” you hush him, waving your hand dismissively and glancing over your shoulder at the door. “He’s coming.”

“Who’s com-”

The door swings open, and footsteps approach. They settle beside you, and a hand slams on the desk. Ghost looks at the hand, then upward.

“Captain,” he says. “What brings you in-”

“For the love of everything you hold dear, Simon, you better not be involved in any of this,” Price warns. He slams his hand on the desk again and looks at you. “Why were you running away from me?” He asks.

You stare at him with furrowed eyebrows before removing the pen from your mouth.

“I wasn’t running away from you, sir,” you reply, pointing the pen at Ghost. “I was late for my meeting with the lieutenant.”

Price turns towards Ghost, seeking for an appropriate answer. The lieutenant sits up straight on his chair, clasps his hands together and motions with his head towards you.

“Very punctual, this one.” He says.

“Cut the crap, Simon,” Price orders and turns to you. “What were you doing inside Bravo Unit’s barracks last night?”

“Bravo Unit has barracks?” You ask Ghost. He shoots you a side-eye and raises one eyebrow.

“Stop playing dump and answer the question,” Price warns and points at Ghost. “And don’t look at him—he’s not covering for you this time.”

“How about you start from the beginning, boss,” Ghost interjects. “What happened?”

“Someone broke into Bravo Unit’s barracks last night and stole every inch of toilet paper they had,” Price says, looking at you, then turning to Ghost. “And not just toilet paper, mind you! Kitchen rolls and tissues are gone as well.”

“Tsk tsk tsk,” Ghost murmurs, shaking his head. “Such an inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience, Simon?” Price whispers, leaning on the desk. “The entirety of Bravo Unit had to wipe their ass with parchment paper this morning.”

Ghost brings his hand to his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. He lowers his head and takes deep, laboured breaths. Price is already fuming, so you decide to intervene.

“I was never inside Bravo Unit’s barracks, sir,” You state. “I just happened to walk through it once.”

“Oh, I see, I see—you walked through it once,” Price repeats, nodding. He removes something from his pocket and slams it on the desk.

“The instigator left this behind,” he states, looking back and forth between the two of you.

You and Ghost look at the garment on the desk—it’s a skull balaclava that once belonged to the lieutenant. He gave it to you last Winter since your ears and nose tend to get cold during patrol.

“Now,” Price states, “would you care to brief me on who this belongs to?”

“Hm,” you murmur, setting the pen and papers on the desk. You pick up the mask and start examining it. You look at Ghost, who stares at the mask with his eyeballs threatening to pop out of his face. He shoots you a deathly stare, and you redirect your attention to Price.

“That looks like it must be the lieutenant’s,” you reply, lifting the balaclava next to Ghost’s masked face. “With the skull and all—it’s a perfect match, actually.”

You both turn to Ghost, whose expression has transformed from utter disbelief to an inexplicable calmness.

“Indeed, that looks exactly like the one I lost,” Ghost confirms, taking the mask from you.

“Is it now?” Price asks in a high-pitched voice, tilting his head to the side. “Do me a favour and smell it for me, Riley.”

Ghost does exactly as he’s told. He brings the mask close to his nose, sniffs it, and nods. “Yup,” he confirms. “Smells exactly like me, too.”

Price sighs, takes a bottle from the pocket of his cargo pants and slams it on the desk. “So you want me to believe you use ‘Magnolia Blossom with Moroccan oil’ as a shampoo?” he asks.

“I’ve got dry hair.” Ghost shrugs.

“You should try coconut oil instead,” you suggest to Ghost, “it’s cheaper.”

Price kicks the chair next to you, and you both turn to look at him. He presses his lips together, and a red flush creeps on his neck, threatening to reach his head. He opens his mouth to say something, but you stop him.

“Why did you go through peoples’ stuff without their permission, sir?”

“Oh, I wasn’t going through anyone’s stuff,” Price explains. “You just were dumb enough to ditch the balaclava right behind the barracks. The detection dog picked up on the smell and led us to your stuff—it was a perfect match, just like you said.”

“You had sniffer dogs involved in this?” Ghost asks.

“I had to.” Price replies. “Pair the parchment paper with a day full of training, and Bravo Unit developed the worst rash they had since wearing diapers.”

A chuckle escapes Ghost, and he tries to silence it with his hand. He takes quick gasps of air, and you try to retain your laughter, too.

“Please tell me you’re not laughing!” Price shouts.

“No, boss,” Ghost says and wipes his tears, “It’s just so-”

“-sad,” you say and wipe your eyes as well. “It’s so sad.”

Price looks at you, then at the lieutenant. Now defeated, he sighs and throws his head back, shutting his eyes.

“I’m done with both of you.” He says, lifting his arms and dropping them to his sides. “I expect all toilet papers to be returned today. And as for you, you are responsible for cleaning Bravo’s toilets for the entire month.”

“For the whole month?!” You shout and wince at the idea.

“Be glad I didn’t make you wipe their asses as well.” He shouts as he walks to the door and slams it behind him.

Ghost recovers from the laugh and directs his attention to you. He tries to be serious but his teary eyes betray him.

“That was a hazardous operation you did back there,” he says.

“I didn’t do anything.” You reply, still vouching for your innocence. “But whoever did it taught Bravo Unit not to mess with our thermostats again.”

Ghost shakes his head. “I just happened to walk through the barracks once,” he says, repeating your earlier statement. “What were you thinking? Who walks through barracks?”

“I don’t know,” you reply, shrugging. “Ghosts would be my guess.”

[littlefreya]

Do you think Syverson would like it if his girlfriend gets a tattoo of his name on her wrist?

Disclaimer: Logan is not Sy’s real name (he doesn’t have one in the film). I came up with this name for him in Lines in the Sand. However, it’s not the same Sy from that story, nor from Feral Collision. :)

Pure cotton candy fluff.

Please comment and reblog 🖤

****

“Now that’s jinxing it, darlin’!” The Captain huffed, displeased at the fresh marking that decorated his girl’s wrist.

A deep frown crested his tanned brow as he inspected it closely, tilting her wrist back and forth.

‘Logan’ it read in big black accented letters. It wasn’t even a good tattoo to begin with. Trashy style, like the one his friends at the unit had. Did she get it at some walk-in studio at the train station? Knowing the reckless imp she is, he wouldn’t be surprised.

“I thought you’d like it…” she answered sheepishly, her voice somewhat vulnerable.

Sy lifted his gaze to meet hers, his big blue eyes softening as he noticed the concern and guilt sufracing her face. Carefully, he cradled her hand between his labour-coarse palms and drew it to his chest.

“Oh, darlin’, don't get me wrong. I love it that you did it for me, but…”

“But?”

“You know what they say about couples who get one another’s names inked, right? They end up breaking up and then you are left with that mistake haunting you for the rest of your life. I don’t want that. I don’t want us ever breaking up…” Sy explained, his voice carrying gently as he took her little palm and brought it to his lips. He kissed each one of her fingers, the bristle of his beard grazing her skin and making her chuckle.

“Is that a wedding proposal?” she jested.

Sy's heart jumped to his throat. For a moment there he wondered if she knew about the ring hidden in his old duffle bag. Looking at her pretty little face, staring at him with fervent anticipation, he considered asking her now, in the heat of the moment. But his impish little love deserved more than a mid-noon proposal.

“Now don’t push it, missy,” he warned playfully and booped her nose. “Now let’s get that tattoo taken care of and put some ointment on it”

[sankofaspirit]

Why Dr. John Henrik Clarke Is Correct About Black People Having No Friends (and why We Don’t Need Any) – a Garveyite Perspective

Dr. John Henrik Clarke famously stated, “Black people have no friends.” For many, this may sound harsh, but it is a sobering truth when viewed through the lens of Pan-Africanism and Marcus Garvey’s philosophy. Garvey understood that Black liberation can not depend on external allies; it must come from within—rooted in self-reliance, unity, and a shared commitment among Black people globally.

Here’s why, Dr. Clarke’s statement rings true and why, from a Garveyite perspective, Black people don’t need friends—only each other.

1. History Proves It

From colonialism to the civil rights era, supposed "friends" of Black people have repeatedly betrayed or abandoned us. Other groups have leveraged Black struggles for their own gains, only to leave Black people behind once their goals were achieved.

Post-slavery labour movements excluded Black workers.

Civil rights coalitions saw other groups gain rights, while Black people remained trapped under systemic racism.

Garvey and Clarke both saw these betrayals as evidence that Black people must prioritize their own interests and stop relying on others.

2. Global Anti-Blackness Is Real

Anti-Blackness isn’t confined to one region—it’s a global phenomenon. Across continents, Black people face systemic oppression, discrimination, and dehumanization.

Other groups often form alliances to protect their own power while marginalizing Black voices.

Even in spaces of shared oppression, anti-Blackness often takes precedence.

Dr. Clarke’s assertion and Garvey’s vision both point to this truth: Black liberation must come from within because no one else will prioritize us.

3. Dependency Leads to Exploitation

Depending on outside "friends" or allies often comes with hidden costs. Foreign aid, alliances, and solidarity movements often prioritize the interests of others over Black liberation.

Aid to African nations often perpetuates dependency rather than fostering self-sufficiency.

"Allies" in social justice movements often centre their struggles, leaving Black people to fight alone.

Garvey warned that dependency breeds vulnerability. Clarke reinforces this: Black people must build their own systems to avoid exploitation.

4. We Have Everything We Need

Garvey believed that Black people possess the resources, talents, and ingenuity needed for liberation.

Africa’s wealth: With its vast natural resources, Africa can fund global Black empowerment if reclaimed from exploitative systems.

Diaspora talent: Across the globe, Black communities excel in innovation, creativity, and resilience.

Dr. Clarke’s statement echoes Garvey’s vision: We don’t need friends because we already have all the tools for success.

5. Cultural Exploitation Is Proof of No True Friendship

Black culture—music, art, fashion, and more—is celebrated globally, but Black people are rarely compensated or empowered by their own creations.

Other groups profit from Black innovation while perpetuating anti-Black systems.

Cultural exploitation demonstrates a lack of true solidarity.

Garvey’s solution: Black people must reclaim their culture and use it as a tool for empowerment, not exploitation.

6. Unity Is Our Greatest Strength (and Threat to Oppressors)

A united global Black community is the most powerful weapon against systemic oppression. Garvey emphasized unity, and Clarke’s assertion underscores why others fear it:

A unified Black world challenges global power structures that thrive on division.

By focusing on internal unity, Black people strengthen themselves and disrupt oppressive systems.

7. Allies Often Divide Us

Alliances can create divisions within Black movements, as external influences pit factions against each other or dilute the focus on Black liberation.

During the civil rights movement, alliances often marginalized more radical Black voices.

Today, funding from external groups can cause conflicts between grassroots Black organizers and larger organizations tied to outside agendas.

Garvey’s emphasis on self-reliance offers a solution: Black unity must come first, free from outside interference.

8. Other Groups Prioritize Their Own Interests

Every group prioritizes its own survival and progress—it’s not wrong, but Black people must learn from this.

White nations maintain global alliances to uphold their dominance.

Asian nations focus on economic self-sufficiency.

Jewish communities have built strong networks to protect and uplift their people.

Garvey and Clarke would agree: It’s time for Black people to do the same and put themselves first.

9. Historical Success Through Self-Reliance

History proves that Black people thrive when they rely on themselves:

The Haitian Revolution succeeded because enslaved Africans united and rejected external dependence.

Garvey’s UNIA (Universal Negro Improvement Association) built businesses, schools, and a global movement without outside help.

These examples show that self-reliance works. Black people don’t need friends—they need focus.

10. True Liberation Is Self-Determined

Liberation can not be outsourced, gifted, or borrowed—it must be self-determined. Allies may help temporarily, but no one will prioritize Black liberation over their own interests.

Garvey envisioned a world where Black people controlled their own economies, politics, and resources.

Clarke’s assertion reminds us that we can’t afford to waste time seeking validation or support from others.

11. Black Liberation Threatens Global Power Structures

Both Garvey and Clarke understood that Black liberation isn’t just a struggle for freedom—it’s a direct threat to the systems of power that dominate the world.

A free and united Africa would undermine Western economic dominance, which relies on exploiting African resources.

A globally empowered Black diaspora would disrupt industries, politics, and systems built on anti-Blackness.

This explains why no other group can truly be a friend to Black liberation. Their survival often depends on maintaining the status quo that oppresses us.

12. “Allies” Often Centre Themselves in Our Struggles

Even when other groups claim to stand in solidarity with Black movements, their involvement often centers their own experiences, narratives, and priorities.

Non-black allies frequently shift attention to their struggles, leaving Black people to carry the burden of fighting for everyone else.

Movements like Black Lives Matter have seen external groups co-opt their messages for personal or political gain.

Garvey’s philosophy reminds us to stay focused on our own goals and not allow our movements to be hijacked.

13. Romanticizing External Help Distracts from Pan-African Solutions

One of the pitfalls of seeking allies is the belief that external help is necessary or even superior. This mindset can prevent Black people from exploring Pan-African solutions.

Garvey’s vision of “Africa for Africans” called for African nations and the diaspora to work together without relying on foreign nations or systems.

Clarke’s statement reinforces this idea: the best solutions come from within. Black people don’t need external friends—they need internal unity.

14. Allies Often Maintain Anti-Black Systems

Even so-called “progressive” allies often uphold the same systems that oppress Black people.

Corporations claiming to support racial justice continue to exploit African resources and labour.

Governments speaking out against racism still engage in policies that harm Black communities worldwide.

Dr. Clarke and Garvey both understood this hypocrisy. Real liberation requires rejecting systems that perpetuate oppression, even if they claim to support us.

15. Our Focus Should Be on Building Future Generations, Not Pleasing Others

Garvey often emphasized the importance of preparing future generations to lead and succeed independently.

Clarke’s warning about having no friends reinforces this: Why waste time seeking allies when we could be building schools, economies, and systems that empower our children?

A Garveyite perspective prioritizes creating a legacy of self-reliance and leadership that ensures the survival and progress of Black people globally.

By focusing on the future, Black people can stop relying on the approval or assistance of others and instead secure their own destinies.

Final Reflection: All We Have Is Us, and That’s Enough

Dr. John Henrik Clarke’s statement and Marcus Garvey’s philosophy both lead to the same conclusion: Black people must take responsibility for their liberation. True freedom can not and will not come from allies—it must come from within. The power lies in our hands, in our unity, and in our shared commitment to self-determination.

We don’t need friends. We need ourselves.

[meowmeowmeowmeow4x]

Dark Blue Moon and the Suffering Sun Capitulo 2

credit @brekitten @bucketorandomness @hermit-scribe-vibe for help and inspiracion :D

Danny clamped his teeth down on his kill, at last a fish big enough that to feed the both of them, and which hadn't escaped. Ear fins fanned out, he kept wary of approaching hums of boat engines.It could've been only a few minutes, but to Danny it was as if hours had passed. He'd already failed Damian once, and for his distraction he earned a new gash or two from his hunt.

Danny startled when he came back. Damian had not awoken just yet, but the transformation was complete. Dark green scales enveloped every inch of skin on his body, soft from youth. Spots of gold scales like freckles gathered around his cheeks, and at the base of each of his fins and transitioned into full golden membrane with the faintest red along the tips.

And of course, Damian had no legs, none at all, replaced by the thick sinew and muscles of a siren's tail. All of this Danny knew would happen, and expected, but he never thought about how tiny Damian looked at the moment.

From head to tailfin, Damian's new height (or length?) only equalled half of his human height. Siren children were small compared to humans, for sure, but even Youngblood was easily a head or two taller than Damian at this moment.

Before he could ruminate further, Damian's eyes shot open. Faster than Danny could blink, the new siren launched himself at Daniel with a piercing shriek of a war cry.

Damian's talons gripped onto Danny's scales, and his jaw snapped down upon his shoulder like a vice. Danny yelped and fell upon his back and bent his sail.

Damian's tiny hands wrapped around the elder boy's neck. His tiny young face twisted into an honestly shocking amount of anger and agression. His hackles rose and his fins stood at full attention.

"Where am I?! What have you done to me?! Return me to my original form or perish!" Damian spat out in hissed clicks and chirps. Despite the situation, Danny finds himself thinking he had to be really upset if he didn't even notice the change in voice.

"Answer me!" Damian hiss and bared his teeth. Danny gulped, which was difficult considering the tiny hands vice-gripping his neck. Suddenly he realised he'd never had to comfort a newly-turned before.

"H-hey hey hey now, there's no need to get all murderous over here!" That was the wrong thing to say, because suddenly there was a katana straight for his neck. "Where did you get that?!"

"From my clothes, you buffon, the clothes that you violently relieved me off. What other untoward things have you done with my body? Speak!"

"Look I didn't do anything untoward to your body I swear! I was trying to save you!"

"You mutilated me! You kidnapped me and drowned me and now you clain innocence with nothing to prove such a notion!" Damian's grip wavered for a moment, and Danny realised something. This kid was probalby scared out of his life, and his shouting wasn't helping anything. The smaller boy's gills flapped open. His breathing laboured, heavily.

"You need water. You're not gonna survive long.

"I can kill you long before that point." Gently, Danny picked the child up by the waist, his arms far outreaching the boy's tiny limbs. "Unhand my you psychotic murdering wretch!"

Horns blared in the distance. Damian's body seized up, his ear fins curling in on themselves in Danny's peripheral vision. "They've caught up to us."

"Good, now it means you can be put to justice and I reunited with my father."

Danny coiled his tail and pulled Damian against his chest, against the boy's protests. "The only thing they're gonna unite you with is a scalpel."

"I said unhand me!"

"No time!" Danny uncoiled like a spring and shot into the water. GiW agents shouted above the surface. Danny held him tight against his body. Motors roared into action and echoed through the water. Sonars rang in his ears. But they could never catch up to even a teenage siren.

Pain rocked up his arm. Danny loosed his grip, and Damian slipped out. After floundering for just a few seconds, Damian righted himself and bolted for the ships. The speed at which he made for the freaking GiW shocked Danny. This kid was a human less than an hour ago!

Shit. "Where the heck are you going?!" Danny shouted. He wasted precious seconds turning around and doubling back. "They're not gonna help you Damian!"

"You cannot fool me with your temptations, siren!" Daman spat out. Then he did the absolute worst thing. He surfaced.

Danny's heart sank again. No, no, not again. He pushed through as fast as he could. Damian shouted something above the water. An agent in cold sunglasses aimed a gun at him.

Damian seemed to realise his mistake. He tried to evade the attack, but his strange body just left him rolling over in place.

Danny's eyes glowed blue. Seawater froze into ice in his hands, and he tossed the spear over water. The spear landed an inch away from where the agent was standing. In his shock, he lowered his gun. Danny shot forward. He grabbed Damian's hand and pulled him away. Harpoons flew into the water. Danny ducked and weaved through all of them and full speed. Soon they were far behind the horizon.

[mariacallous]

“The muddy depths are being stirred by new monsters and witches from the deep,” Gore Vidal once wrote of the resurgence of the far right in the United States. In the case of the rioting that has erupted across England and Northern Ireland this week and last, old hatreds have been stirred up using new technologies.

The initial spark for the violence that has plagued British towns and cities was the sickening murder of three young girls last Monday in the seaside town of Southport, stabbed at a Taylor Swift-themed dance and yoga session. It was the sort of horrific crime that is mercifully rare in Britain. The last comparable attack on children occurred almost 30 years ago.

The only suspect in the Southport murders, 17-year-old Axel Rudakubana, was immediately arrested. We know Rudakubana’s name only because the judge in his case lifted an anonymity order—imposed as standard when the accused is a minor until legal proceedings begin—because false claims about the suspect’s origins were helping to fuel the racist violence. Social media posts claiming that the attacker was a Muslim, a refugee, a migrant, or a foreigner received 27 million impressions on Twitter/X in the 24 hours after the Southport killings.

Far-right groups descended on Southport the day after the stabbings. We know little about Rudakubana, but on Aug. 1 we did learn that he is a British national who was born in Cardiff to parents from Rwanda, a country with a large Christian majority. This has not prevented far-right thugs from rampaging through towns and cities including Manchester, Liverpool, Sunderland, Rotherham, Tamworth, Hartlepool, Middlesbrough, Aldershot, and Belfast, targeting Muslims

Many on the right have rushed to attribute the mobs to a sense of disillusion and a supposed social gap between the working class and the “elite”—a group in which they are never keen to count themselves. A few left-wingers have shared similar opinions. It is true that material factors have created a propitious environment in Britain for unrest. After 14 years of Tory government, before the recent Labour victory, the country is a poorer and more resentful place, its sclerotic and creaking public infrastructure barely functioning after years of neglect.

There is much to be angry about. Yet this does not adequately explain the nature nor the scale of the violence, much of which has been driven by a bourgeoning alliance between a right-wing elite and the mob—an alliance that, as Hannah Arendt once put it, rests on the “genuine delight with which the former [watch] the latter destroy respectability.”

For its part, the mob has attacked mosques, set buildings on fire, looted shops, violently assaulted ethnic minority bystanders, attacked cars on residential streets, and thrown bricks at the police. “We want our country back,” they yelled over the weekend while attempting to set fire to a hotel in Rotherham because they believed it was housing asylum-seekers. “P**i Muslims off our streets,” they yelled in Leeds. Footage from elsewhere showed men adorned with swastika tattoos, arms thrown up in Nazi salutes, voices yelling at anybody with brown skin to “go home.” This is not a rage that can, or should, be appeased.

This is not the first time rioting in the U.K. has been driven by bigotry. In Notting Hill in 1958, a mob of 400 white people attacked West Indian residents and their property. In the same week, racially motivated riots also broke out in St. Ann’s in Nottingham. Going further back, the Gordon Riots of 1780 saw an eruption of violent anti-Catholic sentiment.

Despite the atavistic nature of the hatreds unleashed this week and last, many who have taken to the streets this time around are creatures of social media. Several prominent far-right influencers have come out on social media in support of the mayhem with all sails unfurled. Others have been whipped into a near-homicidal frenzy by misinformation on apps such as X.

The kudzu spread of incendiary falsehoods began with the lie, first promulgated on X by the managing director of a clothing company, that the suspect in the Southport murders was an asylum-seeker named “Ali Al-Shakati.” The misogynist influencer Andrew Tate shared the false claim while asserting that the attacker was an “illegal immigrant.” The far-right activist Stephen Yaxley-Lennon, better known as “Tommy Robinson,” has used X to call for “mass deportations” and described Islam as a “mental health issue.” Meanwhile, disgraced actor Laurence Fox reacted to the stabbings by calling for Islam to be “removed from Britain.”

The mob responded accordingly. The day after false rumors about Ali Al-Shakati had began swirling around on social media, a group of white men attacked a mosque in Southport. The street violence has continued ever since.

Lurking in the background while disinformation is spread is a wealthy right-wing elite that has started to flex its political muscles. Some of the worst purveyors of misinformation have accounts on X only because right-wing billionaire Elon Musk has reinstated them—together with numerous other white supremacist accounts—under the guise of “free speech.”

Musk has spread misinformation about the riots on the app, claiming in one post that “civil war is inevitable” in Britain and amplifying one of Robinson’s posts. Robinson was reinstated by Musk in 2023 and today has more than 800,000 followers. Similarly, though he was banned from X in 2017 for claiming that women should bear “some responsibility” for being sexually harassed and assaulted, Tate was reinstated by Musk in 2022.

The takeover of media platforms by wealthy elites is driven by a right-wing adoption of the Gramscian belief that the conquest of power comes only after the conquest of culture. Musk, the world’s richest man, purchased X for $44 billion in 2022 in order to combat what he calls the “woke mind virus.” Together with renaming the platform, one of Musk’s first actions was to do away with legacy blue checks and open up verification on the platform to anybody with $8.

The move thrilled Musk’s sycophantic fan base, which had previously chafed with resentment at the status differential on the app between themselves and what they contemptuously referred to as the “legacy media.” But it also turned X into the world’s largest vector of misinformation. It is also of a piece with former White House strategist Steve Bannon’s idea of “flooding the zone with shit”—i.e., destroying the traditional media’s ability to give the public accurate information by letting it sink in a deluge of bullshit.

It isn’t only social media where influential right-wing figures have been allowed to blur the distinction between legitimate protest and far-right violence. Ever since the riots began last week, the British television station GB News has often sought to excuse them. Launched in 2021 and co-owned by the multimillionaire hedge fund manager Paul Marshall, since the murders in Southport, GB News has given airtime to an assortment of cranks, demagogues, and grifters. On more than one occasion, the station’s language has come dangerously close to incitement. The leader of the Reform U.K. party, Nigel Farage, who has his own show on GB News, also took to X in the aftermath of the Southport attacks to ask whether “the truth is being withheld from us” by the police about the identity of the suspect.

Earlier this year, Marshall—who as well as owning the reactionary website UnHerd is believed to be trying to purchase the Spectator and the Telegraph—was caught liking and sharing content close to the material that has been circulated this week by paranoid fascist weirdos. In February, the anti-extremist charity Hope not Hate revealed that Marshall had endorsed tweets calling for mass deportations and which suggested a civil war between “native Europeans” and “fake refugee invaders” was imminent.

Many of the presenters and guests on GB News have spent this week mocking Prime Minister Keir Starmer for labeling the riots as far right. Instead, the channel has sought to portray the street violence as driven by the “legitimate concerns” of disenfranchised members of the working class. The idea that the thuggish behavior of recent days is somehow representative of the working class is itself a form of middle-class prejudice—rooted in the unspoken assumption that working-class people are inherently stupid, racist, and violent.

GB News operates on familiar right-wing populist lines. Its prolier-than-thou presenters make superficial overtures to the masses while its modus operandi is to ensure that power is never truly shared or redistributed. But let’s not be too partisan about it: GB News is pushing at a door that has already been loosened by more “respectable” media coverage of migrants and asylum-seekers.

There is a self-pitying refrain on the right that you “can’t talk about” immigration. Yet the big mouths and shock jocks of the right-wing media seldom shut up about it. This time last year, the broadcaster James Whale suggested on Rupert Murdoch’s TalkTV that the U.K. “should point weapons” at migrants in the English Channel. Even talking about migrants in this sort of bloodthirsty language is no impediment to getting on. A few months later, Whale was made an MBE.

The suggestion that the violent protests represent the last resort of Britain’s forgotten majority is, of course, laughable. When polled, nearly 50 percent of Britons wanted harsher-than-usual sentences for the rioters, 39 percent the usual norms of sentencing, and just 4 percent more lenient charges.

Less than five weeks ago, Starmer convincingly won a general election against a Tory party that campaigned on the slogan of stopping the boats carrying asylum-seekers to the United Kingdom. In truth, the ghouls who have haunted television studios this week making excuses for the rioters see any Labour government as equivalent to an occupying power. They want their country back because, after 14 years, they feel as if it has been lost at the ballot box.

But if anybody has a right to think of themselves as the voice of the people at the present time, it is the newly elected Labour prime minister. He may not own a television station or a social media app, but he does have a 174-seat majority in the House of Commons. The rule of law—and democracy—must prevail.

[feckcops]

Starmer’s so-called “landslide victory” is built on sand

A deeply unpopular leader, Starmer has not secured the resounding endorsement his 412 seat tally would suggest, while record numbers of Green and independent MPs could pose a robust leftist challenge to Starmer’s Government ­– if they get organised

Keir Starmer, an ersatz Blair without a hint of his charisma or vision, is now Prime Minister, despite securing a vote share six percentage points lower than Jeremy Corbyn in 2017. These results expose the widespread disillusionment, if not outright resentment, towards both Labour and the Tories. Smaller parties and independents had a great showing, with shock wins for Greens and pro-Palestine independents, but also Farage's Reform Party (if indeed you can call a limited company with a CEO and no membership a party). However, a large minority of eligible voters chose not to vote at all, with turnout dropping to 60 percent. This matches the record low set in 2001, when everyone knew Blair was set to be re-elected on a landslide. In elections expected to produce a new government, turnout usually rises – but not so this time. Shockingly, Labour’s mantra of “false hope is worse than no hope” failed to inspire any hope for real change.

It is a damning indictment of our voting system that a party can win over two thirds of seats and celebrate a “landslide victory” after winning over just one in five eligible voters. (Out of the 60 percent who voted, Labour only won a third of the vote.) Thanks to our twee unwritten constitution, this technical win grants Keir Starmer the right to form an electoral dictatorship for the next five years. However, the results do offer some silver linings...

Corbyn won his seat as an independent with a 7,250 vote lead over Labour, after he was blocked from running as Labour’s candidate in Islington North, a seat he'd held for 40 years. Labour also lost Chingford and Woodford Green to Ian Duncan Smith, after Faiza Shaheen was similarly blocked by Labour on dubious grounds and continued her campaign as an independent – ultimately this helped IDS win with around 17,200 votes, compared to Faiza Shaheen and the Labour candidate who each got around 12,500 votes. Shadow cabinet minister Jonathon Ashworth lost his seat to a pro-Palestine independent, along with three other Labour MPs, while another pro-Palestine independent left prominent Terf and shadow health minister Wes Streeting clinging on by a thread. Israel's brutal escalation of its 75 year-long genocide in Palestine has not only dismayed Muslims and anti-Semites, as the media love to imply, but a diverse coalition of people united by their outrage at leading politicians excusing, if not actively cheerleading, such barbarity. These results prove there is an electoral cost for enabling rogue states to commit crimes against humanity.

Beyond the three largest parties, the balance of power in Parliament now lies with a socialist, environmentalist, pro-Palestine left. The Greens won all four of their target seats – not only in the young, urban constituencies of Brighton Pavilion and Bristol Central, but also in the rural, once solidly Tory constituencies of Waveney Valley and North Herefordshire – an achievement few really thought possible. (Greens and pro-Palestine independents also came second in a record number of constituencies, laying the ground for more gains next time.) Those four Green MPs, along with Corbyn and the other four pro-Palestine independents, make up nearly double Reform’s five MPs. As such, we will have a principled leftist grouping in Parliament, not beholden to the Labour whip, to hold Starmer to account.

There is hope the new pro-Palestine independents can put aside subtle philosophical differences and work together to offer a robust left opposition to Starmer. We could see Corbyn and other independents join the Green Party. This would be a strategic move; they could still reasonably claim to be independent voices for their constituents as Green MPs, as the Green Party does not whip its MPs like other parties. Meanwhile, they would benefit from this established party’s resources, networks and mass membership. The highly democratic structure of the party means, if they brought a lot of their voters with them, new Green MPs could even secure a change to any Green policies they disagreed with. As for socialist Labour MPs, we could even see some defect to the Greens now they've secured their seats, especially if Labour remains a deeply hostile environment for them. Defections from Labour seem unlikely at this stage, but they cannot be ruled out.

More than anything, we should take heed that our best chance of enacting real change lies in our communities, through grassroots organising and direct, solidaristic action. Green and pro-Palestine independents only won by rooting themselves in their communities, engaging with the voters they hoped to represent, and inspiring masses of people to join their campaigns. We cannot rely on career politicians, whose class interests are diametrically opposed to ours, to protect us and our interests.

There's more to politics than elections, which only come around every few years and, all too often, seem to yield no real change. Real progress does not come from above. It is not gifted to us by the powers on high. It is fought for, from the ground up. In the words of Frederick Douglass, power concedes nothing without a demand. We must keep faith, keep fighting and keep organising. This election shows us that hard work can bear fruit. We know a better world is possible, but we won't achieve it by just voting. It’s on us to bring it about.

[readyforevolution]

GENOCIDE JOE'S LEGACY

US President Joe Biden’s dropped out of his re-election bid after weeks of pressure from fellow party members, sparked by a disastrous presidential debate performance against Donald Trump on June 27th. Behind him, 'Genocide Joe' leaves a destructive legacy as bloody as they come.

He's armed and bankrolled Israel’s obliteration of Gaza and consistently vetoed UN resolutions for a ceasefire. Domestically, many Black people will remember him backing a crime bill which disproportionately locked up the Black community. Even as a young politician, he fought against desegregation of schools in case his children ‘grow up in a racial jungle’.

In all, it’s good riddance but the future isn’t looking brighter with his endorsement of his Vice President Kamala Harris for president. She's also a terrible record when it comes to keeping Black men locked up to provide cheap labour. As for Trump, let's not even bother.

It’s clear the African community in the United States still needs a voice. The question is, where will it come from?

Credit : Carlos Latuff

#USA #President #JoeBiden #DonaldTrump #Destructive #Legacy #Genocide #Israel #Gaza #UN #CeaseFire

[saintsenara]

Asking for trouble here but I’m in an excellent mood after seeing Mogg lose. Who are the characters voting for yesterday? Well, at least those characters who know what a genny lec is because the Wizarding World doesn’t seem to have any concept of party politics. Where’s the fringe group always banging on about the bloated civil service and getting disproportionate column space in The Prophet? Hermione’s a Lib Dem. Cokeworth went for Boris after a century voting Labour, but Snape wouldn’t have done. Lord Voldemort has definitely cast a vote at least once for the Communist Party of Britain, if only for the bants.

we're going to do this for the parties in the superior part of the united kingdom of great britain and northern ireland:

harry - social democratic and labour party

ron - same

hermione - alliance

dumbledore - traditional unionist voice [fawkes is orange, after all]

snape - sinn féin

lord voldemort - saoradh

[milkteaarttime]

First Meet (Pt.1)

This is the first meeting of my OC Latte with the Ghosts. A big shout out and thanks to @blacktacmopsi for allowing me to reference the MRE fic she wrote! It's my first ever fic; please be kind to me and enjoy (^ V ^ )!!!

————————————————————————

Hiking up the trail leading to the nearby makeshift military base was not how Latte expected to spend her weekends. Well, it's not like she had any expectations for the weekends. She's always called back to the hospital for work because of a lack of nurses after the ODIN event or because the unit is understaffed. Whenever she was promised a day off, her manager called her to get to the unit and help. So when the phone call came at 6 am, blasting her out of the peaceful sleep she was in. She was surprised that her manager tasked her not with coming into the unit to help but rather with a travel shift day. 

“Some special task force is coming to the base near us for a check-up. They said it was food poisoning related.” her manager said. 

“Isn’t it usually the RN or the nurse practitioner’s job to travel out of the hospital for checkups?” Latte asked a slight protest in her voice. 

She’d much rather stay in. Yesterday, she had a shit show of a shift, and her manager promised her she’d get today off. Although, her manager says that every time she's supposed to have a day off, only to call her anyway. So, unfortunately, Latte is used to her manager’s shenanigans by now. 

‘At least she's speaking nicer to me after I threatened to quit that one time,’ Latte thought, attempting to find the silver lining. 

“…We all did a lil’ vote and decided you should volunteer!” She said as if she was congratulating Latte for winning the lottery. “Since you’re so polite, we figured a little Canadian niceness would be better for these folks!” 

“Lauren… I don’t even have words right now.”

”Sorry, but there are only 2 RNs here today, and our nurse practitioner is sick. We can’t afford to send an RN out. Anyway, I sent you the details and the location of the base. Good luck!” 

Her manager then hung up faster than you can say, ‘Labour law violation.’ She let out a sigh before she began packing her essentials. “Stethoscope, portable pulse monitor, manual blood pressure cuff, a temporal thermometer scanner, penlight, notepad, and pen…So much for letting me have the day off, huh?” She grumbled as she listed each item being shoved in her sling bag. She looked at her comfortable room before sadly walking out, locking the door behind her.

“I think I'm almost there…” Latte mutters, looking up from her GPS and taking in her surroundings. The forest around her is a gorgeous green, dewdrops glistening in the beautiful early morning light. The lush vegetation and the crunch of gravel under her boots are a refreshing change from the narrow hallways and nose-stinging disinfectant-scented floors of the hospital unit. She was even able to see a chipmunk today. 

‘It has been a while since I could take a nice walk.’ Latte smiled, pulling down her surgical mask and inhaling the crisp morning air. A gentle breeze brushed against her face. ‘Maybe today won’t be so bad after all.’

She finally arrives at the temporary base after a rather pleasant 20-minute walk. She energetically greets the two soldiers standing guard at the entrance. Latte explains she was assigned to do nursing assessments for some soldiers here—something about a bad case of food poisoning. The guards exchange a glance, confusion and suspicion evident on their faces.

“Weren’t told anything of that sort. You don’t look like the usual nurse I’ve seen from the little hospital down the trail. Name?” The older-looking of the two soldiers chimes in sternly, narrowing his eyes at her. Taking aback by the sense of hostility from the soldiers, she quickly tried to explain,

”Uh…My name is Latte. I was sent here by—" She attempted to show them her ID and explain before being cut off. 

”Latte? Like the coffee? Look, Lady, If you are messing with us. It ain’t funny.” The soldiers begin eyeing her suspiciously. 

‘Jesus, they are not bullshiting about the security here!!’ Latte panics internally. She wasn’t sure what to do. The longer she stammers for an answer, the more suspicious the soldiers are of her. So far, any attempts at an explanation have been shut down. She wanted to say fuck it and go home, no call, no show, get fired, and maybe she won’t have to answer her inconsiderate manager’s calls, and won’t need to show up to the shitty unit the next day, and won’t need to work overtime without pay again and—

”Easy fellas, we asked for a nurse.” A different voice stuns her out of the little exhaustion-fueled spiral her mind was funnelling down. Her head whips at mach speed towards her saviour—no, saviours. She took in their appearance: an older man with short white hair followed by a man with no hair, but at least he's got a beard. The pair strolled up to where Latte was standing. The white-haired one gave her a reassuring smile before nodding to the soldiers guarding the gate,

“We called for the nurse. Some of our boys aren’t feeling too great. Sorry for the mix-up.” The soldiers guarding the gate backed off with a quick ‘yes commander,’ allowing the two men to lead Latte into the base. 

“Sorry, kid. Our men are just cautious. We can never be too careful with the feds still crawling around.” The older gentleman with white hair piped up after a little walking. The bald man behind Latte grunted in agreement. 

”Ah- Where are my manners? I’m Elias Walker, the commander of Task Force Stalkers.” Elias glanced towards Merrick. “And that's Merrick, my captain.” Merrick nods at Latte. 

"It's nice to meet you, commander and captain, um...my name is Latte, Latte Wong." She often feels a little embarrassed introducing herself. When her family first immigrated to Canada,  her mom saw the word 'Latte' on a quaint little local café's menu and decided it was cute enough for her two-year-old daughter. She wishes she received a regular English name like her little brother Viktor. He was lucky their mom didn't see his name on a café menu. Sometimes she wishes he received a dumbass name, too, so he could match her, like Americano or Muffin. She could go by her birth name, Shuxin, but that would mean countless butchering of the pronunciation. Plus, as stupid as 'Latte' may sound, this name is given to her by her late parents, and she's reluctant to let go of it. 

“Latte? A special name you got there.” Elias chuckled, “That a nickname?” 

“No, commander. My parents didn’t speak English, and my mother thought it was cute?” she answered, nervousness creeping up her back as she tightened her grip on her bag strap. 

“You got family here?” Elias spoke up once more as they approached a building with a smaller gate. While Merrick went up to press the buzzer and verify their Identities, Elias looked at her, waiting for her answer. 

“It’s just me and my little brother after ODIN, commander.” She responded honestly. Elias nodded knowingly at her, sympathy and perhaps empathy in his gaze. Before anything else can be said, the gates open, allowing the men and her to enter the building. 

The two of them led her into a large meeting room of sorts, two of the three tables pushed near each other, making a larger table on the left side of the room, multiple giant screens mounted to the wall in front of the larger table, the last table on the other side of the room. The men sat around the larger table, some donning different yet similarly designed masks. Some notable men were one seated with a skull mask with his eyes closed, one in a white-streaked black mask, another with his mask on the table in front of him, a man with a buzzed head and an interesting facial hair style sitting next to a dark blond that looked similar to him. The one in the black mask and painted white streaks looked up from his computer at the sound of the door opening. 

“Ah Commander, and Merrick, welcome back.” He said, amused, “That didn’t take long.” The other men quieted their chatters and looked at their leaders, waiting for orders or explanations. Latte filed into the room after them, hiding behind Merrick’s stature. “It was a quick walk, Kick. We said we would be back soon.” Elias responds to Kick before turning to address the rest of the group.

“Boys, after the review we sent back to DOD, the heads decided that a health checkup must be completed to ensure that no one has lingering side effects from eating those MREs.” As Elias began, the faces of the men around the table contorted into disgust and pain at the mention of said MREs. Elias shot Merrick a glance, and Merrick moved to the side, revealing Latte’s short form. With the spotlight suddenly cast on her, she can't help but feel a little out of place under the gazes of these elite soldiers. But when her eyes scanned across the room and landed on a familiar-looking face, the buzzed head, mutton chop facial hair… She was stuck staring at him for a while as she jogged her memories to recall where she had seen him before. 

“The head sent us a nurse from nearby,” Merrick commented, then looked at Latte, expecting her to introduce herself. Realizing that the attention was directed at her again, she snapped out of the impromptu staring contest she accidentally held with mutton chops. 

“Uh…Good morning everyone…My name is Latte. I was instructed to come here at the last minute by my manager Lauren. I am from the hospital—The small one just by the base.” Latte stammered through her introduction, feeling ridiculous once more about her name and praying that no one was secretly thinking, ‘What dumbass name is Latte?’ Or smirking under their masks. “I understand that usually a more experienced nurse or a higher calibre nurse would be the one to do out-of-site visits, but something must have come up on the unit!… So, I was sent. My manager didn’t explain why, but I will do my best to assess you guys.” Latte attempted to hide the shakiness of her voice and smiled reassuringly at the men in front of her. 

“So…Uh...Let's get started! If it’s okay, I will set up a little questioning and assessment booth at that table on the far side of the room.” She looked at Elias, waiting for his approval. 

“Sure.” Elias agreed, and before he could offer his help, Latte sprung into action, grabbing two extra chairs, hauling them to the unused table, and beginning to set up. Elias looked back at the group, “So, who wants to go first?” 

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

please enjoy some Yara x Macon in these trying times <3 set during the march in part 9 because i love making people suffer tagging: @latibvles @karasnonsense99

-> uncharted

How long had they been marching? Days? Weeks? In the late winter darkness, it became harder to tell what was day and what was night, harder to draw the line between one day and the next. They existed in some state outside of time, some seam in reality where it didn't matter, where the only thing that did was the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other. Yara's feet had been begging for release for hours, rubbed raw beneath hard leather, every step its own private agony.

Settling in the brick factory for the night had seemed a godsend, huddled together on the floor, the warmth of the furnaces practically a luxury. Stepping inside, the men had made a rush for the glowing embers, gloved hands held out as they jostled for position. She had elbowed her way through, facing less pushback than the other men around her - even after all these months, there were still concessions to be made, liberties she could take knowing that the mere fact of her gender would help her get away with it. These men knew the Seraphim girls were tough as nails - they'd seen it themselves. But no one wanted to be the guy who told the women they couldn't shoulder in next to the furnace.

And yet the exhaustion of the march had taken so much out of their wretched group that the struggle for warmth had only seemed to last minutes before everyone found their places on the floor, unable to sustain any sort of labour even if it promised precious warmth. Yara propped herself up against one of the shelving units, the corner of the wood digging against her spine, but not quite uncomfortable enough to warrant the exertion of moving even a few inches. She wanted to kick off her boots, but she wasn't confident that they'd still be waiting for her in the morning if she did. Everything was so sacred out here that nothing was - nothing could be put down if one didn't want to see it stolen, tucked away into another prisoner's pocket before one could even blink.

Maisie had tucked in beside her, their bodies pressed tightly against each other to keep warm. "Y'know, next week it will've been exactly one year since we went down," She whispered.

Yara blinked. It had been a while since she'd had any sense at all of what date it was. She hadn't realised it had been that long. "... Really?"

"Mhm."

"You been keeping count?"

"Yeah."

"... Huh."

There was so much unspoken between them, so much implied by that simple fact. It wasn't the Seraphim crash that mattered, not really.

One year since they'd last seen Sylvie. Angel. Sadie.

One year since Thea had died.

She pondered this for a long moment, but when she turned to speak to Maisie once more, the radio operator was already long gone, fast asleep against Yara's shoulder, snoring softly into the fabric of her coat collar. Letting out a huff, she folded her arms tightly across her chest, waiting for sleep to come for her too. Then growing steadily irritated when it didn't.

The sudden nudge of a steel-toed boot against her leg made her flinch, shoulders tensing as her gaze darted upwards. Macon sat opposite her, sandwiched between Daniels and Jefferson's sleeping figures, unable to move anything but his legs for fear of waking them, the pair leaning against both arms. "Shit. Sorry," He whispered, her chest slowing its rapid rise and fall as she recognised him in the darkness. "I didn't mean to scare you."

She'd almost denied it. But he had scared her, the feel of his boot against her too similar to that of the guards, impossible to tell the difference in the dark - at least not fast enough to stall the panic in her chest.

"Can't sleep?" She asked, freezing for a second as Maisie squirmed slightly, lowering her voice to avoid her stirring. Richard shook his head slightly, taking a deep breath.

"First couple months we were here, me and the fellas kept talkin' about how we were gonna escape. S'all we talked about for weeks."

"Well, when you manage it, send a postcard," Yara smirked picking at the fraying wool in her glove. He cracked a grin, a flash of teeth through parted lips.

"You never thought about it?" Macon asked. It happened to everyone sooner or later - everyone convinced themselves they could be the one, the person to break out and make it home free. Sometimes it wore off, sometimes it didn't - She watched Kit and Bucky all the time, huddled together in secret conversation, and she knew exactly what they were planning. Yara had given up so quickly that she wasn't sure she'd ever truly believed it in the first place. She didn't need to run for the guards to find an excuse to kill her.

"Nah. I'm waiting it out and goin' home to my sisters."

He was smiling again. "You didn't tell me you had sisters."

"Twins. Maya and Leda - they'll be nearly nineteen now."

Nodding along, Richard shrugged. "Well. When I get back, I'm gonna go to-"

"To your twenty-three acres of loblolly pine, yeah, I know," Yara grinned.

"Point seven."

"Huh?"

"Twenty-three point seven acres," He pointed out. She laughed then, raising a hand over her mouth as she suddenly became conscious of the noise, careful not to wake anyone around them.

A true smile was a rare sight around here.

Hers made him dizzy.

"You should come," Richard nodded.

Her brow raised slightly. "Me?"

"Yeah, you," The corner of his mouth rose in a smile, another flash of teeth. "You think these other assholes are invited? Build you a house - hell, I'll build you a dozen, we got room."

"Shut up," Yara chuckled, shaking her head. "You're sleep-deprived."

He shrugged, as if daring her to argue. "Feel pretty awake."

Her shoulders tensed. She didn't want to think about it - what it could mean if he wasn't kidding, what life could promise beyond the four walls of this frozen factory. She didn't want to think about it, because letting herself think about it meant giving space to hope, letting it permeate the walls she put up around herself. Yara Katz had decided to stop caring about anything but cold, hard survival a long time ago. She cared about enough people here already - too many - she didn't have space to care much for herself as well.

And what would it mean if she let herself admit that perhaps, just maybe, she was glad to have met Richard Macon, the man sitting across from her, staring at her like she was the sun? Did it mean she was glad to be here? Did it mean she was glad for the crash? For everything they'd gone through? For Thea's death? How could she appreciate the one good thing that had come out of all this without disregarding all of the bad?

Yara sucked in a deep breath, rubbing uncomfortably at her wrist as Maisie moved against her again.

"... Ask me again when we're free."

Macon nodded, slow and understanding, pressing his lips into a thin line. "Ok."

Her eyes narrowed, staring at him for a moment. "And stop smirking."

"I'm not."

"Yes you are."

He looked down at his lap, letting out a huff of amusement. "Damn, Katz. You know I'll wait for you."

She shrugged, folding her arms across her chest as she slumped slightly against the shelves, readjusting her body to a more comfortable position. "Yeah, I figured."

[tomorrowusa]

« If Putin succeeds in this aim the consequences for Europe will be horrendous. At the moment, the Russian forces facing the Baltic States are negligible. The units studied by Nato before 2022 are decimated, their equipment wrecked and crews slaughtered in Ukraine. The minute the war there ends, Putin will start to reconstitute and reinforce them. Unless Nato immediately restores credible deterrence, the three Baltic states would soon become uninhabitable. Moreover, the subjugation of Ukraine will lead to a fresh wave of millions of refugees westward, aggravating the already very fragile domestic politics of many polities here. The money we refused to spend on Ukraine will then have to be raised twice over to deal with the aggravated threat. »

— Brendan Simms, Director, Centre for Geopolitics & Professor in the History of European International Relations, University of Cambridge. Writing at The New Statesman.

Prof. Simms makes a case for the recently elected Labour government in the UK making protection of Ukraine one of its priorities. Fortunately, Prime Minister Keir Starmer has already voiced his support for Ukraine and visited President Zelenskyy in Kyiv after Russia's illegal invasion.

Appeasers and tankies are too addled to understand how kowtowing to Putin and his totalitarian Kremlin lickspittles would lead to disasters which would play out for decades. Pacifism and appeasement did not prevent World War II but only fueled its onset. Bullies never respect those who cave to them.

Respect for international boundaries is a foundation stone of peace and stability. Putin's invasion of Ukraine shows that peace and stability don't interest him. Putin's nostalgia for the decrepit Soviet Union and his ambition to be known as the Peter the Great of the 21st century are all that matter to him.

[agentfascinateur]

Arms Embargo Now coalition needs widespread support:

Some of the initial signatories of the Arms Embargo Now coalition include the Arab Canadian Lawyers Association, the Canadian Association of Professional Employees (CAPE), Canadians for Justice and Peace in the Middle East (CJPME), the Canadian Union of Postal Workers (CUPW), the Canadian Union of Public Employees (CUPE), Centre international de solidarité ouvrière (CISO), the Public Service Alliance of Canada (PSAC), Independent Jewish Voices, Labour Against the Arms Trade (LAAT), the National Union of Public and General Employees (NUPGE), and the Palestinian Youth Movement. A full arms embargo would halt the export of all Canadian military goods and technology to Israel — including by revoking existing export permits — and also end all Canadian purchases of Israeli military goods, including the Department of National Defence’s plan to buy $43 million of Spike missiles, as announced last December. Such an embargo would also prevent any Canadian military goods from reaching Israel via the United States. This includes Canadian-made components that are fitted into U.S.-made F-35 fighter jets, which the Israeli military has used to bomb Gaza.

[mobirights]

In The Limelight - wolfstar

A snippet from a wolfstar fic I'm working on based on my experience in the American high school thespian society (level: impossible. -1000 aura for long-lasting trauma). Theatre kids unite!!! There are so many terms in here that only a theatre kid would know, and I will define them when the fic is published, but right now... I'm lazy, just look them up lmao.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Remus hates One-Acts. 

Well—that’s not entirely true because he’s literally in Godric High's this year and it's always his favorite experience. He just hates watching them, especially at Districts. And he admits some of them are really good. He’ll never forget that production of Sorry, wrong number from Sophomore year. Literally on the edge of his seat that entire show. 

One-Acts in general, however…

He’s fallen asleep during at least 60% of the One-Acts he’s watched in his four years of high school. His final year is no different. That is why he has noise-cancelling earbuds, James’ shoulder, and his comfiest pair of vans. 

“One Act nap?” Lily asks from his other side just as he lays his head on James. 

Remus looks forward as the EmCee walks on stage in a bright green hat and announces the third One Act performance of the day (first for Remus and everyone at Godric because they arrived late).

“Good morning, District Six! Our next performance is a production of Love’s Labour’s Lost by William Shakespeare.”

He rolls his eyes and turns to Lily, sighing. “One Act nap.”

The thing is, Remus loves Shakespeare as much as the next drama nerd. His first show at Godric was a production of As You Like It and it’s probably in his top five experiences at this God-forsaken school. But for a One Act? Come on. There have been some good ones, but more often than not, schools don’t know how to properly cut shows to forty minutes without losing a lot of integral plots and meaning that Shakespeare intended. He still shivers remembering that one production of Taming of the Shrew in Sophomore year. 

“Stage Managers, are you ready?” The EmCee calls back to the curtain, met with two voices shouting back “Yes!”

“Troupe 228, your time starts now.”

The house lights dim. Just before everyone goes quiet, Remus manages to whisper, “Which school is this?” to James on his left who smiles brightly and mouths Salazar as the troupe’s crew starts to set up their stage in the semi-dark. 

Remus huffs and turns his music high enough to drown out the noise, but low enough to go unheard in the silence of the PAC. 

Salazar Northern Preparatory Academy. SNPA for short. Godric’s rivals, naturally. Remus tries not to be concerned with school rivalries and petty feuds, but everything about SNPA just grinds his gears. Technically, their real rival is Rowena High School because it was built after Godric in the 80's and stole half their student body because of zoning changes. Salazar, though? Their rivalry and hatred for each other dates back to before the schools were even built.

But Remus would rather not think about that. He just wants to take his nap and ignore SNPA like he does every year, James’ alleged long-lost friend from there be damned. 

He’s about to close his eyes when the stage lights turn and a group of girls and boys walk on stage in the most ridiculously modern teenage outfits. He assumes one of them is the Princess of France, and the others her attending Ladies and Lords.

Huh. Interesting way to cut the show, starting with this scene. 

The boy playing Boyet starts the opening monologue, and Remus is surprisingly entranced, his head half-way to laying on James’ shoulder. As the scene goes on, he somehow gets engrossed in the story. He doesn’t remember when he turned off his air pods, but the voices on stage are now clear and not muffled. He finds himself genuinely enjoying the show. The girl who plays the Princess's comedic timing could rival James—and he will never know he said that because as much as he loves his friend, Remus will not be fueling James’ football-field-sized ego. 

James wraps his around him and Remus leans into the touch. He might just watch this all the way through.

Then—and this will be documented as the moment Remus lost all sense and reason—the King and his Lords walk on. If it wasn’t obvious before, this is a very modern rendition. From the way James and Lily literally cover their mouths, he’s sure the modern costumes for the King and Co. are hilarious, but Remus is only focused on one thing.

Person.

Front and center is the most beautiful man Remus has ever seen in his life. Maybe he’s exaggerating because a younger version of him would have said the same thing about James (don’t judge him, he was repressed and the boy was nice to him), but this is different. 

“Fair princess, welcome to the court of Navarre.”

Holy shit. Yeah. Way different. 

The beautiful man in question has shoulder-length jet-black hair that looks softer than silk. His skin is like a porcelain doll’s, almost eery in its pale complexion, but so enticing. The only thing Remus can imagine is how bright his face must flush in the sun. Not only that, but this man has the voice of an angel—No, not an angel. A devil. It’s raspy and soft all at the same time. Smooth vibrato that steals all the attention on stage. The voice of a true singer, no doubt. 

As beauty in human form continues to talk, Remus feels lost. He’s seen and read this play more times than he can count, but with a voice like that, he can’t even follow the story anymore. All he hears is the honey-sweet voice of sin incarnate.

Yeah, he’s fucked.

[ceoofhelaegon]

Hi I was wondering if you could maybe do a one shot if possible that during episode 8 dinner if Helaena during the middle of dinner gives birth to Maelor

So sorry for taking so long, Nonnie. I haven't written anything in so long so I'm so rusty but I hope you will like it.

In the grand halls of the Red Keep, a momentous occasion was underway. Princess Helaena Targaryen, the youngest daughter of King Viserys I, was heavily pregnant with her youngest son, Maelor. The Targaryen family had gathered for a rare dinner, uniting both sides of the family: Rhaenyra, Daemon, Jacaerys, and Lucerys from Rhaenyra's line, and Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond from Alicent's line. Daeron was away in Oldtown, and could not attend.

As the evening unfolded, the atmosphere was filled with excitement and tension, a delicate balance between the joy of family and the underlying rivalries that had always existed among the greens and the blacks. Helaena, with her radiant beauty and kind heart, greeted everyone warmly, trying to bridge the gaps between her relatives. Aegon was quiet, sullen as he usually was, he was glad that his wife was happy, and he promised to not do anything today, for her sake.

Jacaerys, known for his charming demeanor and exceptional dancing skills, approached Helaena and extended his hand, "Princess, would you do me the honor of sharing a dance with you?" Aegon was angry, but he didn't allow it to show. Jace was just a boy, he reminded himself and Helaena loved to dance, so he said nothing but he wasn't happy about the request.

Helaena smiled graciously, "I would be delighted, Jacaerys."

The dance was elegant, and Jacaerys proved to be a talented partner, guiding Helaena with skill and finesse. He made her laugh, lightening the burden of her pregnancy for a moment.

However, Aegon's jealousy got the better of him, and he could no longer contain himself. He stormed over to the dance floor, interrupting their graceful movements. "That's enough!" he declared, his voice sharp and commanding.

Jacaerys released Helaena, sensing the tension rising. "Apologies, Prince Aegon. I meant no disrespect. We were only dancing."

Helaena, trying to diffuse the situation, placed a calming hand on Aegon's arm. "It's alright, love. Jacaerys was just being kind."

But Aegon's anger was not so easily quelled. He took a step toward Jacaerys, his eyes burning with fury. "Kind, you say? It seemed like you were doing more than just dancing!" He wasn't but now Aegon was angry and could not be reasoned with at that moment.

Rhaenyra, stepped forward to mediate. "Aegon, there's no need for this. It was just a dance."

But Aemond, always quick to defend his family, chimed in, "A dance with a married and pregnant woman is not appropriate, Jacaerys."

Jacaerys raised his hands in surrender, "I apologise. It was never my intention to cause any discomfort."

Helaena, feeling the weight of the tension, decided to take matters into her own hands. "Aegon, please, let it go. We should be celebrating the upcoming arrival of our newest member."

Her words had the desired effect, as Aegon reluctantly relented, though his anger was not entirely extinguished. The dinner continued with a strained atmosphere, but as the evening wore on, and the delicious food and wine flowed freely, some of the tension dissipated. Princess Helaena felt some discomfort but decided not to say anything, she wanted to enjoy the rest of the dinner in peace.

Later that night, as the family retired to their chambers, Helaena went into labour. The midwives and maesters were summoned, and the entire family anxiously waited. Despite the earlier tension, they all gathered in support, setting aside their differences as they welcomed the newest member of their House into the world.

In the early hours of the morning, Princess Helaena Targaryen gave birth to a healthy baby boy, Maelor Targaryen, the cries of the infant filling the halls of the Red Keep. It was a moment of joy and unity, as the Targaryens set aside their conflicts to celebrate the miracle of new life.

That was until King Viserys I of House Targaryen, drew his last breath and the dragons would dance.